A.N.: It is over… I've just watched the final episode, and am currently listening to the HotD soundtrack. Absolutely love it! I am also usurping "An Impossible Choice", "The Prince That Was Promised", "Protector of the Realm" and "The Language of Girls" for Larra's themes!
So this fic's word-count is now over double the word-count of the first Game of Thrones book. Yikes!
I've also been watching Top Gun: Maverick on repeat and am trying desperately to work some of that inspiration into this story! Top Gun – with dragons! I'll need more of them though…
Valyrian Steel
54
Choice
Brandon left them with the lingering image of Princess Rhaenyra standing before all the high lords of Westeros as her father invested her with the title Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. Beyond the Red Keep, the red worm Caraxes had shrieked and clawed his way through the sky, the Rogue Prince on his back. Rhaenyra had looked absolutely stunning, wearing a fiery red gown richly embroidered with golden dragons, a golden cloak draped over her shoulders with a mantel of black velvet exquisitely embroidered on the back with two dragons rapturously entwined within a radiant sun. She wore a golden collar, heavy gold earrings embellished with pearls and a high, curved headdress, old-fashioned to Larra's mind yet beautiful, richly embroidered and encrusted with glittering ruby beads that evoked the Conqueror's famous Valyrian steel crown embedded with square-cut rubies.
The great chain of office of the Prince – now Princess – of Dragonstone was draped around her slender neck by the Grand Maester, the gold gleaming in the light, each link elaborately embellished with the sigils of each of the Great Houses, and a last link, dangling beneath, bore the seven-pointed star of the Faith.
The Iron Throne was all that linked the seven kingdoms – all that kept them united – ready to stand against the impending doom Aegon had once foreseen.
The symbol of the Faith dangled, an afterthought – the Targaryens had brought their own gods from Valyria and kept their ancient worships alive for generations after the Doom. The Faith had been joined with the Crown only through the actions of Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
Rhaenyra had looked absolutely stunning, and carried herself magnificently – young though she was, a slip of a girl, she wore her gown, her headdress, the heavy chain of office. They did not wear her. She looked beautiful, young and slightly threatening. She stared down the high lords who grumbled, embittered about the past or begrudgingly kneeling to a woman. Larra had smiled bitterly as Lord Rickon Stark swore his oath before the young girl, as fiercely and as earnestly as any Northerner ever swore their oaths.
Oathbreakers were considered the height of dishonour. The North remembers…
Larra could not wait to see Lord Cregan Stark. The Hour of the Wolf. That had always been Robb's favourite part of the Dance – a stern Northerner bringing swift justice to the festering viper's nest that was King's Landing.
Robb have done the same, had he not forgotten his oaths.
The solar emerged as if from a great mist and Larra's fingers twitched as they unlaced from Bran's. She felt inspired to pick up her sketching pencils again. Princess Anemone could wait – she wished to paint Queen Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra.
It was easier to think about breathing life into the long-dead than dwell on the troubling knowledge Brandon had imparted. A Targaryen prophecy.
They said that Prince Rhaegar had been a great lover of books until the moment he discovered something in an ancient text and decided he was meant to become a warrior.
Was this prophecy, Aegon's song of ice and fire, the very same prophecy that had motivated Prince Rhaegar to train as a warrior, had put him on the path that had ultimately led him to the Trident?
The same path that had led him to Lyanna. To Larra and Jon.
Daenerys blinked around the chamber and Larra saw in her the instantaneous sorrow and bitter disappointment of realising they had returned to their own lives, that those they had watched remained in the past, untouchable, forever out of reach. Bran was blessed to be able to see them any time he wished but he was forever cursed to remain little more than the echo of a voice lost on the wind, a wraith walking through time, unable to touch or interact with people.
He was left to watch as people came to regret their decisions.
Some of those decisions had consequences that rippled through time. Daenerys was living proof of that. The seeds of the Dance – Aemma's death and Ser Otto sending his daughter to beguile the grieving king – would lead to the destruction of the greatest power in their history. The seventeen dragons boasted by House Targaryen would be killed, butchered by the smallfolk in riots that spread throughout King's Landing: the power of House Targaryen would be broken. Generations later, a mad king's viciousness would spark a rebellion that consumed the continent and cast the fractured remains of a once-magnificent House to the rippling golden grass seas of the Dothraki…and the endless snow-meadows of the North.
Larra had to include herself amongst them, now. Never forget what you are…
Queen Aemma's death was the beginning of the end for House Targaryen.
"Tell me again the King's prophecy," Lady Targaryen said softly, gazing wide-eyed at Bran.
Carefully, Brandon said, "It shall begin with a terrible winter, gusting out of the distant North. The darkness brings the end of the world of Men."
