Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.

There's something I need to clear up here that I think has confused some people. There was never any question of Jaime being fully pardoned and just swanning back into his Kingsguard position. The dilemma Jon has is whether to execute Jaime or send him to the Wall (where he will be fully pardoned in return for taking the black). Sorry about that.

Anonymous: That was a very good suggestion, actually. I'm tempted to make Jaime fly.

Dragonfan: Welcome aboard and thank you for your lovely comments!

Chapter Forty-Four: Two Dragons are Better than One

Robb squinted at the letter in his hands, tilting his head back as though trying to keep the letters in focus. Sitting opposite him, Daenerys stifled her laughter and cleared her throat. Pretending not to notice, he carried on reading and read it again when done. It still made little sense to him, despite it being from his mother, written in her own hand and affixed with her own seal. When finished, he set it to one side and looked out of the window to where the sun was barely creeping over Visenya's Hill. Despite his almost comical reaction, what Catelyn had told him left him feeling more than a little discomfited.

"What is it?" Dany asked, turning serious.

Robb drew in a deep breath, marshalling all that information into a cohesive nutshell of a summary. "A woman arrived at Winterfell and warned my mother that another long night is coming. She also said the woman tried to have me killed by fattening leeches with King's blood and feeding them into a special fire. The only reason I didn't die, in her opinion, is because I'm …. What was his name again?" Robb broke off and looked at the letter, scanning the page for the relevant part. "Oh yes, because I'm Azor Ahai reborn."

Daenerys was almost dismissive. "You're a well-known person now, Robb. You will attract all sorts of weird and wonderful characters. Does your mother say who she is?"

"Melisandre of Asshai," he replied. "I've heard of her, actually. She was following Stannis Baratheon around for months. She's the reason he lost Blackwater. And, naturally, she thought he was Azor Ahai reborn too."

Dany raised her left eyebrow. An effortless gesture of disbelief. "Anyone who has studied at Asshai is not to be trusted. They're all mysticism and no substance."

Robb had heard of the place; he could even claim to have been intrigued by it. On every map of the known world, Asshai sprawled like a stain in far south east and its reputation went before it. A place so foreboding not even Viserys was mad enough to seek sanctuary there.

"But she mentioned the Others," Robb pointed out, quietly. "Sam talked about them too. A few months ago, I thought they were nothing more than a scary hearth story told by my old nursemaid. A few years ago Jon saw a wight with his own two eyes. There's been mass migrations of Wildlings heading south. Direwolves seen south of the wall for the first time in centuries."

As if to make the point for him, Grey Wind woke from his sleep on the rug, fixing Robb with his golden gaze. Dany glanced over at him, as well. She leaned down to scratch his ears before offering a little moderation.

"Sam told me, as well. Maybe there is something out there. If there is, we will find it and we will destroy it," she assured him. "It won't be long until Drogon is strong enough to carry my weight."

Robb's mood was still downturned. He steepled his fingers, before running his hands through his already dishevelled hair and sighed deeply. "But what if it is the long night come again?"

He could hear old Nan's voice, even now all these years later. 'Fear is for the long night,' she would tell her charges, her knitting needles click, click, clicking as she told her stories. 'When the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.' That was always Bran's favourite, but it had thrilled all of the Stark children back in the day. Sansa had had nightmares and they all laughed at her for it. Robb wasn't laughing any more.

"All this time Jon and I have lead armies south, when I now think we should have been going north," he added.

Daenerys was listening intently, twisting a ring around her finger as she did when anxious. "My great cog, Balerion, is docked in Blackwater. Pack up your men and set sail for White Harbour. At least then you will be back in the north."

Robb almost flushed at the unexpected generosity. "I couldn't- "

"I insist," she cut over him. "I need to remain here, until this Aegon business is dealt with. Once it is done, I will follow you on-board Meraxes and join you at Winterfell. We will advance North together. My Unsullied will garrison Dragonstone in my absence."

Robb nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Well, it looks like it's time to go home."

He had a realm of his own to run now, he had to remind himself, and he knew he had tarried too long in King's Landing. As he lapsed into a contemplative silence, he rose and walked to the bay window. Outside, it had grown dark already. Winter was casting its smothering pall over the realm and soon the North would become largely inaccessible. He had to go now. He had to say goodbye to Jon.

He did not hear Dany treading softly behind him. But he felt her arms snaking around his hips, pulling him into a hug before her lips pressed into the back of his neck. The kiss was a sweet thing, that made him close his eyes and smile as he savoured it.

