Valyrian Steel

by mellowenglishgal

'She was ashamed to have let them down. She was supposed to look after them, after Brandon and Rickon. She was not a Stark; but Robb had entrusted Winterfell to her, to her and Luwin and Bran… She had sent Rickon off with Osha and Shaggydog and knew she would never see them again; she felt it in her marrow. She had Bran alone; and he was forgetting who he was.' ALSO ON AO3.

53. The Heirs of the Dragon

A.N.: Prepare yourself, this is a long one. I'm off sick from work and thankfully have HotD Episode 7 to re-watch. What a masterpiece! My feelings for the costumes aside, the show is amazing! I can't wait for the soundtracks to be released.

I've also realised why the sight of Otto Hightower angers me so much: his hair reminds me of Boris Johnson!

As always, thank you for the reviews!

For those few who dislike this story or my characters, please do not feel you must continue to read – or comment.

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Valyrian Steel

53

The Heirs of the Dragon

---

The door swung open and Larra briefly glanced over her shoulder. Gendry strode into the room, yawning widely. He smiled blearily when he saw her, sat at the work-table. He came over to kiss her head as he fiddled with the buttons of his sweat-soaked tunic. "What are you up to?"

Larra sighed heavily, muttered, "An act of contrition."

"You're grumpy," Gendry observed, smiling.

"Everyone's pissing me off today – except you," Larra grumbled. Gendry chuckled.

"So you're saving us all a tongue-lashing by hiding here, are you?"

"The masses rejoice," Larra said drily, turning back to her desk and cleaning off her paintbrush. "How's your day been?"

She heard Gendry sigh and approach. "Stand up."

"What are you doing?" Larra exclaimed, as Gendry lifted her bodily by the waist, shoved her chair out of the way and lifted her work-table, careful of everything littered upon it, and turned it about, setting it down again.

"Moving your table, so you're not having a conversation with the wall," Gendry said, setting her chair behind the table – in the corner, so that she faced into the chamber. Larra raised her eyebrows at Gendry then smiled softly, leaning up to kiss him.

"Thank you," she murmured against his lips. His eyes softened as he gazed down at her, and they shared a few soft, lazy kisses.

"Now, are you going to talk to me?" Gendry asked, stripping off his tunic and undershirts. Larra blinked rapidly at the sight of his rippling muscles and sat down rather heavily, distracted. She licked her lips. Gendry tugged on a fresh linen undershirt and unlaced his trousers as he walked behind her table, leaning over with his fist on the table to observe what she had been working on, his cunning eyes taking everything in. Her paints – running sadly low, remnants leftover from before – were set before her in their tiny rectangular ceramic pots, all nestled in a bamboo watercolour box all the way from Qarth. Hot-pressed watercolour paper and paintbrushes from Myr – also remnants of a more vibrant time – had been set out before them, with jugs of water. She had spent several hours sketching until she had the details correct and now enjoyed how the sketch was coming to life with the addition of paint. Gendy glanced from the almost-completed painting to Larra. "What's going on? What's this?"

Larra sighed, glancing up at Gendry. She rested her cheek against her fist and gazed miserably at the painting. It was not large, perhaps eight inches tall, yet it was gloriously coloured – if she did say so. She had not forgotten the joy of painting, of bringing things to life. In the interminable bleakness of the Land of Always Winter, she had not forgotten colour.

"It's Lady Targaryen's first husband," Larra told Gendry. The handsome warlord had been fashioned by the gods themselves for women to swoon over – all those rippling muscles... She eyed Gendry, biting the inside of her cheek.

"The horse-lord," Gendry said, frowning. "Why are you painting him?"

"The game," Larra grumbled, sighing heavily. She sat back in her chair as Gendry observed the details of the painting – Khal Drogo's heavy golden belts, his scars, the tiny silver bells in the braid he wore longer than Larra's. She sighed deeply, wrinkling her nose in annoyance. "It was pointed out to me that it may be more beneficial to keep Lady Targaryen close rather than obviously making myself her known enemy. This is an overture of…friendship."

"You look like you'd rather go to the gallows."

"You know what she did to Jon," Larra said darkly. "What did she did to the Lannisters. What she tried to do to Ser Jaime in this very castle."

Gendry watched her carefully. Quietly, he warned her, "You're going to have to bury that anger, Larra. Is there anything you do like about her?"

"I like the look of her first husband," Larra said, smirking as she took the painting from Gendry. "Bronzed and burnished…mmm…" He clicked his tongue and took the painting from her, careful not to damage it, and set it on the table.

"I'm being serious. You need to find something real, something genuine," Gendry said. Larra pulled a face at him. "Even…what about her clothes?"

"She is stylish. Her embroiderers have exceptional talent," Larra conceded. "And her hair always looks immaculate. Though even her braids make me wary."

"Why?" Gendry blurted indignantly.

"The Dothraki only ever cut off their braids when they are defeated in combat. The horse-lords are slavers and rapists – they're conquerors," Larra said, frowning. "The Dothraki continue to motivate her choices."

"You've put a lot of thought into her braids."

"You've seen Sansa. Do you think every aspect of her appearance isn't carefully thought out? She dresses to armour herself – and reinforce her Northern-ness," Larra said, shaking her head. "She's worried people will remember how much time she spent in the South and think her less of a Stark for it. How a woman dresses is one of her few weapons."

"Why do you never wear your hair down?" Gendry asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"I've too much to do," Larra said simply.

"Did you ever wear it down?"

"For celebrations," Larra nodded. "When all I had to do was look pretty."

"You're always beautiful," Gendry said warmly. He smiled at her. "One day, you're going to wear your hair down for me."

"Am I?"

"Yes. Don't think I'm going to let you distract me from what we were talking about," Gendry warned her. "I want you to find one thing you appreciate about Daenerys Targaryen."

It took a good long while. The bias she had against Daenerys – decidedly well-earned – stood in the way, but she knew Gendry was right: she would have to play at making nice, to find something that she could think of when that anger at Jon's abuse bubbled up, making her teeth ache to take a chunk of flesh…

"I suppose…even though she's deluded herself into thinking she's claiming the Iron Throne to free the masses from the yoke of tyranny and justifies reprehensible actions as a means to do that…she cared about the crucified children," Larra said quietly. She sighed heavily. "They were probably the only thing she truly cared about for the sake of themselves, not what they could do for her… She cared that they'd died."

"There you go," Gendry said softly, kissing her head.

"Where are you off to now?" Larra asked, dipping her paintbrush into a jug of fresh water.

"Training. Ser Gerold's expecting me in the yard," Gendry said. "I think he's disappointed every time I show up and you're not with me."

"Why should he be?"

"Every time you're near, he watches you."

"Does he?"

"He's not the only one," Gendry said. He didn't sound jealous – rather, he sounded guarded, suspicious. "Lord Lonmouth watches your every move and Jaime Lannister –"

"What about him?"

"He can't hide what he's thinking, the way Lonmouth and Darkstar can," Gendry said, shrugging. "He seems to look at you and sees someone else."

"He knows the truth," Larra told him, and Gendry's eyes widened. "So does Tyrion. I imagine Lord Lonmouth has figured it out, too. And Darkstar?"

Gendry frowned thoughtfully. "Well, he hates me. But he seems almost greedy for the sight of you. I'd say he desired you but Darkstar doesn't strike me as shy. If he wanted you, he'd act on it."

"Yes, I believe he would," Larra chuckled softly.

"You play cyvasse with him," Gendry said, frowning.

"And he's training you," Larra countered, wondering where his thoughts were leading him.

"What I mean is, what's he like when you play cyvasse?"

"Quiet," Larra shrugged. "We just play cyvasse."

"That's it?"

"There's a lot to be learned from the way a person plays cyvasse," Larra told him, almost defensively. She knew Gendry wasn't a jealous man: he would never accuse her of having ideas of being untrue. Still…even if he did not voice that concern, others would think it. Would gossip. Stuck indoors with all of the North, gossip was rife.

"What've you learned about him?" Gendry asked curiously. After a moment, thinking carefully about the games she had played with Ser Gerold – sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but most often reaching an infuriating impasse – Larra answered.

"He's brilliant. Calculating, shrewd, adaptable, naturally fiery but he's learned to be patient. He refuses to stoop to the easy strategy. If there is a choice between retreating or fighting before he is ready, he will retreat and bide his time until he is prepared," Larra mused. "He'll take the knock to his pride rather than risk his plans failing because he was impatient."

Gendry's eyebrows rose. "You learned all that about him from cyvasse?"

"It's a wonderful game."

He smiled gently. "Maybe you'll teach me."

"Not tonight," Larra sighed heavily. She glanced over at him as he tucked in his fresh undershirt and laced up his trousers. "I won't be there for supper in the nursery."

"No?"

"I've promised Brandon I'll dine with him… He's going to invite Lady Targaryen to join us," Larra said, putting a lot of effort into not wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Or rather, an invitation will be sent on my behalf to join us. So that Brandon can… Can do what Brandon does."

Gendry stared at her, pausing. "He's going to take you diving again?"

"Is that what you call it?"

"You're diving into the past, aren't you?" Gendry shrugged. It is beautiful beneath the sea, but if you stay too long, you will drown…

"Diving… Yes."

"Is that wise, to show her what he's capable of?"

"He seems to think it is," Larra said, giving Gendry a dark look that showed her feelings on the matter.

