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Apologies for missing an update last week. Real life got in the way there but I'm back on course now. Thank you for being patient.

Chapter Thirty: The Best of Enemies

"They are your enemies." The Green Grace spoke much plainer than usual. A note of urgency in her normally restrained counsel. "Their father fought yours at the Trident, did they not? They were the ruin of your house."

"Their father fought my brother at the Trident," Daenerys corrected her. She was studying her reflection in the mirror, running her hands down the front of the bodice of her new Westerosi gown. It was a gift from Sansa Stark and only minor alterations had had to be made to the skirts. Periwinkle blue silk, trimmed with gold and embroidered with gold dragonflies. Her Meereenese tokar, the garment of the slavers, lay discarded at the foot of her bed. Allowing herself a small smile, she continued: "And we make peace with our enemies. You told me that yourself. To rule a people, we must adopt their customs and their dress."

The whalebone corset would take some getting used to, but the dress had already become her new favourite. Before leaving Meereen, she noted to herself to have her seamstresses make another for her and one for Missandei.

"They come bearing great gifts and greater promises," the Green Grace continued undeterred. "You have been offered these things before and possessed the wisdom to see through the flattery and lies."

Turning from the mirror, Daenerys focused on the crone speaking from the shadows of her chambers. Shrouded in green silks, only her equally green eyes were visible beneath her layers of silk and muslin. Eyes Dany once thought sad and full of ancient wisdom. She felt differently now although she couldn't quite pin-point why. "Again, you are mistaken. They came with an offer. An offer is not the same as a promise or a gift. If I do something for them, they will do something for me. They are in peril and I will help them."

"That man, what does he want?" said the Green Grace. "Men only ever want one thing from women like you. Remember Qarth, your grace."

"Theon is incapable and Jon is celibate," Daenerys pointed out. "It's highly unlikely either of them will want that."

She liked that about Jon and Theon. While the latter was a bag of scattering nerves, the former was the opposite. Strong and stoic, and entirely devoid of the ulterior motive of talking her into bed. As much as she had liked Daario, she had always been aware that every word he spoke to her was carefully tailored to lure her between the sheets. Jon wasn't like that. Jon was different.

"But they do want what everyone else wants," said the Green Grace. "They want your dragons."

Daenerys hesitated, the answer froze on her lips. But she was able to gather herself in good time. "Again, there's a crucial difference: they want my dragons and they want me. They aren't trying to steal one, they're not using my children as symbols of status. There's a war to fight and only I can secure their victory."

To Daenerys' exasperation, the Green Grace still wasn't done. "The man's brother controls the North. The girl controls the region she calls the Vale. His sister-by-law controls the Reach. Together, they can amass great armies. They could conquer worlds, if they so desired. But only you and your dragons can vanquish their enemies? I find that hard to believe."

Daenerys faltered again. Viserys told her all the numbers each region could muster. The Reach could muster forty-five thousand in a month and more given time. The Vale came out around forty thousand. The North also commanded vast numbers. Taking the Riverlands into account, they could amass well over one hundred thousand. What did they need her for so badly that they came all this way with promises to bend the knee in return?

At the time, she had been blinded by the offer and swept up in the moment. She hadn't asked for details and now the shadows of doubts crept up around her. A cold and creeping suspicion that had her seeking out her guests shortly after noon.

She found Jon and Sansa in the gardens below her chambers, dining together under a canopy. They didn't notice her, at first, and she found herself watching them as they talked quietly to each other. She could not hear what was being said and she had no particular desire to eavesdrop. She just watched as they seemed to encourage each other to sample the local fare they had been offered. They were attentive of each other. Jon spoke gently to Sansa and Sansa softly prodded her more conservative sibling to try new things. Often, she had noted the dynamics between them and wondered why it stirred some lost sense of longing in her heart.