Lady Targaryen blinked. "No, what King Viserys said!"
"Aegon's prophecy was as I said. In his dreams, he saw those that do not fear the dark and the cold, those whose eyes gleam bright and blue with cold fire. He saw the Others marching out of the mist and laying waste to the world."
Larra watched Bran carefully, wondering if whether he or Lord Bloodraven was responsible for the Conqueror's dragon-dream. Or perhaps another greenseer. Brandon kept saying the past could not be rewritten yet she knew Bran had slipped into Hodor's mind in the past, with devastating consequences. Bran had no idea what he was doing – then. Now…
"No," Daenerys snapped, frowning at Bran as if he was being purposely thick. "What he said about a Targaryen sitting the Iron Throne to unite the realms."
"That is not prophecy," Brandon said quietly. "It is the excuse Targaryen kings used for generations to keep a stranglehold over Westeros." Larra glanced subtly at Daenerys, who looked as if she had been slapped. "Aegon foresaw a winter without end. What he did after he had his dream, how he shared his knowledge, was entirely up to him. His preparations for an invasion only he saw coming defined House Targaryen for generations, until his knowledge was lost."
"It was rediscovered," Larra said quietly, and Brandon nodded his head slowly.
"Yes," Brandon said lightly. "Prince Rhaegar found it. He did ever so love his books. He rediscovered Aegon's song…"
He said it wistfully, almost romantically, his eyes glimmering as he smiled into the firelight, and for a moment, Larra knew instinctively that Bran was thinking of Jon.
Of Aegon Torrhen, a child born of ice and fire. Named to honour the king who knelt – and the Conqueror to whom he had surrendered his crown.
Larra wondered suddenly how Aegon's prophecy linked to Torrhen's surrender.
Had Aegon shared his prophecy? It would explain so much – why Queen Alysanne had reinforced the Watch, and why the North had been left to its own devices since the Conquest.
Had there been an ancient understanding between Aegon and Torrhen? Had that knowledge been passed from lord to heir? Had the secret of Aegon's prophecy, of the true motivation for his conquest and unification of the Seven Kingdoms, been carried by the Starks? Had it been lost with Rickard and Brandon, as Viserys' secret had likely been lost with Rhaenyra?
King Viserys had embellished the Conqueror's prophecy, yet what Viserys had told Rhaenyra was true, in part. Whether by chance or design, a Targaryen had been exactly where he needed to be, to unite the realms and lead the defence of the world of Men.
Jon had the blood, though he did not go by the name Targaryen.
Daenerys was not to know that. How could she? Yet even as Larra watched, she saw Daenerys take hold of the prophecy, of Viserys' words, of the implications – of her certainty that Aegon's prophecy meant her – Daenerys, with her dragons, in the North, ready to defeat the Others who came to destroy the world of Men.
It served only to strengthen Daenerys' belief that she alone was destined to sit the Iron Throne.
Larra did not point out, at that moment, that Daenerys neither sat the Iron Throne nor had she united any of the realms of Westeros.
The Iron Throne was not important: uniting the realms of Men was. And it was Jon who had succeeded in doing so. He had united Night's Watchmen with wildlings, wildlings with Northmen, Northmen with Knights of the Vale. He commanded the respect of everyone who met him because he led them.
Aegon's purpose had become lost amidst the grandeur and tragedy of the Targaryen legacy. The Iron Throne did not matter: keeping the people of Westeros united did. Defending the realms of men did.
Anything else was people making excuses to cling to power.
Larra had a newfound sense of respect for the Conqueror. He had not been motivated by arrogance and greed but by a sense of duty.
Larra noted how Lady Targaryen relented when Brandon spoke. She took him at his word. She backed down, in a way Larra had never seen her do before. Perhaps she respected Brandon's insight, in a way she respected little else. His formidable, unknowable power struck a chord in Daenerys, who had obsessed over the visions shared with her by the House of the Undying and by Qaithe, the words of the slave Mirri Maz Duur she had taken as pure prophecy and lived by more stringently than most did the Book of the Seven.
Lady Targaryen jumped as the door to the solar opened and a maid bustled in. She saw them and stopped short. "Oh! 'Pologies, m'ladies – m'lord!"
"It's quite alright," Larra said, giving the flustered girl a gentle smile. "Go about your work." The maid curtseyed and set about tidying the table. Larra noticed the tureens and piled plates she had left ready to be cleared away.
She glanced at Bran. "How long were we gone?" she asked.
"Little more than an hour," Bran said softly. "I believe I shall take myself away to my chamber and rest."