"What does he want to show her?" Gendry asked curiously.

Larra grinned. "The Dance of Dragons."

"So that's why you'll suffer to dine with her," Gendry rolled his eyes. "You want a peek at the Rogue Prince and Aemond One-Eye."

"Absolutely," Larra said, with great relish.

"Tell me all about it tomorrow?"

"I will. Pick out a gown for me to wear before you go?"

"I thought clothes were a woman's weapons. Aren't you heading into battle?"

"I don't need any encouragement to engage in combat," Larra said grimly, and Gendry chuckled. "Best not tempt myself."

"Wear the dark purple dress, the one with the flowers and direwolves," Gendry said. "It's pretty when it sparkles in the candlelight. And you're always happy when you wear it."

"It's the first gown I've ever owned that has Father's sigil on it," Larra said softly, and Gendry went still. He approached her, leaning down to kiss her head.

"I'll see you later," he promised. "Enjoy the Dance."

"Which? Rhaenyra's – or Daenerys'?" Larra asked, her tone subdued, but Gendry coaxed a smile from her with a lingering kiss. She sighed heavily as the door shut and turned back to her painting, willing herself to keep going.

She would much rather have been working on illustrations of Princess Anemone and her sweet Wyman, or Ozias Vollanar the Braavosi water-dancer seeking vengeance to complement her rewrites of The Princess Bride, but she had amends to make.

The game, Sansa called it. Father had hated it. Politics.

Ser Jaime had told her, "He refused to play the game – and hundreds of thousands have died because of it…"

---

Hours later, Larra tucked another small log on the fire, nestling it among the flames, the tiny beads and gold and silver embroidery on her sleeve catching the light and glittering exquisitely. Tureens had already been sent up from the kitchens, one resting on the table and the other amongst the simmering ashes to keep the food warm, while a large half-wheel of cheese rested in a specially-crafted bracket that tilted the exposed cheese toward the flames. The cheese was glistening, starting to soften – soon it would be melting, ready to be scraped onto their plates, and she itched to scoop some up on scraps of fresh bread.

"Are you warm enough there?" Larra asked, glancing over her shoulder. Bathed in candlelight as the large dining table was, Bran was far enough from the fire that she worried about him feeling the chill.

"Yes," Bran murmured distractedly, and Larra frowned.

"What have you got there?" she asked, drifting over to the table, glad to be away from the stifling heat of the fire. The silk of her aubergine-purple gown rustled softly against the floor and she twitched her skirts so that her hem released the rushes that had snagged on the fabric, leaning over the table as Bran's long, pale fingers caught the light, flickering over the table-top. She clicked her tongue and reached out to tweak Bran's ear playfully. "I've been looking everywhere for these!"

Bran smiled softly as he laid out three cards before him. Larra had created many decks of cards over the years: she and her siblings tended to play with them until they disintegrated – or tore, as was more likely the case with Rickon. Card-games were the only kinds of nursery games Sansa had joined them in once she was old enough to understand that she was a lady. Apparently, sitting was the prerequisite for games approved for ladies to enjoy. Over the years, the cards had evolved, with Larra adding and removing different ones in collaboration with her siblings to suit the games they created amongst themselves – simple games even Rickon could win and trickier ones that engaged Larra and Robb's keen minds. The deck Bran now played with had four suites. Each suite had a weirwood, the numbers two through ten, a maiden-queen, a warrior and a direwolf. Larra had illustrated each of the cards, so that even the numbers were incorporated into the design – there were two lovers, three horses, four castles, five shields, six hellebores, seven swords, nine weirbirds and ten horseshoes. Each of the four suites within the deck had a painted border and a coordinating symbol – a red weirwood leaf, a grey direwolf head, a black raven and a white winter rose. The cards Bran had apparently pilfered from Larra's wicker basket of projects beside her rocking-chair had been tied together with a periwinkle ribbon of softest Qartheen satin, worth more than the entirety of the cards and all the materials she had used to make them, but it was the cards she and her siblings had always valued.

The wind rattled the diamond-paned windows behind their shutters and Larra sighed, listening to the fire crackling. On restless nights like this, Rickon could always be calmed by a game of cards – especially if he was sat between Larra and Robb. That had been his special treat – his time with just them, his most favourite siblings. Especially after all the rest had left them.

"I think they may need replacing soon," Bran said in his soft, sad voice, picking up a four of leaves. The thick paper was rippled and crinkled badly and the watercolours had long since bled out because of large splotches of water, obscuring the four castles until they more accurately resembled Harrenhall than any mighty holdfast.

"I don't think I could bear to burn them," Larra said quietly, picking up the maiden-queen of weirwood leaves. Larra had painted her to look like Sansa, as the winter rose maiden-queen looked how they had always imagined Lyanna Stark crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty, the maiden-queen of direwolves resembled Arya and the maiden-queen of the ravens resembled her. "Even to replace them."

"You should," Bran told her, smiling up at her. "You enjoy painting. You should do more things that you enjoy."

"I've too much else to be getting on with," Larra sighed, rolling her shoulders. They ached, after sitting over her table for so long, her fingers too – from holding the paintbrushes. Even that was unfamiliar now, her body long ago becoming accustomed to gripping a dagger's hilt rather than a paintbrush. She missed it. She missed the days when her hands had never needed to grip the hilt of a weapon.

"You take on too much," Bran said softly, and for a moment, his eyes shining with worry, he looked ten years old again. He had always been such an intuitive boy, picking up on the emotions of everyone around him.

"I do my fair share," Larra protested, though she did feel exhausted. Bran smiled warmly at her, resting his hand over hers. It always unnerved her, seeing how large his hands were – they dwarfed hers, long though her fingers were.

"Do you remember how to bind books?" Bran asked her gently.

"I do," Larra said, sighing. How often had she yearned to have the materials available to make books under the great weirwood, and fill them with all of the knowledge the Children had shared with her?

"I would like you to teach me," Bran said softly. Larra blinked at him.

"You don't need anyone to teach you anything, anymore," she murmured. And she was right, she knew she was. Bran's eyes twinkled but he appeared sad.

"I should like you to teach me, all the same," he said.

Larra cleared her throat. "What would you fill the books with, if I did?"

Bran smiled broadly, his eyes sparkling. "Our games." He indicated the cards before him with a flourish of his pale hands. "All the games we created as children. Their names, the rules, descriptions of the cards you created… I did wonder whether you would paint miniature versions of the cards to include in the book."

Larra stared at her brother, raising her eyebrows. Almost indignantly, she said, "That's what you'd write about? The knowledge you have access to, and that's where you'd start?"

Bran smiled sadly. "I thought I would start with something precious to our family. I…"

"What?" Larra prompted softly, seeing her brother's hesitation.

Bran reached into the folds of his furs and withdrew a scroll. He unfurled it and glanced almost bashfully at Larra as he spread the paper out.

"I need to practise my handwriting," he said, and Larra peered at the paper. She burst into laughter. She laughed until her eyes stung with tears of mirth, her stomach hurt from laughing so hard, her entire body shuddering from the strength of her laughter. Bran's eyes twinkled merrily in the candlelight, the boy's face shining from his smile, his lips twitching at the corners as he watched her rocking with laughter, blind to the scratchy lettering penned on the flimsy paper.

Bran possessed all the world's past, its secrets. What he had not possessed, over the last seven years, was a pencil or quill. Nothing to practise his handwriting.

Nothing yet had shown the long-lasting effects of them being so brutally ripped from their home. Nothing quite captured the way Larra and Bran had been cut off from their lives – that their lives had stopped beneath that great weirwood. Years had passed, yet the experience and knowledge Bran had gained was so abstract it could not be quantified. He had spent years learning: Larra had spent those same years stagnating.

It was the first time Larra realised that, in as many ways as she had, Bran had also been stagnating beneath that weirwood. Lord Bloodraven may have taught him much about the weirwood trees and the greenseers who could peer through the ancient faces…but Bran's formal education had stopped the day Larra and Osha had led them from Winterfell, from the Greyjoy men and their hounds chasing them like rats.

Bran had not picked up a pencil or quill in all those years, as Larra had not.

It was absurdly comforting to Larra that Bran, despite his unimaginable wealth of knowledge, was still human. She did not relish that his education had been so abruptly stopped. She hated that her own had, and was now determined to make up for all those lost years, throwing herself into research about siege preparations, geometry and conversion and even her painting – it was a skill, just as darning and skinning animals were.

But it was the only moment that truly affirmed that Bran was still there. This gentle-voiced young man was not an imposter: Bran was there, under the serene mask. His handwriting betrayed his inexperience, despite Lord Bloodraven's tuition.

She wiped her face, still chuckling, and leaned over to wrap her arms around Bran. He sighed and hugged her back. Her eyes stinging, Larra whispered, "I can't remember the last time I laughed with you." Bran squeezed her gently and Larra found it exceptionally odd to realise how big he was, how wide his shoulders were beneath his fur-trimmed tunics. He had grown up. His absurdly childlike handwriting highlighted just how much Bran had missed out on, stuck beneath that tree. She tried not to dwell on how much she had missed out on, stuck there watching him. Her life had stagnated for years. She sighed, sadness settling over her like a cloak. Sighing thickly, she admitted, "I miss you."

"I'm here," Bran murmured against her collarbone.

A knock echoed on the door and Larra started. Bran's smile was gentle as she sat up, sniffling gently. She wiped her face as a sentry called, "Tis Lady Targaryen, m'lady."