It was there, that day and at that moment, she realised what it was. Jon was everything Viserys was not. Looking at the two of them was like reaching into her childish imagination when she tried to imagine how things should have been for herself and her own brother. The Starks had lost everything, just as the Targaryens had. But their filial bonds and mutual affection united them, where Viserys had become embittered and enraged. That could have been them, sitting under the canopy while she cajoled Viserys into eating a whole honeyed finger. It made her feel sad to think of all they could have shared.

Although reluctant to break up the tea party, she stepped out into the afternoon light. "Pardon me, I wondered if the Lord Commander and I might speak."

Jon hastily moved aside to make room for her, but Sansa rose and brushed down the front of her skirts.

"You don't have to go," Dany assured her.

"I should," she insisted. "I said I'd help Tyrion with something."

Whatever the mysterious 'something' was, she did not say. After bidding them a good afternoon and complimenting Dany's new gown, Sansa left them to it. Without further ado, Dany took her recently vacated spot beneath the canopy. For a moment, they both looked at each other, each waiting for the other to break the silence. Unaccustomed to it, Dany went first.

"There are a few things, really," she said, leaning back against the cushions. "First is Dark Sister. I cannot thank you enough for returning it to my House." He went to wave her gratitude away, but Daenerys persisted before he could properly interrupt her: "But I don't know the first thing about wielding a sword. When I fight, I'll be on the back of a dragon and a sword's no good to anybody hundreds of feet in the air. So, for now, I thought you might like to keep it. Until we get to Westeros, I mean."

Jon smiled a rare smile and nudged the abandoned plate of honeyed fingers aside. "Thank you, your grace. I'd appreciate that."

"Second," she continued. "Is this war. My closest advisor mentioned something to me that doesn't make sense: between you, King Robb and his Queen and Sansa, you command an army of over a hundred thousand. What enemy is so great it cannot be conquered by that force alone?" She faltered as Jon's expression clouded over, his gaze averted. Nor did she know what to read into that look. "In short, why do you need me to do it?"

"Men alone cannot defeat our enemy," he answered after a long pause. "Every man in Westeros could come up against them and they would only grow stronger. In all your years together, did your brother not tell you about the Others and the Long Night?"

"He told me about the Night's Watch and the Wildlings," she said, the colour rising in her face as she realised her ignorance of the rest. "But … others?"

Jon reached for the plate of honeyed fingers and nudged them toward her. "You may as well," he said. "It's a long story."

The last time Robb entered the crypts of Winterfell was in a dream. It was after the Red Wedding, when he'd been running for his life and was overtaken by fever. In that dream, the crypts had looked as they always looked: dark and ancient, heavy with the long-forgotten past. In reality, it wouldn't have surprised him to find that the Boltons had destroyed the ancient tombs and finding them intact, untouched, came as an immense relief.

Dressed in black, Margaery accompanied him with Cregan squirming in her arms. But even he fell still and silent as they made their way past ancient monuments to long dead kings. Newly reinstated as Winterfell's Master of Horse, Harwin was leading the way with an oil lamp held above his head. The rays of its light only just reaching the end of the passage, where Eddard Stark's casket now sat waiting by his open tomb.

As a child, Robb thought it strange that his father had his grave already prepared. He grew older, accepting that it was just an extension of his father's naturally solemn disposition. Now, as an adult who had survived one war and was already facing another, he understood entirely. Life may have felt endless at Cregan's age, but it was fragile. Proof of that lay all around him, in the effigy of his aunt, dead at sixteen. His uncle Brandon, dead at nineteen. Even his father was gone long before his time.

"Are you alright?"

Margaery's whispered enquiry drew him from his musings.

He took Cregan from her arms and lay the baby against his shoulder. "Fine."

They had no Maester yet, but Lord Manderly had brought his own. It was he who presided over the small gathering that had come to pay their final respects to the late Lord of Winterfell. Meanwhile, Manderly himself, Lords Glover, Umber and Flint all congregated around Robb and pretended the disagreement of the day before hadn't happened. Arya held Rickon by the hand as they moved to the front of the gathered crowd. As always, his sister's expression was impossible to read. Stony and silent, she wore her solemn Stark face.

