Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Especially those who reviewed. Thank you.

Thank you also for the baby name votes. Aemon and Daeron were pretty much neck and neck. Well, given that the other Aemon died a few chapters ago, it all fits rather well. Aemon it is. Thanks again, guys.

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Long Night.

"Remind me, my lord, why am I carrying your lantern again?" Bronn sounded disgruntled, but Tyrion knew he'd do as he asked anyway. The streets of King's Landing were pitch dark but for the odd specks of light permeating from the windows of people's houses. The beacons had been lit up on the castle walls and the market place had braziers burning a small distance from the stalls. Still it was only a matter of time before one of them caught fire and sent the whole lot up. Even so, it didn't seem enough to dispel this darkness. Despite the gleeful tolling of the bells, the people were subdued and huddled together in cold groups as they went about their business. He had known only two winters in his life and neither of them had been like this. Long nights, for sure. But this seemed to be permanent night.

Tyrion glanced up at his companion. "Because you're much taller than me, in case you hadn't noticed. You can cast the light farther. Like Lightbringer from the age of heroes, you're bravely leading the way through the streets of impermeable darkness. You should be proud."

"That's good to know," Bronn replied. "I just thought I was the lackey with the lantern."

"You lack imagination, old friend, that's always been your problem. Anyway, I have my hands full with the little Prince's present."

There was a steady stream of Westerosi nobility making their way to the Red Keep, all bearing gifts of varying degrees of extravagance. They weren't really for the baby, of course, they were to impress the King and Queen in hope of being named sponsors or given fat chunks of lands and titles in return. Those who fought on the wrong side of the recent wars had the best gifts of all, to show what true and loyal subjects they had become. Nothing was free, especially at the royal courts. Tyrion was currently dragging his own offering on a large wooden cart with rickety wheels. Every time it bumped over the cobbles, a shock of an ache ran up his arms. Worse, it made the gift itself wobble dangerously beneath its roughspun coverings.

"That's another thing," said Bronn, seemingly still in high dudgeon. "What's a new born going to do with a solid gold wine fountain? Do you think Queen Margaery's going to empty her teats into it- "?

"Don't be so vulgar," Tyrion mock-chided. "That'll be the wet nurse's job."

It was nothing compared to the live bear and an alligator gifted by House Umber and, he was relieved to see, a whole lot better than the fine gold salt and pepper shakers gifted by House Florent. As he followed the lantern still held aloft by Bronn, he even noted a brother of Night's Watch making his way to the castle with a wooden casket in his arms. His servant helped him with one hand, and held a lantern in the other. They never took an interest in the affairs of the realm, so whatever that was it was nought to do with the prince. Unless they made an exception for a Stark.

"What does he want?" he asked, squinting through the poor light.

"Who?" asked Bronn.

"Never mind," Tyrion sighed. "Come on, let's get there before all the good seats are taken."

They were trailing behind as he hauled the cart in person. Through the narrow streets beyond the castle walls, bumping the wheels over cobbles still slick from a recent rainfall. Tyrion had to watch his footing. They were nearing the hub of the market as they lapsed into silence and Tyrion was able to pick up what was being said. One voice, in particular, cut loud above the others and struggled to be heard among the tolling of the bells. He seemed to be addressing a throng of spectators who had all gathered around him.

"Raise the lantern," he commanded. "Who is that man?"

Realising something was amiss, Bronn did so. But Tyrion couldn't see over the press of people who had gathered around the orator. It was too dark and they were too tall.

"There's a fella standing on a wooden box," Bronn said, realising the problem. Tyrion looked up at him, trying to read the expression on his face. His eyes were squinting, his expression torn between disbelief and disgust. "He's wearing chains and there's a seven pointed star branded in his forehead. Make of that what you will."

Tyrion was askance, the Faith Militant hadn't been seen in aeons. "What?"

When Bronn didn't answer, Tyrion once more raised his senses to try and catch what was being said. Whatever it was, an uncomfortable squirming in the pit of his belly indicated the street orator certainly wasn't raising a celebratory toast to the new born prince.

"Ask yourselves this: what has really brought this darkness upon the land? Why have the Seven forsaken us?" the man's voice called out above his head. "Man is a carnal beast, full of lust and sin. We are full of the petty foibles and weaknesses the gods expect of a man. We test the limits of their mercy and fall upon our knees to pray forgiveness. They granted it, because they knew we still believed in them. So what has changed? I will tell you: you offended the seven by accepting this heretic king into your lives. You let him and his demonic, faceless gods of the northern savages take precedence over the love, light and mercy of the seven."