"Let her come in," Larra called, and the door swung open. The firelight glimmered off Daenerys Targaryen's pearly silver hair, which she wore elaborately braided and coiled over her head and tumbling freely from her nape to her waist. As she entered the room, she swept her eyes over the candlelit solar. Larra swept her eyes over Lady Targaryen: she wore a Meereenese tokar fashioned from the finest – and most translucent – iridescent blood-red silk organza, the hems sewn with a heavy fringe of garnets. Larra was interested to notice that Lady Targaryen's figure, highlighted by the organza, was not as slender as it had been on Dragonstone. Diminutive as she was, and despite the new roundness to her figure, Lady Targaryen seemed tiny while shrouded in a heavy cloak entirely of ermine and lined with crushed velvet the colour of oxblood.

Lady Targaryen's eyes rested on Larra and Bran at the table and Larra saw all of the anticipation snuff out in her eyes.

"Good evening," Lady Targaryen said quietly, her eyes resting on Bran. Larra watched her carefully. Everyone reacted to Bran in one of two ways: either they avoided eye-contact altogether, uncomfortable in his presence and pretending he was not there, or they stared openly, curious. Lady Targaryen watched Bran with a mixture of hesitance and curiosity. Larra imagined she had never met anyone like Bran before.

Larra held her eye. "Not the brother you were hoping for."

Lady Targaryen raised her chin, saying coolly, "I appreciate the invitation to dine with you, my lady."

"Come in, then," Larra said, nodding to the pretty brown-eyed sentry beyond, who nodded and shut the door rather abruptly behind Lady Targaryen. She glanced over her shoulder as if startled. Larra went to the hearth, turning the half-wheel of cheese closer to the open flames.

"Come and join me," Bran said softly to Lady Targaryen, beckoning her gently with a pale hand. She eyed him carefully, tucked her cloak around her and stalked to the table. Her eyes scanned the table, set with the tureens and a stack of earthenware plates and silverware, and the cards Bran had laid out before him.

"These are…quite lovely," said Lady Targaryen, her eyes illuminated by the candles flickering fiercely in the centre of the round table.

"Larra painted them, years ago," Bran said softly, picking up one of them – a tear splitting it nearly in two.

"They seem to have seen better days," Lady Targaryen said genially.

"Haven't we all," Larra grumbled. Bran chuckled softly.

"We were discussing our childhood games," Bran said softly. He glanced at Larra. "Perhaps we could play?"

"After supper. And you'll have to remind me of the rules," Larra said. "I've forgotten most of them."

"No, you haven't," Bran said, smiling softly. "But I shall explain them, all the same." He turned to Lady Targaryen, explaining confidentially, "I have decided to construct a book wherein I lay out the rules and aims of the card-games we created together as children."

"I never had books when I was a girl," Lady Targaryen confessed, her eyes shining.

"The library's open to anyone," Larra said, glancing over at her. It would do Lady Targaryen well to explore the stacks. Perhaps curiosity would lead to inspiration, and from there she may be open to educating herself. "As long as the books are returned in their proper state when you're finished with them, you're free to read what you wish."

"There are accountings of Queen Alysanne's visit to Winterfell, which might interest you," Bran said softly. "We are lucky indeed that the fire did not consume anything precious."

"Is that what destroyed the tower?"

"No: the Broken Tower was struck by lightning, over a century ago," Larra told her.

"A century? Why not rebuild it 'til now?"

"We had no need of it," Larra shrugged. "The Broken Tower, the First Keep, they're all ancient parts of the castle that long ago fell out of use as the castle grew."

"It is the largest castle I have ever seen," Lady Targaryen said, and Larra was impressed that she did not sound begrudging. "Its construction is unlike Dragonstone, however."

"The Valyrians used fire and blood-magic to create the castle of Dragonstone," Larra said. "Tis the only true relic of Old Valyria left in the world."

"You do not count Valyria's daughters?"

"The colonies? They're a warped reflection of their parent," Larra said. "With the Doom, we lost the best of Valyrian culture. Lys, Volantis, all the rest – they reflect the worst of their Valyrian roots."

"You mean slavery," Lady Targaryen said, and Larra nodded. "Ser Jorah told me that your father wanted his head for selling poachers to slavers."

"Aye," Larra said sombrely. "We have no tolerance for slavers in the North – anywhere in Westeros, really, except the Iron Islands. They think themselves law unto themselves."

"No longer. They sail under my colours."

"Yara Greyjoy does, I'm told, with her small fleet. Her brother used to tell us stories of their uncle, Euron. He upholds the values of the Ironborn," Larra said quietly.

"And for that, he should sit the salt throne?"

"Like your Dothraki, the Ironborn follow strength," Larra said, her lips pursing. "Euron took the salt throne. And it will remain his until someone takes it from him. Not that it's of any value to take." She pulled a face.

"Have you been to the Iron Islands?"

"I've never been south of White Harbour," Larra said honestly. "Theon often used to speak of the Iron Islands."

"Theon was your…"

"Foster-brother," Larra said quietly, aware of the subtle bite to her tone. She chose not to think too often or too deeply on Theon. It was entirely too confusing to reconcile the beast that had chased her and the boys from their home, giving Ser Rodrik a brutal and lingering execution in the very yard he had trained Theon to spar, with the miserable, cowering wreck that had saved Sansa from torture and death and encouraged her ever northward – the only reason Sansa had made it to Castle Black. To Jon.

In a way, Theon was indirectly responsible for the reunification of the North, for the success of the Battle of the Bastards, for Jon being named King in the North.

No: that confusing thought did not bear dwelling on.

Not sober.

"Theon taught us some dicing games," Bran mused, with a careful look at Larra. "Perhaps I shall include them in my book." He glanced from Larra to Lady Targaryen. "I shall need to play the games with someone, so that I know I am explaining the rules correctly. We shall have a game after supper."

Larra glanced at her brother. He did not specify that the game would necessarily be played with cards. She knew which game Bran intended to play – one that used emotions as weapons just as much as knowledge.

"Best eat up, then," Larra said. She stood and went to the hearth, carefully picking up the tureen that had been left in the ashes. She wrapped it in a cloth before carrying it over, and Bran smiled to himself as he handed out the earthenware plates. Larra took the lids off the tureens, great wafts of steam billowing from one of them, and took the linen cloth off of the basket of crusty bread on the table. Small boiled potatoes, cold cuts of meat – there was gammon and mustard-encrusted roast beef, some salamis and a bit of cold chicken, enough for each of them to have a generous portion – pickled onions and gherkins, and fresh lettuce sprinkled with sharp vinegar dressing. She turned the half-wheel of cheese toward the flames to ensure that it was bubbling nicely as they helped themselves. "Have you taken your fill?" She glanced at Lady Targaryen, who looked rather nonplussed, and Larra scooped her plate away, turning to the fire.

Using her hunting knife, she carved the melted cheese off of the wheel and onto Lady Targaryen's plate, smothering the boiled new-potatoes and cold cuts, before serving the plate back to her. "There. That'll stick to your ribs."

"You have a very strong accent," Lady Targaryen observed, glancing with something like shyness up at Larra as she took Bran's plate.

"I'd have thought you'd be accustomed to it, all those Northmen on Dragonstone," Larra said, turning to the fire again.

"They're not especially talkative."

"No," Larra laughed. "Northerners save it for when it counts."

"You and your sister Lady Sansa have a very different manner of speaking," Lady Targaryen observed. "Yet you were raised together, were you not?"

Larra scoffed delicately and Bran's eyes glittered as he glanced at her. Bran explained, "Sansa grew up at my mother's knee. Our father used to say that Larra was raised by the North itself, as much a part of her as she is of it."

Larra smiled sadly into the fire, waiting for the cheese to melt again.

"And there's the fact that Jon and I were raised as bastards," Larra said from the hearth. "Lady Catelyn was always diligent in imposing rank."

"My advisor Ser Jorah tells me that Lady Catelyn Stark had no love for you or your brother."

"She had nothing for us," Larra shrugged. She was old enough – and Lady Catelyn dead enough – that Larra no longer felt the sting of that neglect. "No love, no acknowledgement, even. The only time she ever acknowledged Jon's presence was when she told him it was he who should have fallen from the Broken Tower and dashed his bones upon the ground beneath."

"I have often thought that to be ignored would be a lesser cruelty than having pain inflicted on oneself," Lady Targaryen mused. Larra glanced over from the hearth. Lady Targaryen's tokar shimmered and glowed in the candlelight, as if her body were swathed in fire itself. Her pale eyes rested unseeingly on the candles in the centre of the table, a thousand leagues and years away.

"Have you?" Larra glanced over at Daenerys, remembering the little girl she had once been, the little girl Bran had showed her. The timid girl afraid of the sound of her own voice – lest it wake the dragon.

"I often wished that I…"

"That your brother ignored you," Bran murmured.

Here we go, Larra thought.

"I often wished that my brothers would allow me to eat a meal in peace," Larra remarked, scraping a good amount of melted cheese onto Bran's plate. She gave him a reproving look as she set his plate before him and reached for her own. Bran's eyes twinkled. Lady Targaryen watched him, her expression unsettled. Larra glanced at Lady Targaryen. "Eat up, before the cheese cools."