"You will see Jon again," she promised him. "Maybe sooner than you think."

"I will only see Jon again soon if there is to be a war," he explained. It was a thought that saddened him more than he could say.

"Well, after tomorrow night at any rate," she added, turning him around to face her. "At least you have that to look forward to before you part company."

The summons had come that morning. Jon wanted him and Dany attending on him in his private audience chamber, with Grey Wind and Drogon as plus ones. They would make an odd company, but he rather looked forward to it all the same. It felt strange getting a summons from his own brother. But, now that Jon was king, it would be that always, he supposed.

Margaery was standing by the windows when Jon entered the solar of her private apartments. Olenna was reading by the fire, Megga was fussing over flower arrangements in the connecting passageway and Lord Mace was at the table, going through the books with his chain of office hung over the back of his chair. He was the first to notice Jon entering, inclining his head as a mark of deference. Jon raised a smile and a cheery enough greeting as he crossed the solar to hug his wife. Only Roslin Frey attended Margaery in person. At that moment, however, even she was sitting in the window embrasure with some needlework. She held it up for Jon to see.

"A bonnet for the Prince, your grace," she said. Like everyone else, she spoke as if there was no question of his firstborn being a girl.

Jon was absurdly touched by the gesture. "Thank you, Lady Roslin."

She flushed red in the face at the compliment and returned to her work in silence.

Margaery's smile was sweet as she turned to face him, kissing his cheek. She was so stout with child now that he had to lean over her swollen belly to hug her back. There was no longer any bodice on her gowns and they had been replaced with a cotton belt like garment that supported the baby's weight while bringing relief to Margaery's sore back. An ingenious device that had been a gift from Tyrion Lannister.

"Shall we walk?" she asked, nodding toward the terrace door.

"Of course," he replied.

That question was also their code for privacy, so their attendants were left behind as they made their way out into the chilly night air. Despite the darkness, it was only late afternoon. Braziers had been lit in the streets below, with oil lanterns hanging from the doorways of more affluent areas. Jon could see them spread out, dotting the darkness like so many fireflies hovering in a sea of black. Like the stars had fallen to earth. It would be beautiful had it not been so ominous.

"Do you remember the last winter?" Margaery asked, once they were well out of earshot.

"There was one when I was little, but I barely remember it," he answered, truthfully. "What about you?"

"Vaguely, but I don't remember it being like this," she explained. "The sun sets earlier each day, and rises even later the next. We did not have full daylight today until noon, then it began setting five hours later."

"The North will be worse," he remarked, coming to a rest at the edge of a balcony. Had it been daylight, they would have had a fine view of the Queen's private gardens below them and the Maidenvault across the way. "They'll be having a few hours of daylight at most."

The shortages would begin again soon. They would have to ration bread, and ration grain that made the bread. Luckily, the Reach had pulled in one final harvest just before the war for the capital and was currently sending large cartloads of food directly to them. It could just be the difference between life and death for many of their poorest citizens. Even so, Jon knew many would die regardless.

"Your father and grandmother ought to return to the Reach," he said. "The climate should be kinder down there."

Margaery nodded, although she had desperately wanted Lady Olenna in the capital for the baby's birth. "Something's coming, Jon," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. "We both know it."

The empty reassurances were on the tip of his tongue. It would be easy to lie; to tell her it was all in her head. But he was of the North and had lived every day with the threat of winter's terror. Instead of tripping out false promises, he wrapped his arms around her again and held her close.

"Whatever is happening, the Umbers will know about it first," he said. "Greatjon Umber left for the north months ago; might even be there by now. Robb will soon be leaving. Whatever happens, we'll be kept informed."

Through the layers of flesh and fabric that separated them, Jon could feel the baby moving. A flicker of life in the dead of winter. Even small rays of hope were worth clinging to. Before parting, they kissed each other deeply and lingeringly. It was rare they had time together, making these hastily snatched moments all the more precious to them. Then, all too soon, it was over. They separated and began strolling the length of the terrace.

"So, what about Jaime Lannister?" she asked, reaching for his hand.

"The choice is his. Lose his head or take the black," he replied, flatly. "For what it's worth, I hope he takes the black."

"Robb won't be happy," she pointed out. "He wants Lannister's head."

"I know," he sighed. He almost wanted Lannister to choose the sword to spare him the headaches. "But it's prudent, with winter well and truly here. Like we just said, something's coming out there and we need proper fighters there to greet it. Whether we like it or not, Jaime Lannister is among the best."