A game after dinner indeed, Larra thought, glancing again at the table, where her cards were neatly stacked, as Bran wheeled himself over to the table. He reached for the stack of cards and, eyes glittering, gave Larra a sweet smile as he tucked the cards safely into the billowing sleeves of his great tunic, the same way Maester Luwin always used to have puzzles and games tucked up his sleeves for them to discover.
"I shall retire, too," Lady Targaryen said softly. She gazed at Bran. "You have given me much to think about."
"You will return," Bran said gently, glancing up at both of them. "I shall invite you to take tea with me for our next voyage." He saw the look on Lady Targaryen's face. "You do wish to see more, do you not?"
And there is the lure, Larra thought, Lord Bloodraven's voice echoing in her ears. It's beautiful beneath the sea, but if you stay too long, you drown.
Did Bran intend to drown Daenerys?
This was perhaps his tactic: to distract Daenerys by the past to ensure she did not dwell on the present – or the future.
"I await your invitation, my lord," Lady Targaryen said, dipping into a small curtsy.
"I'll escort you out," Larra said, glancing at Bran. Right now, I have to protect you… She bent to meet Bran's eye, whispering, "I have questions."
"Compile your list," Bran said, his eyes twinkling. "We shall discuss them – at great length."
She leaned in and kissed Bran's cheek. He smiled, and a glimmer of the sweet boy he had once been shone from his eyes. With less and less effort, he turned his chair about and wheeled himself to the door, knocking. The pretty brown-eyed guard opened the door carefully and nodded an awkward bow as Bran wheeled himself past. He blushed when he caught sight of Lady Targaryen's translucent gown, and realised Larra had caught him noticing. She smirked and winked and he blushed hotter, clearing his throat and murmuring politely as Larra swept past. Lady Targaryen, with her shorter stature, hastened to keep up.
When Bran wheeled himself off into a side corridor, Lady Targaryen cleared her throat delicately.
"You have no desire to have me remain in your home," she said quietly, and Larra glanced at her, "and even less respect for me, I fear."
Larra didn't deny it. She gazed down at Lady Targaryen, thinking of Queen Aemma. A straight-shooter but an elegant woman. She would have found a way to speak the truth in such a way that others would thank her for the gift, rather than see the insult for what it was.
"Long before you arrived at Winterfell, I learned of your life," was what she told Daenerys Targaryen.
Lady Targaryen licked her lips slowly, thoughtfully. "Your brother showed you."
"From Illyrio Mopatis' manse to the great grass sea and the pyramids of Meereen," Larra said quietly.
After a long while, Lady Targaryen spoke. Larra thought perhaps she was thinking of her own reactions to Daemon Targaryen's actions. How favourably would her own actions be viewed by an impartial person? "You did not look upon my actions with favour."
"I think perhaps had I been with you, as Ser Jorah was, I may have been swept up with the magnificence of it all…the dragons," Larra said, and something tightened almost imperceptibly around the corners of Lady Targaryen's eyes. Something hardened. The dragons. Rhaegal – a sore spot. They had not yet reached a confrontation about Larra's claiming of Rhaegal. What was Lady Targaryen to do about it? What could be done about it? "I benefited from distance and perspective."
"You dislike me," Lady Targaryen said, and for a moment, she looked young and sounded…vulnerable. Soft. In a way she had rarely been since her husband died. There had been glimmers – with her lover Daario. He had seen the truth of her and not shuddered away yet she had not been wise enough to listen to him.
Larra did not deny it. "I have no respect for the choices you've made in wilful ignorance."
"I received no formal education."
"You're a child no longer," Larra said, glancing down at the translucent gown that hid none of Lady Targaryen's emerging curves, the rich ermine furs she draped herself – furs fit for a queen, worth more than most of the smallfolk could earn in their lifetimes put together. "You are a woman of means: there is no excuse for continued ignorance. Or cruelty."
"Have I been cruel?" It was a question asked with such vulnerability in her voice, and a haunted kind of resignation in her eyes. She remembered, perhaps, Prince Daemon's scouring of King's Landing. The comparisons Brandon had drawn between his actions and her own. He had not mentioned the Field of Fire or the Lion Culling. Perhaps he was saving that discussion for Tumbleton. The first or the second, it did not matter which. Perhaps he would save it for Aemond One-Eye's actions in the Riverlands. There were tragically too many opportunities in the Dance of the Dragons for Brandon to warn Daenerys about the misuse of dragons.
Larra stared at Lady Targaryen and told her the truth: "You put Jon in a very cruel position. A powerless one. If you knew it, that is one thing, but if you can look at me and wonder what it is I speak of, that is far worse, for it means you have no qualms about what you did, that you do not even consider it reprehensible."