She scraped melted cheese onto her plate, removed the half-wheel from the fire and returned to the table. For a few moments, cutlery flickered in the candlelight and the only sound to be heard was the soft, appreciative noises from Larra as she enjoyed her meal. Something about the saltiness of the meat and the rich, decadent melted cheese hit the spot perfectly. Lady Targaryen picked delicately at her meal.

"'Tis not honeyed mice and persimmon wine, I know," Larra told her, "and likely looks plain to your eyes, but this is hearty Northern food."

"I am used to spices and strange delicacies," Lady Targaryen said, with a slightly apologetic smile. "I find Northern food very heavy. I feel I must sleep after each meal – and find I do not need to dine quite so often throughout the day."

"Lady Nymeria's the same. Northern food's designed to fill the belly and keep you warm through all weathers," Larra said. Genuinely curious, she asked, "What do pomegranates taste like?"

"Pomegranates? Sweet and earthy, with a tang," Lady Targaryen told her, after some thought. "I always preferred lemons."

"Sansa does, too. Any shipment of lemons that reached Winterfell, Father always had lemon cakes made up as a treat. They were her especial favourites," Larra told her.

"Had I known, I should have brought crates of them," Lady Targaryen said, with a warm smile. It was dangerous, that smile: that was the smile that coaxed legions to follow her command, to act in her name no matter what she asked of them. "What would you have brought from Essos?"

"An elephant," Larra said, and Lady Targaryen laughed.

"Truly?"

"Paints," Bran said softly. "Watercolour pigments from Qarth. Larra is a skilled painter. In fact, she has something for you."

Surprised to find her plate empty, Larra wiped her mouth on a napkin and glanced at her brother. "Lady Targaryen is still eating, Bran." She refilled their glasses and sipped hers quietly, relaxing in her chair while Lady Targaryen finished the last few bites of her meal. Lady Targaryen gave her a curious look as Larra stacked their plates, with the empty tureens and bread basket, ready for the maids to whisk away.

"Let's go to the settle, it's more comfortable," Larra said, and Lady Targaryen stood up, already halfway to the hearth before she glanced over her shoulder, aware she was alone. Larra saw her blush when she realised Larra had stayed back to help move the obstacles in Bran's way: he wheeled himself to the hearth, slotting between an armchair and the settle in what had become his spot when they all congregated around the hearth.

"Do you need me to do anything?" Lady Targaryen asked, and for a moment Larra caught a glimpse of the gentle, kind-natured girl she had once been. She lifted the painting from its hiding-place on the mantelpiece.

"No, thank you," Bran said softly, settling himself in place, as Larra slipped into the settle. She grimaced and plumped a cushion, her back smarting as she sat. Bran gestured for Lady Targaryen to take the armchair beside him.

"I painted this for you," Larra said, reaching past Bran to hand the small painting of Khal Drogo unceremoniously to Lady Targaryen.

For several long moments, Lady Targaryen sat, stunned. Her violet eyes – paler in comparison to Larra's yet still strikingly vibrant – glittered as they swam with unshed tears. Larra glanced at Bran, doubting the gift the longer Daenerys remained silent.

"It is my husband's likeness exactly," she whispered hoarsely, stroking her fingertips over the painting, as if half-hoping to feel warm flesh. "His expression…it is the look he gave to no-one in the world but me." She whispered, "Love comes in at the eyes…" Tears splashed down her cheeks as she raised her gaze to Larra. It was the most heartfelt – and heartbroken – Larra had ever heard her when she whispered, "Thank you."

Larra sat and relaxed in the settle, hands resting over her stomach, tired, full and content. After a long while, Lady Targaryen asked, "How do you know what Khal Drogo looked like?"

Larra raised her head, opening her eyes blearily. The firelight danced in her vision before her gaze steadied on Lady Targaryen. Her hair gleamed like pearls in the light and her violet eyes shone. Larra glanced at Bran.

"Bran…is unique," Larra told her. "He is blessed and cursed to see the past as if it were the present." Lady Targaryen's eyes darted to Bran, filled with uncertainty and, Larra thought, a flicker of fear. Gently, Larra said, "He would like to show us something."

Brandon extended a pale hand to each of them. Larra sighed, adjusted her cushions, and rested her hand in his waiting palm. She glanced at Lady Targaryen, who hesitated, biting her lip, before hesitantly reaching for Brandon's hand.

Sunlight blistered down and made her eyes water. The relentless noise of a bustling city echoed high above parched terracotta roofs and despite the sun, Larra could almost feel the chill of the stone as an enormous monument loomed over them. It was a great square structure, domed and imposing.

"This is the Dragonpit, but not as I saw it," Lady Targaryen breathed, her lips parted in wonder, eyes wide. She turned to stare at Larra, balking at the sight of Brandon stood tall and handsome, his arms clasped behind his back and a benign smile on his face, which was turned upwards, rather than towards the enormous, armoured carriage drawn by four black stallions draped in Targaryen red, escorted by an armoured knight in a pristine white cloak. "How are we in King's Landing?"

"We have entered the past," Larra said quietly, shielding her eyes as she turned her gaze upwards. Wherever Brandon was looking was important. A heartbeat later, they heard it – dragonsong. A great yellow-gold dragon soared into view, its wings churning up dust in a great cloud that would have both blinded and choked them – Daenerys threw up her arms yet Larra, seasoned in Brandon's memory-walking, did not flinch as the yellow-gold dragon landed heavily and settled. She was interested to note the people lingering nearby in linen robes, their heads shorn, carrying eight-foot-long poles sharpened to points at one end.

Larra marvelled at the golden-yellow dragon. It looked sleeker and more serpentine than Rhaegal, almost as if they were a different breed. She remembered Brandon showing her and Gendry the ancient city of Valyria in its prime, and all the many different dragons she had seen there. She had taken it for granted that dragons of Old Valyria came in many shapes and sizes – but the histories had never mentioned the differences in the Targaryen dragons beyond their colour and size. Thinking of the studies she had been wanting to make of Rhaegal, her fingers itched to pick up a sketching pencil and paper and make quick studies of the dragon before her.

With a soft grunt, a slip of a girl climbed off the dragon's back. She was dressed finely in heavy riding gear embellished with tiny silver dragon clasps, the shoulders of her riding-coat overlapping like scales. Her waist-length silver-gold hair was straight, braided neatly from her face, and her eyes – vibrant lilac – glowed with pleasure as she stroked the neck of her dragon. The dragon purred contentedly at her touch and climbed obediently toward the entrance of the Dragonpit, driven by the dragonkeepers.

"Welcome back, Princess," said the knight with the white cloak – a Kingsguard. The young girl bit the finger of her gloves to pull them off, striding toward the armoured carriage. "I trust your ride was pleasant."

"Try not to look too relieved, Ser," Princess Rhaenyra said, a smile dancing in her eyes.

The Kingsguard chuckled. "I am relieved. Every time that golden beast brings you back unspoiled, it saves my neck from a spike."

Princess Rhaenyra strolled leisurely toward the armoured carriage as the door opened and another young woman emerged. Dressed in cornflower blue, the dainty embellished oak leaves at her neckline and dainty earrings reminded Larra only too much of young Sansa. She would have adored a dress like that, simple and dainty and elegant all at once. The young woman had auburn curls tumbling down her back and rich dark eyes that sparkled as she smiled, glancing from the princess to her dragon.

"Syrax is growing quickly," she said, smiling. "She'll soon be as large as Caraxes."

"That's almost large enough to saddle two," Princess Rhaenyra said, gazing up at her companion.

"Who is that?" Lady Targaryen asked.

"That is Princess Rhaenyra. Her dragon is Syrax. And her companion is Lady Alicent Hightower," Larra observed, noting the easy intimacy between the two girls – and they were girls. Princess Rhaenyra looked barely older than Sansa had the last time Larra saw her, when their family had been torn apart.

"I believe I'm quite content as a spectator, thank you," Lady Alicent smiled. Princess Rhaenyra grinned as the auburn-haired girl ducked into the carriage. Behind her, dragonkeepers guided Syrax into the Dragonpit. Lady Alicent's voice called from inside the carriage. "Stop dawdling, Rhaenyra! You're due at Council within the hour."

"Gods forbid the Small Council must fill their own cups," Princess Rhaenyra muttered, ascending the steps and settling herself inside the enormous and elegantly-furnished carriage. It served as both protection and a vehicle for luxury, velvet cushions and eiderdowns draped everywhere, little carafes of chilled lemon-water and cherry cordial Princess Rhaenyra helped herself to as the carriage lurched into motion.

Larra glanced at Brandon, wondering why he insisted they follow Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent as they spent the duration of their ride through King's Landing gossiping about the ladies at court, bemoaning the lack of handsome young knights and eagerly anticipating the completion of new gowns for the upcoming tourney. Princess Rhaenyra suggested they practice their dancing, making Lady Alicent blush at the idea of being courted by eligible young lords vying for the hand of the Hand's daughter. They followed the girls all the way to the Red Keep as they giggled and gossiped and grumbled about their septa's dull lessons in etiquette and history and discussed which jewellery each should wear with their new gowns, Princess Rhaenyra offering a pearl necklace for Lady Alicent's use.

Larra had seen glimpses of the Red Keep nearly two centuries in the future, during King Aerys' reign. She had seen Queen Rhaella's chambers, where morsels of ecstasy and bitter tea had been shared between mother and son. She had witnessed Prince Rhaegar's anger at the evidence of his mother's continued abuse, his bond with Ser Arthur Dayne, whom he called "brother."