Margaery was thoughtful for a while, mulling it over. "All Aegon has is the Golden Company. Tyrion says not even the Dornish are rushing to his aid. What if we take a risk, a small risk, and send men north of the wall just to see what's happening and report back to us. Surely it's not just the Night's Watch who're allowed in the far north?"

"I'd do that in a trice, if it didn't split my forces," he conceded. "But what if Aegon invades from the south while a chunk of my army is in the far north."

There were ten thousand in the Golden Company alone, mounted on horses and elephants. All Aegon would need to do is win an alliance or two more and Jon knew he'd have a real problem on his hands. Agitated, he ran his hands through his hair and tried to appease the headache building at his temples.

"Here's another thing," he said. "Your father knew my father, didn't he?"

"Yes, quite well I think. They were of an age," she replied, looking up at him. "Why?"

Jon shrugged. "No reason. But can you make sure he attends me in my audience chamber tomorrow night."

"Of course," she replied. "He'd be happy to."

The look she gave him now, Jon knew she suspected there was a lot more going on than he was revealing. However, he remained tight-lipped. It could be something; it could be nothing. Whatever it was, he wasn't about to scare the wits out of her with it, not while her condition grew more delicate as her pregnancy progressed.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Jon laughed, as if making light of it. "It's nothing. Please, trust me, it's nothing."

"The more you tell me it's nothing, the more I think it's something," she retorted, brow arched in disbelief.

But the conversation was over, as far as he was concerned. "I'm sleeping in your bed tonight. Loras and Eddard are guarding us, with that other man from House Redwyne. I keep forgetting his name!"

"Very well," she replied, stiffly. "You don't have to tell me everything. You are the king."

"Marge, please. I'm not withholding deliberately. There's just something … someone … I need to check," he tried to explain.

Finally, she backed down. "I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to react like that. It's just … everything."

He understood. She was carrying an active baby the size of a foal, her back ached constantly, she was still vomiting at random intervals and she hadn't had a decent night's sleep since the moment of their babe's conception. He stopped her, kissing her forehead again and wrapped his arms around her upper body.

"It's because of all that that I don't want to add to it," he explained. "But honestly, all will be sorted soon. We'll kick Aegon back into the Summer Sea and we'll concentrate on whatever the winter brings. Now let's get back inside and eat."

But before he could move off, something large and solid fell from the skies and beat its vast wings so hard the slipstream blew a hanging basket off its wall bracket. Rhaegal's scales glinted in the pale light coming from the nearby windows of the castle, his yellow eyes reflective and glinting like a travesty of a cat. When he beat his huge wings it felt like a strong wind had picked up out of nowhere. Eventually, the dragon hopped up on to the rail of the terrace and curled the claws of his feet for balance. Jon froze as the dragon opened his maws and hissed a jet of fire into the chill night air. Mercifully, there was nothing nearby to catch fire.

"Gods!" he cursed the dragon. "How did you escape the dragon pit?"

Margaery's fear showed in her ragged breathing. He could hear it as she huddled into him, getting as close as she dared. "He is huge now, Jon. We can't risk him flying free."

He had already eaten someone's valuable destrier warhorse.

"I'll deal with it," he assured her. "Go on inside and I'll catch you up later."

There was a sally port nearby, that led down from the terraces and out into the courtyards below. He could go that way and not have to risk leading Rhaegal through the galleries of Court itself. As soon as Margaery was gone, Jon remained still for a long moment, looking straight back at the dragon. He had more than doubled in size since the first time Jon had met him. Drogon was thrice his size, with Viserion not close behind. They were all big lads now.

Cautiously, Jon reached out and touched the emerald and bronze scales at his neck. Smooth and hot, they were, with pure muscle rippling with every movement of that sinuous neck. A strange and not unpleasant sensation, now he came to think on it again. Quickly, he withdrew his hand and shot the beast an angry look. "Come on now, I'm taking you home." But then, another idea struck him. Two dragons were better than one.

At first glance, the Shy Maid hardly looked seaworthy. Plain and bearing only a single mast, her sail was a bare thing in the lateen style. Still, she had been nimble enough to navigate the treacherous seas around the Stepstones and now sailed smoothly up the mouth of the Greenblood River, where she was currently docking. Tyrion would never have believed there was a would-be Prince on board. But then, he assessed, that was probably the point. It's not as though they had been advertising Aegon's existence.