Lady Targaryen stared at her. Her cheeks tinged with a flush – from anger or humiliation, Larra could not tell. Likely both. Her eyes shone, and spoke more eloquently than Lady Targaryen ever could.
She knew.
In her heart, Daenerys Targaryen knew she had done Jon a grave injury when she had forced her way into his bed.
"He has… The King has been distant since Eastwatch-by-the-Sea – cold," Lady Targaryen said, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Towards me. Since we – Since I climbed into his bed."
"Jon is the kind of person who appears once in generations. Everything that he is, the man he has become… To know him is to love him," Larra said, and Lady Targaryen flinched at the sadness and kindness in Larra's voice in a way she never did when Larra bared her fangs and injured her men in the Great Hall. Larra spoke truthfully but she spoke gently, compassion pouring from her. And for Lady Targaryen, that was far worse. "Perhaps you are in love with him. Somehow, you have convinced yourself into believing that love is reciprocated. Perhaps because that is what you have always so desperately yearned for."
"And what is that?" Lady Targaryen asked, a subtle bite in her tone.
"Safety. Security. Unconditional love. I think perhaps you have convinced yourself that the Iron Throne will grant you those things you have chased for so long. A sense of belonging. And Jon…" Larra sighed. "He is a vision of the glory of kings, undimmed… He goes out of his way to ensure everyone feels they belong, that they are worthy and safe. I do not blame you for falling in love with him. But I will not excuse your behaviour because of it."
"He – he did not say anything," Lady Targaryen said, catching herself, biting her lip and closing her eyes.
"What would you have done if he had?" Larra sighed. She gazed down at Daenerys Targaryen, and hoped she heard the warning with the good intentions Larra gave it: "Your pride is your undoing. Good night, my lady."
She left Daenerys Targaryen at the large door separating the Stark chambers with the main thoroughfares and made her way to her chamber, wishing to climb out of her fine dress and curl up with her sketching pencils and paper.
The sound of giggling and singing beckoned her to her chamber, and she smiled as she slowly pushed the door open, peering into her chamber and catching a glimpse of Gendry, his curls rampant, Leona sitting on his shoulders and sucking her fingers, half-asleep. Little Rosamund was cuddled up beside him, while Neva sat in his lap letting him braid her hair, a book spread open before her. Neva sang with Altheda as Briar teased Uhtred and Arianwyn before the hearth, the kittens clawing at the hem of Narcisa's gown as she peered at Gendry's handiwork, adjusting braids and nodding, smiling proudly at Gendry and nodding.
Larra stopped at the door, peeking through, savouring the sight. Her heart ached, watching her gentle giant, dark as a thunderstorm and as dangerous, surrounded by dainty little girls and lavishing love and attention on them, his hands gentle, voice calm and rich and encouraging. It was quite something to see dark-haired, fiercely masculine Gendry utterly tender and completely besotted with their girls.
Their girls. They were. The Lannisters, Neva, Briar – they were their girls, Gendry's and hers. She watched Gendry with them and may have swooned ever so slightly at the proud little smile on Gendry's face as he completed Neva's braids. She definitely sighed at the look of absolute adoration on Narcisa's face as she gazed at Gendry, and the way her expression turned gently yearning as Gendry chuckled and turned his head to give Leona, who had peered upside-down into his face, a kiss on the cheek. She dimpled with a smile, her pearly teeth flashing as her eyelashes fluttered, and hugged his neck, resting her head on top of his, her golden curls tangling with his dark ones. He smiled contentedly to himself and his eyes glowed as he smiled at Neva, who finished the page she was reading and raised her fists in triumph, eyes sparkling – she had never read so far before without errors, Larra could tell by the illustrations on the page.
Briar clambered off the floor and chased the kittens across the chamber, where she paused at Larra's table. Larra watched quietly from the doorway, peering through unseen, as Briar tilted her head thoughtfully, her silky black hair rippling over her shoulder, and rested her fingertips daintily on the edge of the table, as if afraid to touch anything. Her enormous sapphire eyes roved over the table, and, with a subtle glance at Gendry, who had plucked Leona off his shoulders to cuddle her in his lap, Briar carefully freed several of Larra's papers from a pile. They were the studies she had completed of flora and fauna of the wolfswood. Briar, Larra knew, had a deep and abiding love for all living things. She adored animals in every form. Her vivid sapphire eyes, so enormous in her pale face, with her bee-stung lips and freckles, seemed to glow with curiosity as she examined the painted studies.
Uhtred tried to make a break for it, darting out from under the bed toward the door and Briar jumped as if struck by arrows as she followed his path and realised the door stood ajar and Larra stood beyond it, watching her.