The Red Keep of Rhaenyra's time was bustling with people, the servants all dressed in Targaryen red under their aprons. Courtiers lingered everywhere. The Seven Kingdoms' prosperity was evident everywhere she looked: in the rich dyes used even on the servants' garments and the luxurious imported textiles worn by the nobility, the gold glittering everywhere and the variety of fashions, every lady vying to be noticed, to lead court fashions. Flowers tumbled out of enormous Myrish vases and the walls were hung with eye-wateringly expensive tapestries and paintings. Crystal glittered and silks rustled, and Larra could smell heavy perfumes and incense mingled with the scents of everyday life, fresh fruit ripening in great ceramic dishes dotted here and there for anyone to take at their whim, more carafes of wines and cordials of every colour.

They left Rhaenyra only long enough for her to change hastily out of her riding-coat, Alicent brushing her hair as she pulled on a pale-gold frock that she was starting to outgrow. Hair brushed, dressed and bejewelled, Rhaenyra sauntered through the halls of the Red Keep, until the halls themselves became less crowded, and Larra realised these were the royal chambers. The Queen's chamber, specifically: Rhaenyra entered a room dense with incense and crowded with servants, a septa lighting candles and a maester working diligently at a desk. Beneath the open windows, a beautiful woman lay reclined in a dressing gown, bare-footed, her shimmering pearl-silver hair tumbling over her shoulder, fanning herself as she rubbed her swollen belly.

"Ah! Rhaenyra!" she called, her lavender eyes lighting up. She gently chastised, "You know I don't like you to go flying while I'm in this condition."

"You don't like me to go flying whether you're in any condition," Princess Rhaenyra replied, giving her mother a look, her eyes sparkling. Queen Aemma smiled warmly as her daughter approached, bending to kiss her mother's cheek.

"Your Grace," said Lady Alicent respectfully, hanging back by the door as mother and daughter sat together.

"Good morrow, Alicent," Queen Aemma said.

"Did you sleep?" Rhaenrya asked.

"I slept."

"How long?" Rhaenyra pushed. Queen Aemma smiled warmly at her daughter.

"I don't need mothering, Rhaenyra," she said softly.

"Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe," Rhaenyra said, some indignation in her voice. "Someone has to attend you."

Queen Aemma smiled and gazed at her daughter. Larra had never known such a look. Neither, she remembered, had Daenerys Targaryen.

"To know a mother's love," she said quietly, and Lady Targaryen nodded sadly, gazing at Queen Aemma as if seeing Queen Rhaella in her face.

Queen Aemma poked Rhaenyra with her foot. "You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

"I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory," Rhaenyra said stubbornly, and Larra scoffed delicately. Had not Arya said the same thing?

"We have royal wombs, you and I," Queen Aemma said softly. "The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip." Something haunted flickered across her pretty eyes. She smiled, and the shadow disappeared. "Now take a bath: You stink of dragon."

Rhaenyra did not bathe: she hastened to another part of the Red Keep, where several men were laughing at a joke told by the man at the head of the table, bathed in light from the balcony behind carved screens. Only one man did not see the humour in the King's joke – for it was King Viserys shelling a boiled egg at the table. A dark-skinned man with a commanding demeanour sat opposite the king, his pale hair worn in the style Lady Viana Velaryon called dreadlocks. Those pale dreadlocks – his Valyrian heritage there for all to see – framed a very handsome face but it was clouded with concern, Larra would almost say turmoil. He wore several gold chains and on his breast, a seahorse had been stitched with cloth-of-silver and tiny glass beads.

Larra glanced at Bran, grinning in awe. The Sea Snake himself…

"My lords," he said, his rich voice cutting through the laughter. "The growing alliance among the Free Cities has taken to styling itself the Triarchy." Lord Corlys Velaryon pushed up from his chair and unfurled a colourful map, brandishing it upon the table. "They have massed on Bloodstone and are presently ridding the Stepstones of its pirate infestation."

"Well, that sounds suspiciously like good news, Lord Corlys," King Viserys said jovially.

"A man called Craghas Drahar has styled himself the Prince Admiral of this Triarchy," Lord Corlys continued urgently. "They call him the Crabfeeder, due to his inventive methods of punishing his enemies."

"And are we meant to weep for dead pirates?" Lord Corlys frowned, opening his mouth to reply – Larra could sense his frustration at the King's disinterest growing – but was interrupted by the doors to the Small Council chamber opening. A glimmer of gold and Rhaenyra strode into view.

"Rhaenyra, you're late!" the King chided. "King's cupbearer must not be late. It leaves people wanting for cups."

The princess bent to kiss her father's cheek, telling him, "I was visiting Mother."

King Viserys made a show of sniffing at Rhaenyra, teasing, "On dragon-back?"

As Rhaenyra went to the long table loaded with food and decanters, picking up a large glass jug full of wine, an older man spoke up, "Your Grace, at Prince Daemon's urging, the Crown has invested significant capital in the retraining and re-equipping of his City Watch. I thought you might urge your brother to fill his seat on the Council and provide an assessment of his progress as Commander of the Watch."

"Do you think Daemon is distracted by his present tasks?" King Viserys asked, his gaze flitting to the empty chair at his left. "And that his thoughts and energies are occupied?"

"Well, one would hope so, considering the associated costs."

"Then let us all consider your gold well-invested, Lord Beesbury."

"I would urge that you not allow this Triarchy much latitude in the Stepstones, Your Grace," Lord Corlys said urgently, his voice more heated than before. "If those shipping lanes should fall, it will beggar our ports."

"The Crown has heard your report, Lord Corlys, and takes it under advisement," said a raspy voice dripping with boredom and disdain. Larra saw the golden hand clasped to his chest and her eyes narrowed on the well-dressed but rumpled man sitting at King Viserys' right hand. His thinning hair seemed windswept, and he appeared barely able to disguise his dislike for Lord Corlys, who seethed back at him. "Shall we discuss the Heir's Tournament, Your Grace?"

"I would be delighted," King Viserys said, and sounded utterly relieved to change the topic of conversation away from anything as taxing as training soldiers or preventing the realm's bankruptcy due to encroaching foreign powers. "Will the maesters' name-day prediction hold, Mellos?"

"You must understand that these things are mere estimations, my king," wheezed the drooping-faced maester, "but we have all been poring over the moon-charts and we feel that our forecast is as accurate as can be."

"The cost of the tournament is not negligible," Lord Beesbury said delicately. "Perhaps we might delay until the child is in hand."

The last man at the table, who had thus far remained silent, now spoke up, frowning, "Most of the lords and knights are certainly on their way to King's Landing already, to turn them back now –"

"The tourney will take the better part of a week," interrupted the King. "Before the games are over, my son will be born and the whole realm will celebrate."

"We have no way of predicting the sex of the child," said Maester Mellos quickly.

"Of course, no maester is capable of rendering an opinion free of conditions, are they now?" King Viserys said, and Larra smirked. Maester Luwin would have set him straight. Maester Luwin was the very best the Citadel had to offer: wise, impartial and earnest, devoted to his duties and to imparting his own love of learning to others. Men like Luwin were rare, she had grown to understand. King Viserys had dire need of a man like Luwin yet he was surrounded by…well, Ser Otto and Grand Maester Mellos. And the realm had bled. "There's a boy in the Queen's belly. I know it. And my heir will soon put all of this damnable hand-wringing to rest himself."

Larra sighed heavily. She remembered what was to come. And the glimpse of Queen Aemma and her relationship with Rhaenyra made her heart ache. She glanced at Lady Targaryen, wondering just how much Daenerys had been taught of her own family's history – and how warped the perspective had been.

They followed Princess Rhaenyra again, from the Small Council chamber to the Throne Room. Ser Harrold Westerling escorted her, telling her, "He passed through the Red Keep's gates at first light."

"Does my father know he's here?" Princess Rhaenyra asked, glancing about inconspicuously as she fiddled with her rings.

"No."

"Good."

Ser Harrold pushed the doors open and scoffed indignantly. "Gods be good!"

At the far end of the great hall, silver hair glimmered in the light shed over a horrifying and magnificent throne – the Iron Throne, the thousand swords spilling over the steps to the seat that had cost more lives than any other in history.

"It's alright, Ser," Princess Rhaenyra said quietly, and, clasping her hands loosely behind her back, she sauntered down the steps into the hall, idling her way toward man with silver hair past his broad shoulders.

Quietly, her voice carrying in the empty hall, the Princess asked in High Valyrian, "What do you think you're doing, Uncle?"

"Sitting," Prince Daemon replied, his tone bored. "This could well be my chair one day."

"Not if you're executed for treason," Princess Rhaenyra warned him playfully. "You haven't come to court in an age."

Prince Daemon sighed heavily. "Court is so dreadfully boring."

Princess Rhaenyra smirked. "Then why come back at all?

"I heard your father was hosting a tournament in my honour," Prince Daemon smirked back.

"The tournament is for his heir."

"Just as I said."

"His new heir," Princess Rhaenyra clarified.

"Until your mother brings forth a son, you are all cursed with me," Prince Daemon sighed, standing from the Iron Throne and looming over the dainty girl. He strolled idly down the steps toward her, a smile flirting on his lips.

"Then I shall hope for a brother," Princess Rhaenyra said, her eyes glittering.