Sandwiched between Bronn and Ser Barristan, Tyrion stood by the dockside and watched as the motley crew of passengers traipsed down the gangplank and on to dry land. From the looks on their faces, more than one of them was relieved. At the heart of the procession, Tyrion spotted a blue-haired boy walking alongside a Septa.

"There's our man," he said, addressing both his companions. "That must be Septa Lemore … oh, and here comes our very own master of whispers."

Varys was the last off the boat. Dressed in fine silks that fell to the ground, his hands were hidden inside deeply dagged sleeves. Before he even got within ten feet of Tyrion, the soft sea breeze wafted over the smell of his sickly sweet perfume. Bronn and Barristan drew their swords as the Septa, the blue haired boy and Varys approached.

"So, we meet again Lord Varys," said Tyrion, once they were close enough. There were so few people at this port that he did not mind opening proceedings publicly.

The Eunuch, having fallen into step with the others, halted them all a foot away. "Indeed, my Lord of Lannisport. I must congratulate you on your good fortune."

Tyrion should have known their ruse of appearing to make Tommen Lord of Lannisport would not work. It had been too little, too late. Now the Eunuch would know full well he had come only to expose the boy as a pretender. Genuinely interested, he studied Aegon. Or whatever his real name was. Lemore, despite her Septa's robes, was a handsome woman with dark brown hair, but he could not make out the colour of her eyes. Only the wide and friendly shape of them.

"I was expecting one other," said Tyrion. "One Jon Connington."

"He is not here," Varys answered. "He finds himself indisposed."

"How unfortunate," Tyrion stated, not caring one way or the other. "When I told Jaime that Connington was with you, he said it was impossible. That Connington had drank himself to death in his grief over Prince Rhaegar. I must say, all these people rising from the dead is starting to make me nervous. I half-expect to find my dearly departed father waiting for me in my place at Casterly Rock."

Varys lifted the corner of his mouth into a wry smile. "We all pray that doesn't happen, my lord."

A moment passed before Varys made the introductions. Septa Lemore, Aegon, himself and the spirit of Jon Connington, if not the corporeal man himself. The other two people who had been with them were the ship's captain and his wife, of no importance to their discussions. While this was happening, Ser Barristan sheathed his sword again and kept his pale blue eyes focused on the Septa.

"And what have you to say, my lord?" Tyrion asked, turning his mismatched gaze onto the boy.

He was passing handsome and tall, just as Prince Rhaegar had been. But in so far as any greater resemblance, not having met the late Prince, Tyrion could not say. He hated to admit, but he looked far more 'Targaryen' than Jon did. Something that would count for a lot in the eyes of the ignorant. At a nod from Varys, he drew himself to full height and addressed Tyrion in a voice trained to be well-spoken.

"I am the eldest son and heir of the late Crown Prince, my lord. I mean to press my claim to the throne. I have been preparing for it all my life and I see no reason to back down now. Jon is younger than me, so why should I? My aunt is a woman; her claim comes only from my grandfather. The iron throne is mine by rights."

Tyrion pondered that for a moment, before answering. "Yes, I hear a lot about people's rights. But do you really think you have the right to plunge this realm back into a civil war that only ended three or four months ago? Do you think your future subjects will thank you for it? Do you think war weary lords and generals are going to come flocking to your aid?"

Aegon faltered, his posture stooping some as he stifled a reply. "But it's mine by rights; it's the right thing to do. The succession must be upheld."

"There's that word again," Tyrion retorted. "Rights- "

"My lords, my lords," Varys interjected. "Why all this talk of war? There will be no need for all that unpleasantness."

"Because you have this pretender bouncing around the Free Cities raising an army to invade our realm, Varys," Tyrion shot back. He then cut himself off, realising the stupidity of standing there arguing with a man he once, almost, counted as a friend. "Lord Varys, can we speak in private, just you and I?"

No one spoke then. They all stood, eyeballing each other from across a narrow space. The Septa was fixing on Ser Barristan, her lip trembling. Tyrion watched, becoming increasingly puzzled. He had to step aside and crane his neck to get Ser Barristan in his line of vision, but the old knight did not notice him down there. While he was trying to get Barristan in view, the knight stepped forward and tried to say something. The words cut off as the Septa turned and fled, back in the direction of the ship.

"I need to go after her," said Barristan, looking down at Tyrion apologetically.