Larra smiled warmly and entered the room, even as Briar flushed hotly and seemed to shrink as she tucked Larra's paintings back where she had found them. As the door swung open, Gendry glanced up. He grinned, relaxed and happy, enjoying cuddles with his little girls.
Larra approached him, noting how Leona's eyes were heavy, cuddled so cosily in Gendry's strong arms. She reached out and tenderly brushed her fingers through Gendry's dark curls, leaning down to share a kiss.
"I thought you'd be gone far longer," he murmured against her lips, his striking eyes intense on her face, noticing everything – the tension easing at the corners of her eyes, the tearstains on her cheeks.
"While the wolf is away, you get to play, is that it?" she teased softly.
"Absolutely," Gendry grinned.
"May I join you?" she asked quietly, and the girls nodded eagerly.
"We've been reading," Gendry told her, showing her the book Neva had been reading from. One of the stories she had long ago written for Rickon. "We've all had baths and listened to Lady Vialle sing an operetta."
"An operetta?"
"Apparently she was trained as an opera singer in Lys, on account of her voice," Gendry said, and Larra pouted, disappointed to have missed the performance.
"I wish I had been there," she sighed. "What are you doing now?"
"The girls have been trying to convince me to style their hair the way Narcisa's been teaching me," Gendry said, with a subtle frown-line between his brows.
"Perhaps I can help," Larra suggested, removing her shoes and tucking her skirts under her as she climbed onto the bed. She sat close enough to Gendry that their thighs touched as she crossed her legs, arranging her skirts.
"What have you got there, Briar?" Gendry asked, glancing across the chamber. She still held one of Larra's studies in her hands. Briar was far from shy and retiring yet she was still finding her feet. Winterfell was as new to her as it was to the Lannisters, though they expected finery as their due. Briar no longer shuddered away from putting on even the most worn of Larra's childhood frocks, preserved in trunks, but the schoolroom was still foreign to her despite the maesters reports to Larra that she was a very bright girl.
"This is a Great Northern Dire-Eagle," Briar said, approaching with the study Larra had painted. Larra's heart panged at the sight of it: she had completed the studies while rehabilitating the wounded dire-eagle she had bonded with so long ago.
"It is," Larra said gently. Just as Briar was with animals, Larra kept her voice low and her movements gentle around Briar: she was not skittish the way Neva and sometimes even Cade could be but she was wary of everything around her.
"What does this say here?" Briar asked quietly, pointing to the paragraphs Larra had written around the colourful studies.
"It's a description of their preferred nesting sites, their diet and how a mated pair cares for its young," Larra said. She pointed at a long line annotated with numbers. "This is a measurement."
"What's a measurement?"
"It tells you how big something is," Larra explained quietly. As the daughter of a farmer, Briar had never been exposed to the kind of vocabulary Larra took for granted. She often caught herself, especially for Ragnar and Briar, explaining what words meant in simpler terms. "This is a measurement of the dire-eagle's wingspan…this is the measurement of one of its eggs."
"What's that?" Briar asked, pointing to a scrawny, featherless creature.
"A newly-hatched chick," Larra said.
"What are these called?"
"The pictures? The maesters call them studies," Larra said. "I sketched them then painted over the sketches."
"You made these?"
"I did," Larra nodded. Briar turned her great blue eyes from Larra to the studies, and Larra could see her mind working, the way the maesters knew Briar may not be able to read or write or have any knowledge of histories or any of that, but she absorbed everything and had a fierce curiosity matched with a sharp mind.
"How?" Briar asked.
"I could teach you, if you'd like," Larra said, and Briar's enormous eyes widened, her face lighting up.
"Truly?"
"Truly," Larra nodded. "I can teach you how to sketch and paint. When the snows melt, we shall go exploring and record everything we can find!" Gendry glanced at her, expression soft, and he gave her a gentle smile.
"Shall we?" he prompted quietly. He leaned in and kissed her, murmuring, "Shall we see the snows melt?"
She reached up and stroked Gendry's cheek, leaning in to give him a kiss. She hoped so. Sometimes it was easier to believe than others.
"Bran wants me to teach him book-binding," she told Gendry instead.
"Whatever for?" Gendry asked, frowning.
"He says he's going to write a book."
Gendry's eyebrows rose. "About what?"
"Games."
The girls finally tucked up in bed, Larra cuddled under a fur, her sketching pencils beside her and a firm board in her lap, paper clipped to it. She sketched away, covering the page with studies of all she had seen, little glimpses of the past, fragmented like sunlight through crystal, vibrant and ephemeral.
