Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Especially thank you to those who took the time to review. Thanks!
Also, apologies for the long over-due update but I've been away on holiday. And yes, I have radically altered the time line purely for dramatic effect. Apologies for that. Because I've skipped Catelyn arresting Tyrion, the Starks are still based at Winterfell.
Chapter Ten: Hatched, Matched Dispatched.
Only now could Robb fully appreciate the weight that had lain across his father's shoulders for all these years. Only now could he see what it was to be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Now that the safety net of his father had been whipped out from under him and the decisions that shaped the lives of his vassals was in his hands, and his hands alone. Day after day, he watched Stark bannermen flocking into Winterfell. The Mormonts' of Bear Island, as always, were among the first to arrive and swear to him. Close behind them came the Glovers of Deepwood Motte and the Manderlys' of White Harbour. Then came the remains of Barbrey Dustin's household from Barrowton and House Flint.
They all came to him, looking for leadership and guidance. In the full glare of their attention, he felt as though he were losing his tongue and he knew not where to turn. Not even his mother had made it back from the Riverlands and he had not heard from Jon in weeks. He felt more alone than ever, with just Theon Greyjoy and Maester Luwin to provide counsel. Meanwhile, as he fretted and prevaricated, his father languished in a Black Cell deep beneath the Red Keep.
"Why can we not just march now?" he demanded to know. "Surely you can see we're wasting time we do not have!"
It was an afternoon ensconced with Luwin and Theon in the Solar. Their Great Hall and every spare turret they had was now given over to housing the bannermen and their hosts. The solar was their sole remaining private space. Despite the frustration Robb could no longer hide, Luwin remained inscrutably calm.
"Patience, my lord," he replied. "We must gather all your bannermen before making a decision."
But this inactivity taxed Robb's patience unbearably. In desperation, he looked to Theon in expectation of support. However, even the Ironborn held back and almost shrank from his glare. He still smirked, though.
"Maester Luwin has the right of it," he eventually said. "And who do you declare for now that Renly has entered the fray?"
"You must seek the council of your sworn lords before making such a decision," Luwin reminded him.
Out voiced and out voted, Robb had to back down. Almost beyond caring who they supported, all he wanted to do was march down south and lay siege to King's Landing until his father was returned to him alive and well. But it was not that simple. Nothing ever was and it made him feel like a lost child, searching for the security that only a father's guiding hand could bring. Worst of all, there was not a soul in that castle who he could admit that to.
"I just wish mother and Jon were here," he said, about as honest as he wanted to be with regards to his finer feelings. "I need them with me."
Theon's hand landing on his elbow, gripping it gently as he was led to a discreet window embrasure. Outside, Robb could see that darkness was falling over the castle grounds. Thousands of pinpricks of light twinkled from the lanterns of those gathering at Winterfell. If he looked upwards, he could see a red comet barely visible in the distant heavens. Such a strange sight, it fixed in his mind.
"There may come a point when you have to ride out without Jon," said Theon. "If he doesn't arrive with the Karstarks or Umbers, then we can't wait for him. We must proceed in his absence."
Even the thought of it made his stomach fold in disappointment. But all this talk of backing Renly or Stannis when they had a legitimate Targaryen under their roof seemed absurd to him. But it had to remain that way until Jon returned. Robb had to keep on reminding himself that this was Jon's secret to tell and he could not breathe a word of it to anyone until he returned. Now, it may be that he wouldn't return in time. It was one more burden of frustration; almost enough to make him curse Jon's decision to ride north in the first place.
"Jon is as important to me as every other sworn Lord," Robb stated, firmly. "I have no choice but to wait for him."
Theon sighed. "I will ride in his place and on his behalf, then."
"I need you both at my side, Theon," Robb retorted. "And I need you both to work together. But before that time, I must speak with Maester Luwin alone."
Theon's expression clouded with displeasure. Only briefly, but Robb paid it no heed. He returned to the solar while the Ironborn headed for the door. Luwin was still sitting with his back to the wall, the large chain around his neck brushing against his lap. He raised his head to look at Robb with the same expression of passive calm etched in his aging face.
As soon as Theon's footsteps had receded down the passageway outside, Robb spoke openly with his Maester.
"My father says Stannis is the rightful King and now Renly contests that," he began. "We both know there's someone with a much better claim than either of them."
"You must speak with Jon about that," Luwin replied, not missing a beat.
"I understand that. But what if he were to press his claim? We could do it. We could march south, free father and put Jon on the Iron Throne."
"It's not that easy, and it's not your decision," Luwin reminded him once more. "Now please, wait for the northmen to gather and the course-"
Luwin was cut off by a knocking at the door. Both of them startled, it was Luwin who reached for the handle and admitted the maid. The girl curtsied before addressing Robb.
"Lord Stark, Lord Umber and Lord Karstark have arrived and await an audience in the Great Hall."