The preacher fell into a loaded silence filled by the occasional muttering of agreement and a smattering of applause. Although few in number, it was still far too many for Tyrion's liking. Now that the long night had fallen, the people would be the most vulnerable to fanatics and superstition like never before. This man would gain traction, others would follow and they would have problems on their hands.

Before long, the preacher picked up his sermon again. "And at the side of this heretic king, leading him farther down the path of barbarity, the very same demon monkey who led the boy king Joffrey astray- "

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Oh, this again." Bronn stifled a laugh.

But the preacher wasn't jesting and he certainly wasn't finished. "Do you think it was a coincidence that this endless night fell the same day the prince was born? Nay! The night fell as the whore Queen spread her legs and birthed this great shadow demon that smothers our cities, chills us to our bones and has cast the sun from the sky. But, brothers and sisters, the heretic king does not act alone. His kin has awoken the great beasts from stone and they lie in wait, their breath a rain of fire to pour down upon our great septs and upon us all, man and woman alike. This must be stopped!"

"I quite agree," Tyrion muttered, looking around for the Goldcloaks. "End this madness now."

Bronn took hold of the cart in one hand and kept hold of their lantern in the other, lugging it firmly toward the city walls. However, the Lord Commander was on his way down already, just as Tyrion was passing by, with plenty of back up. "You go on your way, my lord, we will see to this."

Jon drew back the silk coverings, revealing an intricately carved oak cradle. A snarling direwolf at the head faced a large Tyrell rose at the foot. The bars were decorated with carved climbing, twining vines and it was upholstered with a samite covered feather mattress. Hand painted in emerald and gold leaf, it was as colourful as it was beautiful. Even the nails that held the cradle together were silver gilt and velvet covered the rockers so it would be silent as the prince was rocked to sleep in it. It was hooded with fine pale white muslin, easily seen through but enough to keep insects away and shelter the infant from bad humours in the air.

It was more than a gift. It was an offering of peace. A symbol of an end to hostilities that his family had helped to create. After a long moment admiring the craftsmanship, Jon stood back and turned to the gift bearer. Prince Oberyn and his paramour had sailed from Dorne as soon as they heard the news of the baby's birth,

"Your grace," Jon addressed them both. "It's exquisite, thank you."

"More than that, it's breath taking," Margaery agreed. "Again, I cannot thank you enough. I know our son will love it."

She had him in her arms, but was soon lowering him inside. There was plenty of room for him to wriggle around and the Martells had included a woollen blanket to keep him warm.

"Really, it is a small token," Oberyn stated, approaching them on the dais. "Now that this regime change has been consolidated, I hope it is the beginning of new relations between Sunspear and King's Landing."

"Please, come and join us in our private chambers," Margaery suggested, gesturing toward the small door that led from the throne room to the King's apartments. "It's not far and it's much more private."

There were still many others gathered nearby. But most had already presented their gifts, pledged fealty to the King and sworn to honour the prince. It had been an exceptionally long few days and, despite that, Jon felt the whole occasion had lacked intimacy from the start. Although not uninvited, the Martells had been unexpected. So, now they were here, Jon was keen to talk.

"We would like that very much," Oberyn answered, taking Ellaria's arm in his own.

Servants appeared and picked up the cradle, baby still inside, and carried it through to Jon's privy chamber.

"So, have you settled on a name yet?" Ellaria asked, beaming at the infant.

Jon hesitated, inwardly cringing. "We haven't settled on anything yet," he emphasised, before confessing. "But, I must be honest, I am rather fond of Daeron."

There was a moment's silence in which all four of them walked toward the chambers. For a moment, Jon regretted saying anything, then Oberyn chuckled. It was a deep and resonant chuckle of a man genuinely amused.

"Is that because you want to give the young prince a lesson in what happens to Westerosi kings who meddle in Dornish affairs?" he asked, his dark brown eyes glittering. "Or do you just share your fellow countrymen's fondness for glorious failures?"

Jon's smile stiffened, hesitating as he tried to gage just how seriously the Martells were really taking this issue. Meanwhile, it was Margaery who spoke up and smoothed things over.