Gendry stripped, folded his clothes neatly into the trunk at the foot of the bed and sighed as he climbed into bed beside her. She smiled softly to herself as he wrapped an arm around her, shifting her into his embrace, propping his chin on her shoulder and gazing down at the studies she had covered the page with – Aemma, the Seasnake, Rhaenyra, Viserys, the Rogue Prince in his plumed dragon armour, even Alicent in her tourney dress.
"She's very pretty," Gendry murmured, as Larra used her little finger to delicately smudge the shading of Queen Aemma's lips. He sighed. "Who is she?"
"Queen Aemma," Larra said softly. Escorting Lady Targaryen from the solar, the girls being in her chamber had all served to keep at bay the crushing grief that had been threatening to overwhelm her since Aemma bled out in her bed.
Jon had not turned before his birth, either. And yet as tragic as Lyanna's death was, hers had been a far gentler death than Aemma's. Her will to live, her will to protect her children, had given her the strength she needed to linger long enough to secure her children's lasting protection.
Larra had never known a mother's love beyond that fierce maternal instinct to protect. She had never felt the pride and adoration and delight Aemma had so obviously had for her daughter, the deep understanding of her nature and appreciation of it.
The closest Larra had come to it was Osha, whom she had come to view as a surrogate mother and older sister together, whose wisdom she had relied upon, as she had allowed herself to rely upon no-one else since.
Watching Rhaenyra and her mother…it was not the same. Their lives were not the same. Yet the patience and wisdom and humour and gentle intimacy Aemma and Rhaenyra had shared…Larra had known that – with Osha. Larra knew she had trusted Osha as she had trusted few others in the world.
Larra grieved Lyanna for the lives they might have had but she missed Osha.
Her eyes burned and her lip trembled. Her voice was hoarse and tremulous as she told Gendry, "I spent all my childhood playing pretend with Jon and Robb and Arya, imagining we were the Queen Who Never Was and the Rogue Prince, riding Sunfyre and Vhagar and re-enacting the Battle Above the God's Eye… We reduced their lives to their most heroic – or most nefarious – acts. But they were people." Her lip trembled and she wiped her eyes, sniffling. "Flesh and blood, as real as you and me. I did not expect to feel this much… I did not expect to feel." She sighed and closed her eyes, hot tears slipping down. "Brandon showed us the beginning of the end. The Great Council at Harrenhall…and Queen Aemma." She gazed mournfully at her sketch of the gentle, discerning queen. Her voice hollow, she said, "The histories overlook her. She was forgotten. She deserved better."
Gendry reached up, delicately brushing her tears away with his thumb. Tenderly, he coaxed, "Tell me what happened…"
She told him, aided by her sketches. Everything Brandon had shown her – including the song of ice and fire. Gendry's sapphire eyes darkened, grim understanding pouring from them. Aegon's prophecy.
"The Conquest…all of it… It led us to where we are," Gendry said, staring at her. Like his little sister, Gendry's vibrant eyes shone with intelligence. He caressed her chin gently. "It led us to you."
"It led us to a Targaryen uniting the realms," Larra said quietly. "Just not in the way Aegon imagined. It all led to Jon."
"And you," Gendry added gently, and she gave him a sad smile. Gendry sighed. "I wonder if he saw you."
"He saw the Others," Larra said, nestling her sketches on the bedside cabinet and curling up close to Gendry, soothed by the warmth and scent of his skin. "That was enough."
The candles had burned low as Larra told Gendry about Brandon's memories. Now, the last of them lingered, a feeble light against the encroaching dark. The faintest glimmer of hope. Yet it burned on.
"I didn't even ask you about Daenerys," Gendry murmured, and felt her tense against him. "Oh no. What did you do?"
"I do not have the energy to pretend. We shall never be the best of friends but now she at least understands why I distrust her," Larra said quietly. "But I will no longer be openly hostile toward her."
"Really?"
"I wish to believe that she may yet change her course – that what I dread most will never come to pass."
"But you don't believe it," Gendry said quietly, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.
"I…will remain hopeful but vigilant."
"What did she think to what Brandon showed you?"
"She was appalled by the Rogue Prince's actions as Commander of the City Watch – until it was pointed out to her that she had done the same thing in Meereen as Prince Daemon did in King Landing." Gendry grunted, and Larra continued with mild indignation, "I didn't point it out to her, Brandon did! Oddly enough, I think Daenerys truly listened when Brandon spoke to her. Then again, she has been shown to grasp onto prophecy with a stranglehold. If she were to listen to anyone, it would be him. Perhaps I need do no more than show up to watch the Dance unfold. Brandon will do the rest." She sighed heavily, nestling closer to Gendry, who wrapped his arm around her and tucked her close. "His wisdom…unnerves me. It feels – wrong. Unearned. It makes me dread the cost that must be paid."