"He was a fine man, your father," said Lord Glover, patting him on the back. "We'll not see his likes again."

Robb found himself nodding and agreeing. "He was, my lord."

"Never a man more honourable," someone else stated. "None of this messing around, bending with every wind. A straight up honest Lord. You don't get many of those."

"Yes, that's true," Robb agreed again, his voice toneless as he studied the casket.

All these graveside eulogies made Eddard Stark sound so simple, so completely devoid of any form of complexity. But that wasn't true and Robb turned to look at the faces around him. From his brother and sister to the lords and their servants. None of them knew his father, not really. In a few years, Rickon would barely remember him, if he even remembered him still at that moment. He found himself desperate to tell them of what his father had done, the risks he had taken to protect an orphan in need. But the words would not come.

He had been shocked and angry when he first found out and he dreaded to think how Arya would react. But a deeper level of understanding had been another gift of parenthood. The lengths a man would go to, to protect his family. He felt he should have known it all along. And as the bones of his father were pushed into their final resting place, all Robb could think of was how unfair it was that Lord Stark would never know the grandson he would have loved and protected with his life.

There was no real service to speak of, only lifelong friends paying their last respects. Even so, Margaery pressed a flower into Cregan's hand and Robb helped him to lay it on the casket before the tomb was sealed. Then, when it was done, it felt complete. Like a chapter had been closed off, everything was back in its place. Everything was as it should be.

Except it wasn't. Not in reality. Outside, back in the yards, the snowfalls had started again and the truce between the lords in honour of their fallen overlord came to an end. Their voices rose and the talk returned to the lands beyond the wall. Robb handed the baby back to Margaery before seeking out Lyanna Mormont. It felt foolish seeking out a nine-year-old, but she spoke and her house listened.

"My Lady," he greeted her, steering her toward the empty armoury. "The previous Lord Commander was your kinsman, a man respected by those who served him both in the Watch and on Bear Island. When he spoke of the dead rising and attacking the living, do you think he was making it up for attention?"

"Of course not," she replied, defensively. "But nor do I think we should go running blind into danger, your grace. Nor do I think we should surrender our hard-won sovereignty before we even know the extent of that danger."

"That's not what we're doing," Margaery interjected. "As his grace explained, we swear fealty to Daenerys if, and only if, our enemies beyond the wall are defeated first. And only if she helps us. If she does not, she's on her own."

"And so are we," said Robb, quietly.

A few of the others drifted toward them, bearing flagons of warmed wine. Their newly recruited nursemaid showed up to take Cregan back to his cradle before he got too cold. Robb still relived the moment of his birth repeatedly in his head. The moment the infant dropped from his mother's womb half a heartbeat after she crossed the castle's threshold. It made him smile to remember the looks on the faces of the grizzled northerners.

In the meantime, their dispute was made more bearable by the warm wine now being distributed. The passing of the last day and a little wine to sooth the tempter always helped things run a little more smoothly. All the same, the disagreement was still there and simmering below the surface.

"Might I have a word, your grace?"

Robb looked up from the cup cradled in his hands to find Ser Davos Seaworth approaching from the armoury. After returning Rickon from Skagos, he had been granted lodgings and board inside Winterfell until he knew what he would be doing next. Having stayed by Stannis' side until the bitter end, he was hardly likely to be welcomed back into the southern realm with open arms.

"Ah, Ser Davos, be welcome," Manderly moved aside to make room for him.

Robb rather liked the man, to his faint surprise. "Speak freely, ser."

"As you all know, Stannis was my king," he began hesitantly. "I mean no disrespect to you, your grace. Anyway, what I mean to say is, we came North as Mance Rayder amassed his forces to attack the wall. We thought it was just another wildling attack, until we learned of what it was the wildlings were fleeing from, why they were so desperate to get south of the wall, my lords. Your King speaks truly."