Prince Daemon smiled, and spoke in the common tongue as he said, "I brought you something." He held out his hand, from which a necklace dangled, bloodstones and rubies glowing in the light, a pendant made up of a love-knot embedded with a bloodstone or red dragonglass in the centre. "D'you know what it is?"

"It's Valyrian steel," Princess Rhaenyra said, examining it carefully. "Like Dark Sister."

Prince Daemon snatched the necklace back – but instead of reaching for it, Princess Rhaenyra leaned back, hands clasped behind her back. A subtle power-struggle between them: Daemon had offered and then withdrawn the trinket, but the princess, so much younger, had refused to take the bait. Refused to engage. He broke the stalemate.

"Turn around," he ordered, and in that moment, Larra knew she would have done anything the Rogue Prince asked, if he'd asked with that rumbling voice and wicked, playful glint in his eye. Rhaenyra removed her own necklace as she turned, gathering her hair over one shoulder and presenting her bare neck to her uncle. He clasped the necklace delicately around her throat. "Now you and I both own a small piece of our ancestry." Rhaenyra let loose her hair and stepped back. Daemon's eyes glowed like slumbering embers as he gazed at her, wearing his jewel. "Beautiful."

Hours later, Princess Rhaenyra played with her Valyrian steel pendant as sunlight dappled through the sun-scorched leaves of a slender weirwood. Her head rested in Lady Alicent's lap as they bickered amiably about the readings assigned to them by their septa.

Lady Alicent sighed, "You're always like this when you're worried."

"Like what?"

"Disagreeable," Lady Alicent smiled down at her friend. "If you're worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son…"

"I only worry for my mother," Princess Rhaenyra said, waving aside Lady Alicent's concern. Gold shone on her finger as she played with a long blade of grass. "I hope for my father that he gets a son. As long as I can recall, it's all he's wanted."

Lady Alicent frowned, "You want him to have a son?"

"I want to fly with you on dragon-back, see the Great Wonders across the Narrow Sea and eat only cake," Princess Rhaenyra said lightly.

"I'm being serious."

"I never jest about cake."

"You aren't worried about your position?" Lady Alicent pressed, and Larra watched, frowning thoughtfully. With Prince Daemon as named heir, how drastically would Princess Rhaenyra's position change with the birth of a brother? Very little – she was and would remain the King's eldest daughter: the privileges and responsibilities associated with that would always be hers. She would be wed – and well, to the wealthiest, most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Who that was, Larra did not know.

"I like this position, it's quite comfortable," Princess Rhaenyra muttered idly. Lady Alicent huffed, slamming her book shut. Rhaenyra swore, "Fuck. Where are you going?"

"Home," Lady Alicent snapped. It was interesting to see the dynamic between the two girls. "The hour has grown late."

Hands clasped behind her back, Princess Rhaenyra sidled up to her companion, reciting, "Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running."

Princess Rhaenyra reached for the book Lady Alicent had been hastily checking and ripped out a page. Lady Alicent gasped, "What are you doing?"

"So you remember," Princess Rhaenrya smiled, handing the page back.

"If the septa sees this book, then –"

"Fuck the septa!" Giggling, the two girls meandered inside. The sound of their giggles drifted up to the open windows as King Viserys leaned over cushions, his back bared to a young maester. A festering sore oozed pus, which was being cleaned off – to no avail.

"Is it healing?" the King asked.

"It has grown slightly, Your Grace," wheezed Maester Mellos.

"Can you say yet what it is?"

"We've sent enquiries to the Citadel," said the young maester, with a handsome voice. "They are searching the texts for similar cases." Larra frowned. Small good it did anyone, to hoard the knowledge possessed by the maesters. Maester Luwin never hesitated to share his knowledge with anyone who needed it.

"It's a small cut from sitting the throne," the King protested, and Larra's lips parted. She glanced at Lady Targaryen. "It's nothing."

"Did your brother ever tell you that the Conqueror designed the throne to ensure no King ever sat comfortably upon it?" she asked Lady Targaryen, who glanced away from the King, who was flinching despite the gentleness of the young maester's ministrations.

"No," Lady Targaryen said gently.

"Superstition claims that the Iron Throne can tell who is worthy to sit upon it," Larra said quietly, watching Maester Mellos withdraw to confer with Ser Otto Hightower. "King Maegor was found upon the Iron Throne with his wrists slashed. Some say it was the throne itself. Throughout the Targaryen dynasty, people have linked instances of kings cutting themselves upon the Throne with unworthiness… It is interesting that King Viserys suffered a cut from the Iron Throne and it refuses to heal."

"Your father was covered in scars and healing scabs from cutting himself upon the throne," Bran intoned idly, and Larra glanced at him.

She listened to Maester Mellos ooze to Ser Otto, "The King has been under heavy stresses, preparing for the birth. Bad humours of the mind can adversely affect the body."

"Whatever it is, it needs to be kept quiet," Ser Otto rasped.

"We should leech it again," Maester Mellos told the King.

"It's a wound that refuses to heal, Grand Maester," said the young maester. "Might I suggest cauterisation?" Larra nodded. Burn away the rot. Any wildling would tell you they should have burned the cut to begin with.

"Cauterisation would be a wise course of treatment, Your Grace," Maester Mellos blustered. "It will be painful –"

"Fine." The King, frustrated and impatient, rose from his seat. He picked up his jerkin and dressed himself as he strode through the Red Keep to his wife's chambers, where he found the Queen in candlelight, submerged in a fragrant bath. Her pretty features were relaxed, and she stirred as the King's footsteps echoed off the mosaic floor of her bathing chamber.

"You spend more time in that bath than I do on the throne," King Viserys teased.

"This is the only place I can find comfort these days," Queen Aemma said. Through the murky water, only the very tip of her bulging belly could be seen: she rested a hand upon it, her jewelled thumb stroking absently as she turned her head to her husband. He dipped down to kiss her brow, kneeling beside the bathtub and dipping his hand in the perfumed water.

"It's tepid," King Viserys complained.

"It's as warm as the maesters will allow."

"Don't they know dragons prefer heat?" King Viserys asked, and Aemma smiled.

"After this miserable pregnancy, I wouldn't be surprised if I hatched an actual dragon," she sighed.

"And he will be loved and cherished," King Viserys said, taking his wife's hand and kissing it.

"Rhaenyra has already declared that she is to have a sister," Aemma told him.

"Really?"

"She even named her," Aemma said, an affectionate smile lingering on her lips.

"Dare I ask?"

Aemma gave her husband a coy look. "Visenya." Viserys scoffed. "She chose a dragon's egg for the cradle that she said reminded her of Vhagar."

"Gods be good," King Viserys sighed. "This family already has its Visenya." Lady Targaryen frowned.

"I think he's implying Princess Rhaenys – the Queen Who Never Was," Larra said. "His cousin, and wife to Lord Corlys."

"Has there been any word from your dear brother?" Queen Aemma asked.

"Not since I named him Commander of the City Watch," King Viserys said, and he smiled. "I'm sure he will re-emerge for the tourney. He could never stay away from the lists."

"The tourney…to celebrate the firstborn son that we presently do not have," Queen Aemma said, glancing up at her husband. "You do understand that nothing will cause the babe to grow a cock if it does not already possess one?"

Larra laughed.

"I like her," she said softly, her eye warm as she gazed down at the Queen. "She shoots straight."

"That is a quaint turn of phrase," Lady Targaryen said. In other words, she had no idea what Larra meant.

"She says things as they are," Larra said softly, watching Viserys and Aemma. There was a heart-breaking intimacy to the scene: they were not the King and Queen but a husband and wife who adored each other, discussing the impending birth of their child and the excitement of their daughter to welcome them. Larra found it very interesting that Princess Rhaenyra worried more for her mother's health than for her position. The Realm's Delight, indeed, yet Larra could only see her, not as a princess or even as a dragon-rider, but as a young girl who had been indulged – had been loved – by parents who adored her and were active in her life, a girl who was kind and clever, who surrounded herself with people who understood her, had lovely bonds with her parents, held her ground against a formidable relative and gained a Valyrian steel necklace for her efforts, and was excited to become an older sister to a new baby.

The Princess Rhaenyra they had observed so far was a beautiful reflection of her mother, of the time and care that had been put into raising Rhaenyra.

Sadness flickered in Queen Aemma's eyes as she rested back in the fragrant water.

"This child is a boy, Aemma," the King said, a quiet fierceness in his tone. "I'm certain of it. I've never been more certain of anything…" He clasped his wife's hand and said passionately, "The dream, it was clearer than a memory. Our son was born wearing Aegon's iron crown and I heard the sound of thundering hooves and splintering shields and ringing swords and I placed our son on the Iron Throne as the bell of the Grand Sept tolled and all the dragons roared as one."

"Born wearing a crown," Aemma said, a haunted smile on her face, her voice tremulous. "Gods spare me. Birth is unpleasant enough as it is…" Her lip trembled, and she rose from the water to face her husband. Her lavender eyes glowed in the candlelight, full of sorrow and love, regret. "This is the last time, Viserys… I've lost one babe in the cradle, had two stillbirths and two pregnancies ended well before their term. That's five…in twice as many years." Larra sighed softly to herself. Queen Aemma's infertility struggles were well-documented yet no account ever breathed life into the sorrow and grief she had to endure time after time as each child slipped away from her. "I know it is my duty to provide you an heir, and I am sorry if I have failed you in that, I am…but I've mourned all the dead children I can."