Robb's heartbeat quickened. "Is my brother with him?"
The girl cast her eyes down. "I did not notice, my lord."
He thanked the girl hurriedly, before stepping around her and half running down the passageway. He did not stop until he reached the Great Hall, where the two Lords were already waiting. Both great bears of men, they seemed even larger in their damp furs and full shaggy beards. It seemed preposterous, even to himself, that these battle hardened Lords would be subordinate to him. But as he entered the room, they bent the knee without a second's hesitation. The sight made his heart skip a beat and he bid them rise without preamble.
"I found something on the road that I think belongs to you," said Greatjon Umber, jerking his head towards a damp and forlorn looking figure huddled by the fir.
Robb's face broke into a wide grin. "Jon!"
Now, all he had to do was pick his moment and reveal the real heir to the Iron Throne. It would be Jon they support and Jon they bent the knee to.
A single tear dripped off the tip of the girl's nose, splashing silently onto the face of her dead husband. One of her hand maids, she could not tell which, tried to coax her back away from the pyre. But she would not budge. Not yet. There was still time for one last goodbye, one last kiss he would not feel, before the spark was struck. She only lifted her head when the eggs, her most prized possessions, were nestled in the heart of the pyre. One under the braid of her beloved, one over his breast and one under his arm. She placed them there herself, arranging them as if they were delicate flowers.
"Khaleesi," said someone male. "I beg you…"
Daenerys turned to find Jorah Mormont pleading with her once more. Meanwhile, the witch was bound and tethered and her cries pierced the air. But she was deaf to them now. She only looked up at Jorah, noting the pain in his eyes of blue. As some concession to his anguish, she cupped his face with her hand.
"You do not understand," she said, but her words trailed off.
Darkness gathered and she looked into the sky. A comet of red was visible on the horizon now. A sign indeed. She took a torch from Aggo's hand and let the flames kiss the pyre. Slowly at first, the fires took and, before long, it blazed. She could hear the flames roaring, a deafening and searing wind howling all about her. The witch burned first, her voice an agonising scream. Then her beloved was engulfed. Then, it was her turn. She stepped into the flames, leaving behind the cries of the Khalasaar and her poor, bewildered Jorah. Into the flames, where the cracking of stone cut through the roar of the towering inferno around her. Daenerys let them lap around her, sweeping her up in a final dance as they burned away her clothes. But on and on she walked, into the heart of the blaze.
Unseen, Jon had slipped out of the Great Hall to go to the Godswood and meditate among the Old Gods. Something he had had precious little time to do since he heard of his father's arrest. Inside, it had been hot from the blazing fires and the sound of so many voices all raised at once had begun to grate on his nerves. He had been unable to hear himself think, never mind make out what it was everyone was trying to say.
Out in the yard, he circled the camps and let the cold night air revive him. But even when he reached the Godswood, he could still hear the muffled voices booming from within the Great Hall. They shouted for Renly and for Stannis; to march on the capital and bring their Lord and sisters home safe. Jon was all for that, but he knew now that Robb wanted him to declare his hand. The thought of it still made him feel sick.
As soon as he reached the pool at the heart of the Godswood, Jon lay down his sword and knelt at its edge. The moon was reflected perfectly on the surface, with not so much as a breath of wind to ripple the scene. Quieter, calmer, Jon could finally think. It seemed that everything was changing with the devastating speed and a destructive whirlwind. He was grappling to get back in control of his own destiny, preventing others from making all his decisions for him. It made him angry that even Robb seemed to be doing it. His father had risked his life to keep his secrets and now his brother wanted to shout them from the rooftops.
"It's my decision!" he said out loud.
There was no one around, so he got no reply. Instead of tying himself in knots again, he unsheathed Dark Sister. He had not had a chance to show Robb yet, he had been too preoccupied by the council of the northern lords happening in the Great Hall. The sword was still unusable. It had bits of old root and dirt caked in at the edges. Foliage that seemed to have sunk within the steel itself, as though imbued with weirwood, coated its surface and made it blunt and about as much use on a battlefield as a toothpick. He looked down at the blade dejectedly, wondering what to do with it. Every night, since leaving Castle Black, he had tried to clean and sharpen it. Nothing had worked.
"Jon!"
A woman's voice filled his head, causing him to look up sharply. All around him was in darkness, relieved only by the light of the moon. If he looked directly overhead, he could just see the faint red tail of a mysterious looking comet. But when he glanced back to the pool, he could see her just below the surface. Her silver hair was fanning on the undercurrent, her mismatched eyes closed. But her skin shone like silver, making its own light as she remained perfectly still in the depths of the pool.
"Shiera Seastar," he said, lurching closer to the edge of the pool. "Shiera!"