Mystified, he nodded. "Of course." Ser Barristan said nothing as he took off after Lemore. Tyrion then turned to Bronn. "You look after our princeling here. It's time Varys and I talked."

"I think you're right," Varys answered.

Before long, the two of them were strolling the docks like two old friends. Farther down the quayside, ships from all over the known world were sailing in and out of port. Purple silk sails from Braavos, Tyroshi merchant vessels and others from Pentos and Lys. Tyrion had never seen so many. Whenever the fresh sea-breeze blew, it cut through the sickly perfume worn by Varys, making him relish it all the more.

"You once told me you serve the realm," he said, opening up their discussion. "That you work only for peace. So tell me, why are you doing this?"

"There will be no war," Varys assured him. "We could never hope to overwhelm Jon Stark's forces. He's proved himself a capable commander and he has the Tyrells. I'm not an idiot, my lord."

Tyrion was mystified once more. "So what then? You're just going to sail around on that shipwreck waiting to happen until Jon dies of old age?"

Varys positioned himself direction in Tyrion's path and stopped, looking down at him with that maddeningly sympathetic look on his broad face. "But if something should happen to His Grace. An unfortunate accident… anything can happen. Robert Baratheon knew that. Jon Stark probably knows it too."

A dagger in the night, Tyrion thought to himself, an unwary hunter whose arrow goes astray. A cold feeling of dread built in the pit of his stomach.

"You sent a little bird to Harrenhal, warning the King that he was about to be betrayed by the Boltons," Tyrion stated. "He doesn't know it came from you, but I've heard enough about them to know your little birds when I hear of them. Why did you do that?"

Varys shrugged, like it should have been obvious. "Because I do serve the realm, my lord. The Boltons in an alliance with the Lannisters would be a catastrophe, as indeed it was. From what I hear, men were flayed alive and left to rot on the battlements of the Red Keep."

"I saw them!" Tyrion retorted. "The Bastard of the Dreadfort threatened to do it to me. But if you were amassing forces for Aegon anyway, why did it matter what Bolton did?"

Varys sighed impatiently. "Because I didn't want people to suffer. If Jon Stark had acted on the warning, then it might even have proved him a capable King."

"He might have acted on it if it had reached him in time," Tyrion snapped back. "Varys, give up this poor boy you've duped and come home with us. It's not too late to make peace."

"Oh, but I think it is." With that, Varys began walking the other way. Tyrion watched his retreating back, wondering still what he hoped to achieve. The only thing that perplexed him more was the passing strange incident between Ser Barristan and the Septa.

Jon took his seat on the dais of his private audience chamber, surrounded by lengthening shadows and empty spaces. Ghost sat to attention at his side, while Rhaegal curled around the back of his chair. Behind him, in the flickering candlelight, his direwolf sigil looked half alive in the uneven light. Alone, for the time being, he opened a large, hardback book on his lap and double checked the names on the list once again.

Before long, Daenerys turned up hand in hand with Robb. Greeting his aunt with a kiss and Robb with a bear hug, he motioned for them to join him on the dais. Drogon struggled to squeeze through the double doors, now. He had to fold his wings tight against his body, then lurch through what space was left.

"What is all this?" Robb asked, curious.

Jon smiled wryly. "You'll see. Now sit and have some wine."

He reached for a bell pull at the edge of the dais and gave it a firm tug. Before too long, Gwynne appeared through the door. Faced with two wolves, two dragons and unexpected company, he gasped and tried to retreat, finding his exit blocked by Ser Loras Tyrell.

"Leaving so soon, Gwynne?" he asked.

Realising something was amiss, Robb drew his sword. Dany stood straight, positioning herself behind Jon with Drogon prowling around her.

"Forgive me, your grace, I-"

"Not all the guests have arrived yet," Jon pointed out, mildly. "We're still waiting for Lord Tyrell."

The Groom looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. His hand moved to something concealed inside the waistband of his breeches, but then he seemed to think better of it as Eddard Karstark stepped out of the shadows and blocked the main entrance.

"Lord Mace Tyrell has arrived, your grace," the Northman informed him.

"Your Grace, I really must protest-" Gwynne began. Again, he faltered as Grey Wind growled, low and ominous.