It was devastating to see the love between Viserys and Aemma.

Larra had only ever known them as names written on brittle old pages. But there they were…real.

The bathing chamber melted away but the darkness remained, torchlight flickering fiercely as a clamour rang in her ears. Dozens of men beat their gauntleted fists against their breastplates, their armour flickering in the torchlight, gleaming off of the golden cloaks swathed over their shoulders. Between them, Prince Daemon prowled, elegant and predatory.

"Commander on the floor!"

The men fell silent, watching their prince, waiting. Their excitement, their respect for their commander was palpable, barely breathing, focused entirely on the Prince.

"When I took command of the Watch, you were stray mongrels – starving and undisciplined," Prince Daemon told them, his eyes simmering as he gazed around at his City Watch. "Now you're a pack of hounds – sated and honed for the hunt!" The men howled to the night air. When they fell quiet, the Prince continue, "My brother's city has fallen into squalor. Crime of every breed has been allowed to thrive. No longer. Beginning tonight, King's Landing will learn to fear the colour gold!"

He knew how to inspire respect and admiration, and by the night's end, Larra understood why it was he also commanded fear.

They watched, agape, as the Rogue Prince earned his name. His City Watch scoured King's Landing, rounding up every known thief, rapist and murderer – and dispensed justice on the spot. Prince Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister to cut down murderers where they stood, as rapists were gelded and thieves' arms were hacked off. So many were punished that night that long before dawn, a large cart was overloaded with severed limbs and the dismembered corpses of those for whose crimes justice demanded death.

The unctuous Ser Otto took first opportunity to rouse King Viserys out of bed and mutter in his ear, stopped short only by Prince Daemon's presence in the Small Council chamber, hair tousled, armour smeared with blood and looking smug and sated as if he had spent the night in a brothel with the world's finest courtesans. The King chastised his brother – but Prince Daemon departed the Small Council chamber with a swagger, knowing his brother's words lacked heat.

The true Targaryen fire belonged to Daemon, after all.

"What he did was not justice!" Lady Targaryen gasped, horrified.

"And yet you did the same in Meereen," Brandon said gently, and Larra went still, watching the Small Council descend into bickering, King Viserys' head hanging as he reached the limits of his patience. "You dispensed the justice you felt the nobles of Meereen deserved."

"It is not the same thing."

"It is the same thing," Brandon said calmly. And perhaps it was his unyielding stoicism that did it: Lady Targaryen's heat could not inspire a reaction in him. He withstood her fire. "Prince Daemon rounded up all those who were believed to have done evil deeds. He punished them without evidence, without trial… What he did was not justice. He brutalised people for their perceived injustices, as you did to the Meereenese masters."

Larra watched Brandon carefully, a knot tightening in her chest.

She had not anticipated that he would take point and provoke discussion with Lady Targaryen, that he would draw her attention – and possibly her ire.

Larra watched silently as Brandon, so tall and handsome in this memory-world where he could roam freely, looked down at Lady Targaryen, yet never looked down on her, gently guiding her with subtle comments and open-ended questions. He was inciting her anger yet anticipating it, managing it – he forced Daenerys to open her eyes, against her will, and withstanding her rage.

It was…masterful.

He drew all her focus.

Larra watched carefully as Lady Targaryen's anger mounted. She watched as Bran's relentless stoicism broke through the rage. She watched Lady Targaryen's anger turn to humiliation, then despair…finally, grief, guilt, and resolve. Acceptance.

By the time Brandon was finished with her, Lady Targaryen understood the very grave error she had made in Meereen, not the act of crucifying the masters itself but of convincing herself that she was just in doing so.

Larra watched, and a memory of her own crept into her mind, one she never cared to dwell on. It hurt too much. A broken windmill, illuminated by a single candle: crannogmen huddled in a corner, Hodor slumbering gently against the wall, Osha's eyes glinting in the firelight, and her brothers arguing about who loved each other more.

"Listen to me, little lord…"

"Don't worry," Bran said gently, understanding and grief pouring from his dark eyes. Wisdom made him seem far older than his years."I'm not asking you to come with me. It won't be safe for Rickon."

"Me?" Rickon blinked, realising what Bran meant. Stubbornly, he declared,"I'm coming with you."

"No. You and Osha and Shaggydog head for the Last Hearth," Larra said, glancing at Osha, who ducked her head slightly in acknowledgement, already reaching for supplies."The Umbers are fierce warriors honour-bound by their oaths to protect you."

"I'm coming with you," Rickon repeated stubbornly. He appealed to Bran, "I'm your brother. I have to protect you."

"Right now, I have to protect you…"

Larra's lips parted as she realised the truth.

Bran had not invited Daenerys to watch the Dance of the Dragons for the sake of educating her and changing her course. Perhaps Brandon was even more sceptical than Larra that Daenerys could change. Perhaps he had seen things he had not, for his own reasons, shared with anyone. Yet, watching her, Larra was starting to believe Daenerys might. With the right people guiding her, people who would not back down to her… Yet even if she did alter her course, that would be a happy by-product of Bran's intent.

His true purpose in bringing her into the past was just what he was doing now: incurring her wrath and withstanding it, calmly and patiently and persistently driving her, in a manner that reminded her so vividly of Maester Luwin it hurt, to the truth.

He was diverting Daenerys' attention from Larra, as she had from Jon.

"Right now, I have to protect you…"

That little boy, forced to become an adult before his time, had been wise even then. Burdened with a strange, unknowable power, yet he had remained thoughtful and compassionate. He had thought first of those he loved. He had done his part to protect them, limited as he was by his broken body.

He was doing his part to protect her.

He was playing the game the only way he could.

Bran was using the only weapons he now possessed to protect those he loved.

Larra watched Brandon, in awe of him. Gentle and compassionate yet enduring – he was a weirwood, ageless, quietly enduring every storm.

Unease settled in her stomach. Brandon's greatest weapon was his mind: his ability to slip seamlessly into the past, an observer who harvested knowledge and wisdom from all he witnessed and shared it carefully.

Yet he had one other gift, one considered unnatural, its use a crime against nature.

He could slip into the minds not just of beasts but of men.

Hodor.

They knew the consequences.

But if it came to it…

Bran had slipped into Hodor's mind twice, both times by accident – through sheer panic. They had been under threat.

If Bran found himself under threat again, would he use that skill to defend himself?

If there was no other way to protect those he loved…would Bran use that skill to attack?

Bran was not vulnerable, Larra realised darkly. Not in the way she had believed he was. He was perfectly capable of stopping anyone who attempted to hurt him.

He was perfectly capable of stopping anyone.

All he had to do to shatter their minds was to enter them.

The very same ability his mind now harnessed broke others without effort.

She knew Bran's best nature. But what was he capable of if he felt backed into a corner, forced to defend those he loved?

She had convinced herself that Bran was still a boy, still innocent, in need of a caretaker. But he was a man grown. His handwriting may be that of a child but his mind was that of a warrior – someone devoted to defending all that they loved, fiercely, and giving his life if necessary.

Was he willing to do whatever it took to keep them safe?

She had been willing to do whatever it took to keep them safe. With a sinking feeling, she realised Bran had learned from the example she had set.

Daenerys wiping tears of frustration and grief from her face, Brandon took them to the beginning of the heir's tourney, to Rhaenyra in red with a standing collar of shimmering organza sewn with pearls and glass beads, flustered and excited by the news of her mother's labour, shared by the King with the spectators gathered to watch the tourney. Beside her sat Lady Alicent in a lovely blue gown – Larra admired the cut and style and thought the simple, effective design would work well on Arya, the crossed bands of the bodice echoing the Kingsguard's armour, symbolically binding them to their vows of duty and honour. Lady Alicent wore the multi-strand pearl necklace Rhaenyra had promised to lend her, and sat pretty and fresh amongst the darker brocades and jacquards worn by the older members of the court. Rhaenyra, Larra noticed, wore the Valyrian steel necklace Prince Daemon had gifted her: she fiddled with it as the first knights readied for the joust.

As the tourney field became a battleground, blood was spilled within the walls of the Red Keep.

Queen Aemma's labours to bring new life had instead summoned death. It waited patiently, as only Death was infinitely patient, and as they watched the maester's blade gleam brightly in the sunshine, Larra heard Brandon whisper to Lady Targaryen, "Do not look away. Larra will know if you do."

The Queen was brutalised for the sake of the babe in her belly, dosed with milk-of-the-poppy until everything was incomprehensible, and all the while, King Viserys smiled. She died frightened and screaming, betrayed by the man she loved.

Larra wept over her, hot tears searing down her cheeks. She watched the light leave Aemma's eyes and with it, the life drain from Viserys. Their newborn son whimpered and croaked in the arms of the maester, whose eyes darted with grim concern at the child before his expression smoothed away.

Prince Baelon was cremated beside his mother, a too-small bundle on a too-small pyre. Dazed and silent, the King wept. Prince Daemon lingered by his niece, murmuring words of strength to her. The princess, pale in her black mourning clothes, eyes rimmed red, commanded Syrax to breathe fire upon her mother and brother.

The heir for a day…

"You cut the image of the Conqueror, brother," said Prince Daemon, striding along the great hall. Sitting upon the Iron Throne, bedecked in Jaehaerys' crown, King Viserys grasped the hilt of Blackfyre.