She opened her blue eye which promptly met his, then darted deeper into the freezing waters in a pooling swell of ivory lace skirts. Without even thinking, Jon stripped off and gripped Dark Sister, before diving in after her.
The argument was still ongoing. Robb's gaze darted from side to the other as each of the lords proposed what to do next. All voices then raised in unison, angry that their liege lord was once more on the brink of being murdered by a bastard king on a whim. The way they talked set Robb's teeth on edge; it was as though his father was already dead. Before too long, he had had enough and got to his feet. He had to shout at the top of his voice to make himself heard over the other lords.
"My Lords!" he called out, banging an empty tankard on the table to help matters. "My lords, listen. Cersei Lannister holds my father in a dungeon. Are we to sit here and argue over whether we support this King or that King while my father, your true Lord, rots in a cell? I beseech you, we must act now! The time for talk is over."
Having finally made his point, Robb glanced to his right hand side to see what Jon made of it. Only, he wasn't there anymore. He only saw his mother and great-uncle smiling back at him from the side of the Hall. More than anything he yearned to dash across the room and throw his arms around her. But now, more than ever, he needed to be the High Lord he was born to be. He raised one gauntleted hand and waved, beaming brightly at Lady Stark.
Naked and cold to the core, Jon felt himself plunge through the deceptively deep pool. He gripped Dark Sister's pommel, pushing it through the waters as he sank deeper. But Shiera had gone and there was no sign of her anywhere. No light reached him below the surface and he was as good as blind anyway. But still he let himself become fully immersed in the water of the sacred pool.
Just like the Godswood beyond the Wall, the weirwood of Winterfell's had roots that grew deep. Jon could feel them scratching at him as he explored the depths. Short of breath, he reached for one with his free hand, intending to haul himself back to the surface. But as soon as he wrapped his hand round the roots, images suddenly filled his head. He saw a man and a woman exchanging vows before a heart tree somewhere else in the Kingdom. Trying to blink the vision away, it was merely replaced with another: his father kneeling and running an oil cloth along the edge of Ice. Things he could not make sense of that only stopped when he released his old of the weirwood roots.
Swimming upwards again, he looked up to where Shiera watched him from the banks of the pool. Angry and confused, he broke the surface intending on having words with her. Only to find her vanished, like some cruel mirage. Gasping for air, he hauled himself back onto the banks of the pool, wrapping his cloak around his bare shoulders until he dried enough to get dressed again.
Then, he found the oil cloth his father always used for Ice. He had not noticed it before and now, it too was wet. He reached for Dark Sister, where he had dropped it by the side of the pool and raised it to the darkened skies. Moonlight shimmered along its flawless surface, all the roots and dirt now washed from its blade. Jon gasped, almost dropping it in shock. With the oil cloth, he wiped away what little remained. Even the patched of rust – or what he took for rust – were wiped clean. The blade was as good as new. Jon held it in his hands, gazing lovingly down the full length of the shimmering Valyrian Steel blade, reflecting the silver of the moon and the red of the strengthening comet.
The flames danced all night and Daenerys with them. Her hair and clothes were all burned away, but her skin was smooth and warm, completely unburnt. Only when she was exhausted did she lay down at the heart of the slowly fading flames. There, she watched over her hatchling dragons, babes birthed from stone amidst fire. She cradled them in her arms, her children lapped at the milk now leaking from her breasts and running down her stomach.
She had woken the dragons. She had given them life. She was their mother and her love for them was unconditional.
Despite the cries of a thousand voices, all Sansa could hear was a girl screaming at the top of her lungs. Screaming and screaming, endlessly as the horror unfolded. Only when the Hound stepped forward and tried to lead her away did she realise it was her screaming. She struggled against his grasp, trying to get to her father as he knelt before Ilyn Payne. Mirroring her father's posture, she fell to her own knees almost as if in supplication. Her screams still renting the air as Joffrey looked on with a smirk. She wanted to rip that smirk from his face and force down his bleeding throat.
All the while, Sandor held her by the arms, trying to lead her away. She wanted to kick out at him, to rush to her father's side and spit in the faces of the baying crowds. Even Cersei looked shocked as the King reinstated the death sentence. This was not supposed to be happening. Her father was supposed to be taking the black.
Ser Illyn raised the sword – the same one Lord Stark himself had been using – bringing it up in a silent, graceful swing. By now, she could feel her grip on consciousness slipping. Her legs had turned to water and she was still screaming herself hoarse.
"Little bird!" he implored. "Look away. Look. Away."
She ignored him and watched, as though transfixed, as the sword caught the light of the sun, swinging downwards again and taking her father's head. As his body hit the decks, a silent, comforting darkness swallowed her whole as if she had died with him.
Thanks again for reading; comments and feedback would be lovely, if you have a minute.
Again, apologies for the out of kilter sequence of events. I just wanted those three key scenes dovetailed together.