"My Grandmother was once betrothed to a Daeron Targaryen. She said he had silly silver hair and a face like a ferret. I'm thinking now that perhaps Jon's first choice of names could well be vetoed."

They all laughed as they rounded the corner into the private apartments, dissolving what little tension had arisen. Jon was grateful for it and poured them all some wine himself just to give him somewhere to put his jittery nerves. Meanwhile, the cradle was placed between his and Margaery's favourite seats, where they could both tend the prince with ease. Before they left, Jon took one of the servants aside.

"We're not to be disturbed," he said, before taking his seat.

"Thank you again for coming all the way to King's Landing, both of you," said Jon, raising his glass.

Ellaria, a handsome woman, smiled elegantly. "Thank you both for receiving us so warmly."

Away from prying eyes and secure in the privy apartments, they were free to talk and relax. Jon knew that everyone out there was analysing every mannerism and every movement, looking for signs of hostility they could gossip about to their families. Then it would be overheard by the servants, who would gossip about it in the markets, where the traders would overhear and spread it throughout the realm on their endless travels. It didn't take him long to work out how the chain of gossip really worked and it only served to make him even more nervous, even more reticent when on public display.

Once they had drunk a toast, they lapsed into gentle talk. The baby, the weather and the night that had now spread as far south as the Dornish Mountains. Prince Oberyn assured them that the sun had risen in Sunspear on the morning of his departure, but even that was under doubt now a few days had passed.

"They say the Long Night came in from the far north," Oberyn stated. "It did the last time, during the Age of Heroes. Although far from our home, we all know the stories in Dorne."

"Now that the nobility have gathered here, I will be convening a special council to decide what to do next," Jon explained. "I am proposing to send an expedition to the far north. It's clear the Night's Watch cannot be left to fight this alone."

"Unlike other Southern houses, the Martells do not dismiss the supernatural," Oberyn assured him. "Winter does not stop at the Dornish Mountains. Winter comes for us, as much as yourselves. Many months ago, I hear, a brother of the Night's Watch brought the severed hand of a white walker to court, to prove their existence. Only the boy king had other worries and dismissed them. If there is to be a special council, I would like to be there."

"You would be most welcome, your grace," Jon assured him. "As to the severed hand, I didn't hear about that. But I know they're out there. I just hope the other southron lords are as receptive as yourself and listen to reason."

"They cannot ignore the long night," Ellaria interjected. "The evidence is all around them now. Where has your aunt taken the dragons? They are surely the most important weapon against this darkness."

"Daenerys has taken them to Dragonstone where they can grow without interference from others," Jon replied to her. "But they're too small to be used in war and we haven't time to wait for them. In the meantime, I am sending casks of wildfire to the Night's Watch. My brother, the ruler of the north, is also planning to ride out to the far north. Beyond the wall, if need be, to find out what's going on."

Oberyn nodded his approval. "What about Aegon?" he asked, changing the subject. "I understand that Lord Connington is to be put to death. But the boy lives."

"The boy was nothing more than a piece in someone else's game," Margaery pointed out. "Worse, he was a piece in someone else's game right from the moment he first drew breath."

Jon had been delaying the moment of their meeting as much as he could. First the baby was born, then the long night reached the capital and then he had to deal with a constant stream of the nobility flocking into the city. Meanwhile, Aegon had languished in his open prison cell in Maegor's Holdfast. Despite that, however, he was still curious to meet his cousin. Even if Robb feared and distrusted him.

Before he could say anything, however, a knock sounded at the door. Suppressing a curse, he rose to answer it himself seeing as he had requested privacy for the duration of his meeting with the Martells. On the threshold, he found a sombre faced servant dressed all in black. A watchman, he realised.

"Pardon me, your grace, by my master and I have travelled from Castle Black," he said, looking up at Jon through filmy, tired eyes.

He cast an apologetic glance back at his guests, only for Prince Oberyn to wave a hand in dismissal. "The affairs of state wait for no man. Go, and your gracious queen will keep us company."

Minutes later, Jon was back in the throne room. It was empty now, the people having been allocated lodgings within the keep or the surrounding inns. Many from nearby would have had manses in the more affluent areas and others had relations nearby. Something for which he was grateful. At the foot of the iron throne, a gnarled looking brother of the Night's Watch guarded a large wooden crate, every bit as sombre as his squire. Instead of receiving the man on the throne, Jon came to a halt as he drew level with him at the foot of the dais.