Gendry sighed heavily. After a long moment, he rumbled gently, "I think you already know the cost."
Larra flinched. She knew it, as she had always known it. She had known it the moment they reached the great weirwood. "His life."
Saying it out loud… Restoring the Broken Tower was one thing. Admitting out loud that Bran Stark was dead – that in his place Brandon the Broken would linger, forever bound to his chair, lost to the past…
"The life he might once have had," Larra said hoarsely. "It is a strange thing, how something tragic in itself can have such devastating consequences. A fall from a tower…death in childbirth. One never knows how they will alter the course of the future until it is too late. They killed Queen Aemma for the babe in her belly and it led to a war that tore the Seven Kingdoms apart. Bran fell from the tower and I carried him to the great weirwood and back again…"
"As I said…it all led to us being where we are now," Gendry murmured, stroking her arm. His voice had taken on that rich smoothness that came just before sleep, when exhaustion weighed on him and he was halfway into dreaming. "We're exactly where we should be."
Curled up with Gendry, Larra let herself believe it.
Head aching from her discussion with Bran, Larra turned and stared at the breakfast spread the maids had brought up. She had been curious about the truth of Aegon's song and the implications for Torrhen Stark, and perhaps Bran knew it: he had successfully evaded answering her about his true intent with Daenerys Targaryen – the belief Larra had that he was using memories of the Dance to divert Lady Targaryen's attention and wrath away from Larra.
Bran hummed contentedly, hands clasped in his lap, watching the fire in the hearth as they waited for Arya and Jon and Sansa to arrive.
"Are you going to tell them?" Bran asked.
"Tell who what?"
"You should tell them that you and Gendry will be married," Bran said softly, and Larra glanced over at her brother.
She didn't ask how he knew. She didn't ask what he could foresee as the consequences of her choice.
Robb had made his choice. They had suffered the consequences – the entire North had suffered them.
While she waited for the others to arrive, the sky beyond the diamond-paned windows starting to lighten as the sun rose, Larra sketched. She was so engrossed that she barely noticed Sansa arriving with Arya, Jon joining them moments later.
"Put that away so that we might eat," Sansa chided, and Larra grunted softly, glancing over the top of her sketch-board. Her fingertip was blackened from smudging her pencils and papers were scattered over the miniature of Winterfell as she filled them with studies of dead royalty.
"When you set aside your scrolls," Larra countered.
"Both of you, put your things away," Jon said, sighing heavily as he sat beside Bran at the table. It was rare that they got to share a meal together, just the four of them. As Larra set aside her sketching pencils, she realised that they were starting to take it for granted that they would spend time with each other again. They were starting to move forward: they were starting to heal.
"Wait a moment," Sansa murmured, frowning down at one of the raven-scrolls. She read it carefully. After a moment, she told them, "Queen Cersei has delivered twin children. Lita, the Princess Royal, and Tybalt, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne."
"Children? Did we miss a scroll announcing her marriage?" Arya frowned.
"No," Sansa said coolly. "The same man who fathered these twins fathered all her other children."
"She's passing off bastards born of incest as legitimate," Arya scoffed, shaking her head.
"She sits upon the Iron Throne," Sansa sighed. "She may do as she wishes…until the day comes that she may not."
"A day that cannot come too soon," Arya murmured darkly.
"Does the scroll say anything else?" Larra asked. Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion would want to hear of this news.
"No. It was sent by the Hand of the Queen," Sansa said, crinkling her nose as she tossed the scroll aside. "He stresses that the Queen and the Heir to the Iron Throne are both in good health."
"They were born too soon," Brandon said softly, his eyes faraway. "The daughter she rejected flourishes while the son she fusses over fails to thrive."
Larra exchanged a look with Sansa.
"What do you mean, rejected?" Larra prompted.
"The Queen has no need of a daughter," Brandon murmured. "But her son ensures her line. A Lannister dynasty that lasts a thousand years."
"Does it?" Larra asked, something like panic swooping in her belly. Brandon's lips twitched.
"No," he said.
"Cersei must see the value in her daughter, surely," Sansa frowned. "If she survives, she will be marriageable."
"Well…" Larra pulled a face. "The legitimate daughter of a king or queen is a desirable match many would covet. Cersei can say what she wishes on the matter of the child's paternity – or say nothing at all – but those who follow the Faith will despise her for the double insult. Children born not just on the wrong side of the sheets but of incest declared as heirs to the Iron Throne." She frowned, reaching for the tureen of porridge.