"I don't doubt our king speaks truly, ser Davos," Glover replied.

"I had already mentioned to his grace that that is not the issue," Lyanna pointed out.

"We're Northerners, no one knows this land like us," said Greatjon. "There's nothing in this land that can't be defeated by us- "

"But that's just it," Robb interjected. He tried to stay calm but his patience was wearing thin. "We can stand here beating our chests about how no one understands us and no one will ever know our land as we do. Perhaps you're right. But the truth is, we don't know what's out there. We don't know what's coming our way and it's almost on our fucking doorstep, my lords. You don't seem to realise: we're facing a threat that hasn't been seen in thousands of years. So, we don't know. We don't understand. We need help and we need to be doing something.

What are we doing right now? We're standing on our pride and indulging in empty posturing while an army of dead men assault our northern territories, and all you can do is argue about Daenerys Targaryen. I told you the truth. I could have lied about my plans and deceived you all. But I respect you all too much for that, my lords. You don't deserve that after all you've done for House Stark. Nor do you deserve to die in your castles while the North burns."

Finally, it seemed like they were listening. No one cut in, no one rushed to shout him down. All he got in return was stony silence as they took it all in.

"My brother, Ser Garlan, will be leading a force of men north to Castle Black," said Margaery. "We're not pretending we know this land at all. We don't. We've never been here before in our lives. We're not claiming to do things better than our northern Lords. On the contrary, we're trying to learn and we're trying to adapt. We want to help and we need your help in return."

"And I'll be setting out as well," said Robb. "My son, sister and brother will remain in Winterfell. Queen Margaery will be acting in my stead. After everything that's happened between our Houses, I won't ask you to join me, or even provide any men. But I would like to think I have your support, at the very least."

He had said his piece and if they were still arguing among themselves, he was tempted to leave them to it. They'll still be squabbling and posturing as the Great Other unleashed his undead minions on their holdfasts. It would make little difference to Robb if things got that bad. However, he had a feeling throwing down the gauntlet might just spur them into picking it up. To his intense relief, Greatjon made the first move.

"The Last Hearth is as its name suggests," he said, gravely. "Anything gets past that wall and we'll be the first to suffer. Moreover, House Umber stands with House Stark. Always. I'm coming too and I'll raise as good a force as I can."

"I can provide one hundred fighting men," said Lyanna. "All the ones who survived the battle at the White Knife."

Alys Karstark, who supported him anyway, was the next to pledge her forces and castle. Fat Walda had already pledged what was left of Roose's men and most were already on their way to the wall as they spoke. But when Glover, Flint and Cerwyn relented and fell into line, Robb finally breathed easily. The issue of Northern independence could wait; winter's savage onslaught would not.

Sunset came earlier that day. By mid-afternoon, the sun was sinking over the western hills and the shadows lengthened in its wake. In the godswood, it was already dark. All around Robb, the limbs of every tree were ripe with icicles and leaden with snow. This was the winter his father had always warned him about. Most house words were a boast, but House Stark's were a warning. Winter was coming and now it was baying at their backdoor and no one saw it coming. Not even him. He remembered Gared, the watchman executed before King Robert came to visit and he realised then that, perhaps, even his father had ignored the warning signs of approaching trouble.

He reached the heart tree, with its long solemn face and sap-weeping eyes. The still surface of the pool reflected darkly the overhanging branches. Set away from the main castle grounds, surrounded by three acres of woodland, it was obvious why his father had loved this place so much. It was quiet, peaceful. A place where one could clear their head without abandoning the castle as a whole. A still sanctuary at the heart of the fortress and another part of his home he was immensely relieved to see the Boltons had left untouched. Not even they were completely godless.

Sitting in the same spot his father so often occupied, he found himself alone with his thoughts at last. Cregan was days old and already he, Robb, was leaving for more war. Margaery didn't even know her way around the castle, but she was being left in charge to sink or swim. He had no desire to go, no desire to see more men die. But the gods had taken his choices from him and left him with just one course of action. All the same, he saw no harm in making one last appeal to those same gods to go easy on them.