His Kingsguard standing at attention at the foot of the dais, King Viserys asked quietly, "Did you say it?"

"I don't know what you mean –"

"You will address me as Your Grace," King Viserys commanded, his voice echoing in the empty hall. The Iron Throne, and Blackfyre among the thousand broken blades, gleamed in the firelight, "or I will have my Kingsguard cut out your tongue."

Prince Daemon said not a word. Refused to surrender that small measure of power over his brother – deference.

"'The heir for a day'," Viserys said. It was the only time Larra had ever heard him seething with anger. "Did you say it?"

Brandon had shown them the whorehouse, had shown them Prince Daemon drowning his misery in his cups, seen him roused to a speech by his men who demanded a performance from their Commander. Had shown them the Prince's lover Mysaria, filling his cup and coaxing him to celebrate. He had shown them the Rogue Prince's sorrow.

And yes, Prince Daemon had named his nephew the "heir for a day" – yet his voice had been filled with sorrow and danger. The revellers had sobered at the dark glint in his eyes and Mysaria, wisely, had guided him to a private chamber before his fingers could twitch toward the hilt of his dagger.

Ser Otto Hightower had not, of course, related this information, the context in which the words had been spoken. He had jumped at the chance to sow discord between Viserys and his only, heir, the most dangerous man in King's Landing.

Prince Daemon did not deny he had said the words. "We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace."

"My family has just been destroyed, but instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra's, you chose to celebrate your own rise, laughing with your whores and your lickspittles!" Viserys shouted, his voice echoing. "You have no allies at court but me! I have only ever defended you! Yet everything I've given you, you've thrown back in my face!"

"You've only ever tried to send me away – to the Vale, to the City Watch, anywhere but by your side!" Daemon bellowed back, catching Viserys off-guard. For a heartbeat, Prince Daemon sounded like a wounded boy. Perhaps Viserys heard it. A boy desperate for his brother's love and approval. Perhaps Viserys did not care to dwell on the truth of Daemon's words, or the feeling in them. "Ten years you've been king and yet not once have you asked me to be your Hand."

"And why would I do that?" Viserys seethed.

"Because I'm your brother," Daemon said fiercely, and Larra could hear the love he had for Viserys in his voice. She had seen it, at Queen Aemma's funeral. Viserys looked taken aback. "And the blood of the dragon runs thick."

"Then why do you cut me so deeply?" Viserys demanded hoarsely.

"I've only ever spoken the truth: I see Otto Hghtower for what he is," Daemon said sharply, unapologetically.

"An unwavering and loyal Hand –"

"A cunt!" Daemon interrupted fiercely, and Larra scoffed, smirking. "A second son who stands to inherit nothing he does not seize for himself."

"Otto Hightower is a more honourable man than you could ever be." Larra coughed and glanced at Brandon. Did he not often wish those he observed could hear him – did he not wish to take these two brothers who loved each other and knock their heads together, to put some sense into them?

"He doesn't protect you!" Daemon shouted. "I would!

Viserys sneered, "From what?"

His voice almost gentle, Daemon said, "Yourself." Then he said something that altered the course of history. He made the greatest mistake by telling the grieving, insecure King, "You're weak, Viserys. And that council of leeches knows it: they all prey on you for their own ends."

Viserys' hand tightened on the hilt of Blackfyre. Yet he was no warrior. He knew it. The only power he had was the power his crown gave him. It was the only weapon he had to hurt his brother, the same way Daemon had just wounded him.

"I have decided to name a new heir," he said softly.

"I'm your heir."

"Not anymore," King Viserys said. "You are to return to Runestone and your lady wife at once. And you are to do so without quarrel, by order of your King."

Daemon's lips parted and he started forward: as one, the Kingsguard bared their blades in warning. Daemon froze.

"Your Grace."

Daemon strode out of the Throne Room. Larra watched the conflict on the King's face – anger gave way swiftly to sudden regret. His eyes shone, his lips parted – but to call Daemon back, to go back on his own commands, was to prove Daemon right. Prove that he was as weak as people thought.

He let Daemon go.

Yet the king winced as he collapsed against the Iron Throne. Blood beaded on his little finger.

"Did you see it?" Brandon asked, watching the king carefully.

"He cut his hand," Daenerys said, frowning softly.

"That wound causes the destruction of House Targaryen," Brandon murmured sorrowfully.

"Which?" Larra asked. "The nick to his finger or the broken bond between brothers?"

Brandon glanced at her, his eyes glinting in the firelight, and smiled.

"Both." He sighed and glanced at Larra. "There is one last thing I wish you to see."

"Are we not to see the Dance?" Lady Targaryen asked, her gaze flitting momentarily from the Iron Throne.

"In time," Brandon promised.

Larra blinked, and her lips parted as a tremendous dragon skull loomed over them. It was illuminated by thousands of flickering candles, meagre light beaming down from a skylight. A kingsguard's armour rattled as he escorted the young princess to her father, who waited by the skull, his hand held over the candles. Rhaenyra still wore her mourning gown.

"Father," Rhaenyra prompted.

"Balerion was the last living creature to have seen Old Valyria before the Doom," King Viserys said. "Its greatness and its flaws. When you look at the dragons, what do you see?"

"What? You haven't spoken a word to me since Mother's funeral, and now you send your Kingsguard to –"

"Answer me," King Viserys urged. "It's important. What do you see?"

Rhaenyra gazed up at Balerion's skull. Larra did too, comparing its size to Rhaegal. Rhaegal was diminutive by comparison. Rhaenyra said gently, "I suppose I see us."

"Tell me," Viserys pushed.

"Everyone says Targaryens are closer to gods than to men," Rhaenyra said thoughtfully. "But they say that because of our dragons. Without them, we're just like everyone else."

Larra gave Lady Targaryen a sly look.

"The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They are a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom," King Viserys said, glancing up at Balerion's skull. "If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us. A Targaryen must understand this if they are to become king…or queen." He let the word linger in the air. Rhaenyra's brow creased and she glanced uncertainly at her father. "I'm sorry, Rhaenyra. I have wasted the years since you were born, wanting for a son…" He took her hands and clasped them, as he had once clasped Aemma's. "You are the very best of your mother. And I believe, as I know she did, that you could be a great ruling queen."

"Daemon is your heir," Rhaenyra said, visibly flustered.

"Daemon was not made to wear the crown but I believe that you were," Viserys said fiercely. "This is no trivial gesture, Rhaenyra. A dragon-saddle is one thing, but the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the realm."

Earnestness poured from his eyes – and love. He knew the danger he was putting Rhaenrya in, yet there was no undoing it – not without proving Daemon correct. Viserys had made a mistake in sending Daemon away, for so many reasons, yet the most dangerous consequence of it was the naming of Rhaenyra as heir. For better or worse, Viserys had to stand by his decision – his pride compelled him to, though the wiser choice would have been to call Daemon back. Gazing at him, Larra knew he regretted it. He regretted putting his daughter, the last lingering vestige of Aemma that he had, in danger.

Brandon glanced at Larra, his eyes reflecting a thousand pinpricks of light, ageless and knowing, and a slight curl to his lips did nothing to prepare her for what Viserys said next.

"There's something else that I need to tell you," Viserys said, dread and guilt thick in his voice. "It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it… Our histories, they tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a dream. And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of Men."

Rhaenyra frowned at Viserys. Daenerys' eyes widened. Larra watched Viserys with the stillness of a predator. And Brandon watched them all.

Rhaenrya did not expect it, or understand it. She never would: but she would carry the weight of its responsibility for the rest of her life. Daenerys heard only what she wanted to hear. Larra listened, and dread and wonder warred in her heart.

"It is to begin with a terrible winter, gusting out of the distant North," Viserys said, his voice gruff with emotion and urgency. "Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds, and whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this great winter comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros must stand against it." He believed – as Targaryens believed so wholly, so tragically – in prophecy. This was the foundation-stone of the Targaryen dynasty.

Not ambition. Not to break better men.

A higher purpose. To defend the realms of men.

"And if the world of Men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne – a king or queen strong enough to unite the realm against the cold, and the dark," King Viserys urged.

Jon, Larra thought, watching Viserys. A man in a generation with the strength and courage to unite enemies, to do what was right no matter the personal cost. To lead… Viserys told his daughter, his heir, the future of his House, the future of the world of Men as he saw it, "Aegon called his dream the Song of Ice and Fire."

Larra's breath hitched, her eyes darting to Bran.

The song of ice and fire: that was what the Children had called the song they had taught Larra.

"This secret, it's been passed from king to heir since Aegon's time," Viserys said. "Now you must promise to carry it – and protect it." Viserys voice became soft yet still urgent, earnest. "Promise me this, Rhaenyra. Promise me."

Promise me, Ned… Promise me…

---

A.N.: A few subtle hints throughout this chapter, about Daenerys. I liked making all the links between Daenerys and Larra and Aemma/Rhaenrya/the prophecy. And who could miss the link between Viserys and Lyanna Stark? Such a subtle way of reminding us of R + L = J and the true implications of Ned's promise. What do you think Daenerys heard in that prophecy? I'm laying the groundwork for the truth when she learns it. Also, the title of the chapter (and the first episode) is a good nod to Daenerys, Larra and Jon - the only known living heirs of House Targaryen!

I won't be doing an episode-by-episode recount of HotD in this story, this was a one-off, but Larra will certainly be shown more by Bran and it'll affect how she handles things.