"Your Grace, I come from Castle Black with grievous news," he said, rising to his feet from a hasty kneel. "Your great uncle, maester Aemon Targaryen, died peacefully in his sleep not a month passed. My squire and I set sail from East Watch with the remainder of his possessions and an urn with his ashes. Ranger Greyjoy said you'd be the best person to deal with it."

Jon glanced down at the wooden crate at the man's foot, a sadness swelling hard and cold in his heart. It had been Aemon Targaryen who had led him to Dark Sister, had given him his father's letters and another from his mother. It had been Aemon who connected him with whom he really was and where he really came from.

"Theon Greyjoy sent this down to me?" he asked, lowering himself to the floor to look properly. Still that name stuck in his throat like a stray fishbone.

"Aye, your grace," the watchman replied. "There's old letters, a few scraps of clothes and whatnot."

The rusting hinges creaked as Jon slowly lifted the lid. Inside, the first thing he saw, was the chain coiled up and tangled, resting on some old robes. He ran his index finger over the iron link, trying to remember what it symbolised. Next to that was a clay urn containing the old man's ashes. He made a note to find room for them in the Great Sept of Baelor, beside his brother, Aegon, if possible.

"When you return, thank him for me," said Jon, not taking his eyes from crate. "In the meantime, you will be lodged at court. And please, take anyone you need from our cellars for the watch."

That evening, he returned to his chambers to find Margaery nursing the baby herself. By the fire, she cradled him tenderly and only turned from the babe when Jon entered the room. The look in her eyes told him she already knew what had happened. Besides, he had the wooden box in his arms as he lumbered across the room with it.

"I'm sorry, my love, for your loss," she said, her voice soft. "I know you only met him once, but he meant a lot to you."

It was more than just a platitude. Now that they knew Aegon was a Sand, the only Targaryens left were himself, Daenerys and now the new born. Even he kept forgetting to use the name. They were a dying breed slowly inching back from the edge of extinction. Leaning down, he opened the box for Margaery to see.

"Behold," he said, numbly. "One hundred and two years condensed into one box. It doesn't seem right for a man who saw so much, who sacrificed so much."

He had been ignorant of his own heritage. A luxury that had allowed him to grow up with brothers and sisters, play and grow and develop as just an ordinary boy in the north. Maester Aemon, on the other hand, had been bound in service to the realm and helpless as his family was all but annihilated, leagues away in the south. Then there was the events he lived through, the wars and the dramas, and his brothers and their reigns. It had been Brynden Rivers and his lover, Shiera Seastar, who brought him to the wall. And this, in the box, was all there was to show for it.

Margaery set the baby down in his cradle, took a second to settle him and then crossed the room. When she reached him, she drew him into an embrace. "I can think of something else that will make sure his legacy lives on."

"What's that?"

She nodded to the prince, now sleeping in his cradle by the fire.

Jon smiled as her meaning became clear. "Prince Aemon."

"There's no better name for our son and heir," she said, firmly. "Aemon, the first of his name."

Robb finally found reason to smile as he read over the message from King's Landing. He looked up at the other faces around the high table of Winterfell. His mother, Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Maester Luwin. They were all looking back at him silent and expectant.

"It's a boy!" he said, grinning.

The proclamation was met with sighs of relief.

"Name?" Catelyn asked.

"How big is he?" asked Sansa, immediately afterwards.

Arya was next. "Who does he look like?"

"When are they getting the next one?" asked Rickon, still too young to understand how the process of baby making generally worked. "And when is he bringing it home?"

Robb held up his hands for silence before he was overwhelmed with questions. "That's all the letter says, that the Prince was born healthy and hearty. No name, but I'm guessing he's roughly baby-sized and he probably looks a bit like Jon and Marge. And, Rickon, we've already explained: Jon lives in King's Landing now and his children will too."

"Babies do come in different sizes, Robb," Catelyn pointed out. "Anyway, I'm sure we will see them soon."

"There's still a chance he might have silver hair and purple eyes, like Daenerys," Sansa said, hopefully. "I mean, not that it matters if he looks like Jon. Then it will be like having a Stark king."

"He is a Stark king," Arya insisted. "He's a northerner who just happened to be born in the south. Like Jon."