There were no prayers for followers of the Old Gods. No special words or songs of praise. Only silent meditation in the darkest heart of the sacred woods. Could they even hear him? It seemed impossible, but it was all he had. He leaned back against the smooth white bark, closing his eyes as a startled raven took flight from the uppermost branches. He could not guess what scared it so, but the wind soon sighed through the trees and he thought he heard his name being called. He thought it sounded like Bran.

Startled himself, his eyes shot open and he sat upright again. The raven looked right at him, unafraid and untroubled. When it squawked at him, it sounded like it was saying 'corn.'

"I thought I might find you here."

Arya gave him a jolt, but quite unintentionally. She emerged from the darkness of the pathway before circling the spring to join him before the heart tree. All the while, Robb watched the raven hopping into the darkness of the trees. He thought it might be a messenger raven, blown off course or simply trying to find Winterfell, but there were no ties on its legs that he could see.

"I wish you weren't leaving," she said, settling beside him.

Robb smiled ruefully. "So do I."

He hoped she wasn't going to try and talk him out of it.

"You're a father now," she continued. "You have to stay safe for Cregan, not just the North."

"He has his aunt," he said, optimistically. "And his mother. And his uncles."

"That's not the same. Look at Rickon, growing up without our father. At least we knew him, but Rickon didn't. Don't leave Cregan the same way."

"I'll try not to," he assured her. "But listen, Arya, if something does happen to me, there's a letter in my solar that I need you to give to Jon."

He hadn't written it yet, but he was going to. A full explanation of his parents and the circumstances surrounding his birth as best as Robb could remember it. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than dying and taking the truth to the grave with him.

Arya was frowning, biting her lower lip. "For Jon?"

"King!" Both of them gasped as the raven flapped back into the clearing. "King! King!"

"Is that thing talking?" asked Arya, glaring at the bird.

Robb scooped up a handful of snow and chucked it in the bird's direction. It didn't budge and he soon lost interest in it again. "Just remember what I told you. A letter for Jon in the solar, in the bureau drawer. It's important that only Jon sees it."

Arya nodded and, by now, knew better than to ask questions. Together, they got up and prepared to leave, only for their new friend to come flying after them. The raven diverted, coming to land near a thicket of newly blossoming winter roses. Their royal blue petals opened to the snow, filling the air with sweetness. He regarded them for a moment, appreciating the small show of beauty still thriving amidst winter's smothering pall.

"Who says roses don't belong in the North," he said, approaching the rosebushes. They made him think of Margaery.

"You must think I've lost my wits." As he spoke, Jon looked across the table at Daenerys. If she felt any such sentiment, she did not show it. "But everything I've told you is the truth – however much I wish it wasn't so."

"I don't think you've lost your wits," she assured him. "I think you're very brave."

He suppressed a modest laugh, briefly dropping his gaze. Although they had started their discussions that afternoon, it gone on even longer than he thought it would and they'd relocated to the Queen's private chambers. Now they were there, several hours on, with a single candle sat between them and burning low already. Through it all, she listened patiently and rarely interrupted.

Help had come from an unexpected quarter when Tyrion appeared, confirming Jon's story about sending Alliser Thorne to King's Landing with the still animated arm of a wight. Even Sansa remembered it, but Tyrion had been unable to do anything since it was so close to the Battle of Blackwater Bay. While the five kings wrangled over an iron chair, the real threat migrated ever southwards.

"My predecessor and I wrote to every lord of Westeros," Jon said. "Not one of them replied. Not one was willing to listen until I came beating on their doors. So, I thank you for taking time to listen to me today."

"No," she replied. "I thank you for coming to me, for making me aware of what's happening in the north. Lord Commander, I mean to be a Queen worthy of the title. I mean to earn the respect of those I would rule."