Mace Tyrell had to step around Eddard Karstark, then approached the dais from the side lines where he could get a good look at the Groom. Jon studied his reactions carefully, seeing if there was any trace of recognition there. The tension in the room was palpable, as Robb stood with Ice drawn and Dany gripped at Drogon's sharp spines. Rhaegal lifted his head and let a thin wisp of smoke curl from his nostrils, eyeing the trapped man hungrily. Even Ghost, silent as he always was, bared his teeth with his neck fur standing on end. All the while, Gwynne backed away as the tightness of the trap grew steadily worse.

"I know him, Your Grace," said Lord Tyrell. "I thought him dead. We all thought him dead. His real name is Jon Connington. Aerys exiled him after his defeat in battle."

Robb's features darkened as he frowned. "Who?"

But it was as Jon expected. He lifted his gaze, casually folding away the book he had earlier been scrutinising and look up at his brother.

"He works for Aegon," he explained.

"That's not true-"

"Varys told Tyrion and Tyrion told me," Jon cut over him.

He reached for the book again, a ledger containing the names of all previous Grooms in the employment of King Joffrey and King Robert. He hadn't found a single "Gwynne" among them. Tossing it over to Connington, he added:

"You came to me days after the coronation, when I was new enough to still be ignorant of who worked here and who didn't. I wondered why you gave me a backstory so easy to verify. I suppose you were only meant to take a day or two to open my throat while I slept and get back out again, making room on the iron throne for your puppet prince."

The newly revealed Connington began to simmer. "Have I harmed you? I have served you for months now, and not harmed a hair on your head."

Jon shrugged, but that was the other thing he had wondered about. "So why did you lie about who you are? Right from the off, you lied."

Before Connington could answer, Karstark and Loras were pinning him down. Pulling up the man's shirt, they found a dagger. Jon could see the steel blade glinting in the candlelight. Loras held it up for everyone in the room to see.

"He's been attending you with this the whole time," he declared. "He's been alone with you, in your privy chamber, this whole time and he's had this weapon-"

"Still I did not harm you!" Connington cried out, anguished now. "I have had opportunities beyond count, and yet you live."

"So why are you armed?" Mace cut in. Jon had never heard his genial, affable, father in law sound so angry. "No Groom of the King's Body is permitted to carry any weapon of any sort. You know that. Everyone knows that."

Jon motioned for Loras and Eddard to stand aside, so he could see Connington's face. He was weeping now, red in the face with tears glittering on his cheeks.

"I could never harm a son of Rhaegar," he protested, appealing directly to Mace. "You know why."

Mace seemed to shrink back to his normal size, exhaling audibly as he took up a place on the dais.

"We all pitied you, back in the day," he said, normally now. "We all knew how you really felt about Rhaegar and we pitied you for it. We were all also scared shitless of you, so we kept our pity to ourselves, of course."

Confused, Jon looked over at Mace, signifying it was time for an explanation.

"Love," the Lord said to him. "And I mean something more than brotherly, platonic love. Gods, you should have heard him back then. He was bold enough to actually come out and say that Princess Elia was not worthy of his beloved silver prince. So aye, we pitied the poor fool."

Robb suppressed a snigger, but Jon was almost moved to pity as he turned back towards the broken man who had loved his father. At least he had dried his tears now.

"I came here thinking you were a pretender," he explained. "So I …. I…."

He faltered, noticing how Rhaegal coiled himself around Jon's chair. Drogon remained stand offish, but was clearly at ease in the company of another Targaryen.

Jon gestured to both dragons. "My aunt hatched a third and they always said the dragon has three heads. What do you think would happen if we introduced your Aegon to Daenerys' Viserion?"

Doubt flickered across Connington's features then, clouding his pale blue eyes for just a moment. But it was Dany herself who ended the farce. She stepped forward, her expression stony and immoveable.

"Enough, Your Grace," she said, positioning herself in front of Connington. "Your puppet prince is exactly that: a puppet. Viserion would eat him whole and spit out his charred bones. End this farce and take this man to the cells, your grace."

Mace nodded his approval of the suggestion and Jon lifted his hand, signifying he was about to speak. "Take him to a secure chamber in Maegor's Holdfast. Out of respect for my late father, I will have no harm come to him. At least not until we have the full story."

"Very magnanimous, Your Grace. Much more than he deserves," Mace replied.

Connington protested loudly as he was dragged away, disarmed and humiliated. But Jon knew he was right: he'd had ample opportunity to kill him, and had not. He also may yet know the truth about Aegon. For that reason alone, he needed to keep the man sweet.

Meanwhile, Dany was looking around the chamber, stroking her dragon's neck. "I suppose this means we have to get our own wine, now."

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Thank you!