"I'm just surprised she was able to conceive a child at her age," Arya mused, crinkling her nose. Larra glanced at Brandon.
"Is Cersei in good health?"
"Cersei is not young and her labour was long," Brandon told them. "The birth took its toll."
"But will she perish?" Arya pressed urgently.
"No," Brandon said softly, and Larra saw the slight triumph in Arya's face as she settled back. She knew why Arya was pleased Cersei would not succumb to complications of the birthing-bed: she was still at the top of Arya's list.
"How does this news affect things?" Jon asked Sansa. He tended to defer to her on matters of southern politics.
"At the moment? Very little," Sansa said. "The children must first survive their infancy. If they do that… Cersei has an heir, and whether or not she acknowledges it, a daughter to marry off strategically for political ties. With Princess Myrcella married into the Dornish royal family, Cersei might look to strengthen ties with the Stormlords or…"
"Or?"
"I don't know," Sansa admitted.
"The Tyrells have reclaimed Highgarden," Larra reminded them.
"Cersei will be paranoid about the Tyrells retaliating for the Sept," Sansa intoned.
"If I was Cersei, I would do whatever I could to ensure the Tyrells never regained their full strength in the Reach," Larra mused. "That would mean arranging a marriage to a lesser but ambitious House that would owe their rise to Cersei."
"Cersei wouldn't sell her daughter to a lesser House," Arya remarked darkly. "She is arrogant – she would expect loyalty without offering anything in return."
"Both might be true," Jon said quietly, frowning. They glanced at him. "Cersei's proud but what about her Hand? The people who advise her have to have something between their ears or King's Landing would be in anarchy by now."
"Cersei would expect absolute loyalty as her right," Sansa said slowly. "But she will do whatever it takes to maintain power – even sacrifice her own children. If she can use them to get what she wants…"
They turned to their breakfasts and Larra finished her bowl of porridge before Bran turned his gaze from her to the others.
"As we are sharing news," he said, his eyes glittering, "Larra has something to say."
"Do I?" Larra said, feeling hot. Bran's eyes twinkled, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. The smirk faded into a genuine smile, his eyes full of warmth, love – encouragement.
Larra sighed softly then turned her gaze from Arya to Jon to Sansa. She could imagine her siblings' reactions. Jon had too much of the True North in him, like her. Arya wouldn't care. Sansa… She would immediately see all the implications – the consequences. The risks. The danger.
"Gendry and I have decided to marry."
She felt married already. She had chosen her mate as wolves did – for life. It was good enough for her. But she was no longer in the True North: claiming they were married did not make it so. Not in the eyes of everyone south of the Wall. Whether they were Andals or First Men, Rhoynar or Ironborn, there were ancient customs to honour, sacred oaths to declare.
She felt married already yet for the sake of transparency… She wished everyone to know they had chosen each other. She wished there to be no secrets. No doubts. She wanted everyone to know that her choice was intentional.
"Who?" Sansa blinked, startled.
Arya stared at her, eyebrows raised, silently appraising.
Jon frowned gently at her. "She means they intend to marry each other." He watched her carefully, a soft, sad look in his eyes – wistful. "I thought there was too much of the True North in you to care about such things."
"Not so much that I've forgotten the way of things here," Larra sighed. "It is a formality."
"You have been living as man and wife for months," Sansa said quietly. Larra waited: it was the closest Sansa had come to reproaching Larra for living with her lover blatantly and without shame.
"As I said – a formality," Larra said. She shrugged delicately, admitting, "I think it's more important to Gendry than he wants to let on."
Larra gazed at Sansa, full of anticipation – she could see Sansa's mind working behind those brilliant blue eyes. All of the implications, the potential consequences. Littlefinger's attempts to manipulate Larra into a marriage to remove her from Sansa, and the oath Larra had given – that she would declare her intentions when she found a man she deemed worthy of her. But how would the Northmen and the Knights of the Vale react to Larra marrying a blacksmith? She was the King's twin-sister…
"Gendry is to be my brother," Arya said wonderingly, a small smile touching her lips. Her grey eyes brightened and her face shone with a light Larra had dreaded was lost forever. "We shall be his family."
Jon stood and bent to kiss the top of Larra's head. "You've chosen well," was all he said – all he needed to say – and left the solar. Larra glanced at Sansa, who looked pale and worried. She sighed, rose from the table, touched Bran's shoulder in goodbye and followed in Jon's wake.
Better to leave the solar than provoke an argument. Better to leave Sansa to think everything through before she confronted Larra about the wisdom of her choice.
But Larra had made her choice. Nothing else mattered.
In that moment, Larra finally understood Robb. She understood Rhaegar. And she understood Lyanna.
A.N.: What do you think?