From White Harbour to Slaver's Bay, Jon had spent a good chunk of that time wondering what he would make of Daenerys. He worried, even more, over what she would make of them. Their families had been enemies, after all. But all around him slaves walked free, an army of gelded abductees had been gifted the semblance of a life. Human trade had been made illegal and the human bearpits shut down. And it was all down to her.

She was shorter than he, skinny and looked barely older than Sansa. She presided over a court of exiles and misfits all looking for a way back home and she did so seemingly without judgement. It seemed ideal, almost idyllic. To the point where he worried she may not want to leave after all. However, under the surface, that yearning was in her. She was a woman raised in the knowledge she had lost something that was hers by right. A seething injustice that had spurred her on to where she was now.

"The Westerosi will have their misgivings about you," he said. "More so your dragons. They will be afraid you come looking for revenge. You won't, will you? You won't use turn those dragons on innocent people?"

"Of course I won't," she replied. A frown marred her brow, casting a shadow over her lilac eyes but she soon relaxed again and reached across the table to take his hand in her own. "Let us strike another bargain, Lord Commander. That together, we'll bury the past and work together to make some other future. Maybe one that's even better."

Her hand was small in his own, her skin pale but strangely rough skinned. Maybe it was handling the dragons, whose scales were hot. Maybe it was because she wasn't afraid of getting them dirty. Whatever the reason, he couldn't help but trust her all the more for it. He met her gaze and nodded.

"Agreed," he said.

At that, she rose to her feet but motioned for him to remain in place. After just a few steps, she was beyond the reach of the pale candlelight and he could not see what she was doing. But when she returned, she had Dark Sister in her hands. He'd almost forgotten her suggestion of returning it to him.

"Take it," she urged him, taking his hand once more in her own. She pressed the sword into his palm. "Use it well."

He looked from the sword to Daenerys and smile. "I will."

To pass the time during the search for a viable regency, Jon helped Ser Barristan with the Unsullied patrols. Ignorant of the problems Meereen had faced since the fall of the slaver's empire, he was of limited use. All the same, he knew how to fight and did what he could in the campaign to restore order to the seething city streets. Every so often he would look up at the great pyramids that dominated the city's skyline and see one of the dragons climbing up its side. It was the strangest sight he ever did see, armies of dead men notwithstanding.

Drogon kept his distance, only ever approaching his 'mother' if he made contact at all. However, his brother, Rhaegal, seemed friendlier. It was as Jon was making his way back to the great pyramid after a night patrol that Rhaegal seemed to be following him from on high. He landed in the gardens, blocking Jon's path to the main entrance. It was nightfall, with few people out and about. Despite his nerves, he touched the dragon's snout fearing he was about to be burned to a crisp. The moment lasted for half a heartbeat, but the great beast purred like a cat before soaring back into the night sky as though nothing had happened.

Giddy with relief, Jon was free to resume his journey homewards. Through the gates guarded by the Unsullied, along an overgrown path into the Queen's private gardens and out onto the more manicured lawns lined with sharp-scented fruit trees. It was as he emerged from between two persimmon trees that he saw her up on the balcony. Dressed in a loose gown of muslin and silk, she looked like she might have been getting ready for bed. Her silver hair was loose about her shoulders, neatly brushed out but in no way styled.

Daenerys was leaning against the pale stone balustrade, her cheek resting against her palm as she looked out over the night sky. Jon pulled up sharply in his tracks, unaware of how intently he looked up at her. In all the occasions he had taken to summarise her in his head, thinking of the right words to send back home, he had been acutely aware of, but never openly acknowledging, just one sentiment. And that was just how incredibly beautiful she was.

She continued to watch the stars, unaware of his presence below her balcony.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Once again, I am sorry for the long delay in updating this story. Last week was pretty awful and I still feel as if this chapter wasn't all it could have been. But I don't want to keep people waiting any longer. And, in the meantime, I'm back on track for regular weekly updates. Thank you again and have a lovely Easter.