Before long, the feast to welcome the southern prince began. All of Winterfell had turned out for it and they were dealing out the remains to the small folk outside the castle walls. It was an interlude during a time of great worry for the inhabitants. Their long night had begun well over a month ago now, and they hadn't seen the sun in all that time. Later, once the meal was done, he was outside wrapped in layers of furs and peering into the endless nigh sky. Snow fell constantly, now in certain parts of the yard it was already twenty feet deep and more than one horse had frozen to death in the stables. Winterfell itself only remained habitable because of the hot water being piped through the thick walls.

"There was more in that letter."

The sound of his mother's voice jolted him out of his reverie. "What? Oh, that. It was nothing about the baby."

She approached him, similarly attired in thick furs. "I realise that. It was about this long night, wasn't it?"

"In a manner," he replied. "He found that wildfire Jaime Lannister told him about and he wants to send it north, to East Watch."

Catelyn looked concerned. "Surely that is dangerous in the extreme?"

Robb shrugged. "The pyromancers have cast spells on it already. And it's tightly packed with stone and sand to stop the liquid splashing about."

"But if storms whip up, as they are wont to do in winter, it will be a disaster," she stated.

"The ships are unmanned," he pointed out. "They're being towed from a good distance. Mother, if this works, it could have the whole of the far north ablaze and take out whatever's living there. Whatever it is that's bringing this darkness."

Rather than stand there and freeze, he began a slow walk across the deserted grounds. All of their horses were safely inside now and the braziers inside the forge were fired up full. A deep red glow emanated from the open door now, blasting a cloud of hot air at them as they strolled past. On instinct alone, his feet carried him towards the old Godswood. Three acres of woodlands within the castle and one of his late father's favourite places. It still made his heart ache that he would never again walk in there and find Lord Stark sat by the spring, deep in contemplation. A wistful sigh from his mother told him she had had the same thought.

"As soon as Dany arrives with Drogon I'll be leaving for the wall," he stated. "She left Dragonstone at dawn and should be here soon."

He noted the tremor in her stance as she tried to suppress her shock. "I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am."

"I tarried too long in the south, mother," he said again. "I should have come home as soon as the darkness fell."

She looked at him and tried to smile. "You're here now, and that's what matters."

Robb still felt like he had a lot of making up to do. By the time he arrived at Winterfell it was so late that he had barely any time to catch up before having to set out once more. This time, he felt like he was riding into a real battle against an unknown foe. Or was the foe all around him, in the form of winter itself? He could not tell any more, but it felt that way. I was a nebulous foe, more indistinct and far more deadly than any human enemy he had met in combat.

"And when the Dragon Princess arrives at Winterfell, will she ever leave again?" Catelyn looked happy as she asked, her blue eyes wide and expectant.

Robb blushed, despite himself. "Who knows?"

She laughed at how coy he was being. "Gods, Robb, where are you going to put that dragon of hers? I've heard its huge. And what of the other two? You can't have them flying around unchecked."

"They don't attack unless she commands it, mother," he tried to assure her. "Other than Cersei Lannister, I've never heard of them attacking people."

Catelyn raised an eyebrow. "Not even Cersei deserved that, if you ask me. Which you did not, so disregard your poor worried mother."

"I'll never disregard you," he replied, quickly. "Which is why I need your advice now. Aegon, the Mummer's Dragon they call him. Turns out he's Brandon's. Did you know about him? Did Brandon ever mention it?"

They reached the heart tree, its ruby red leaves were livid against the snowy backdrop. Robb sat in his father's old place, while Catelyn took the old fallen tree trunk overlooking the waters. She was only visible by the light of the full moon and her expression was wistful as she gazed at the frozen surface.

"He said nothing to me," she replied. "It shames me to say it, but I feel about him the way I once felt about Jon. He is a threat to you. At least Ned raised you and Jon to be brothers, who loved each other. Aegon is a stranger. He is unknown. He means nothing to you and, more dangerously, you mean nothing to him."

She echoed his own worries. "I'm going to ask Jon to send him to the Night's Watch."

"That would neutralise the threat," Catelyn stated. "But it would place him in the North. Too close to home. Even though he thought he was getting the whole realm, a big chunk of it like the North might prove tempting. And in the Night's Watch, the temptation would be right on his doorstep. I've heard he's a good fighter and Jon still needs Kingsguard."

"They're celibate too," replied Robb. "But the temptation may be even greater there. Ultimately, it's down to Jon." He paused then, turning to the frozen lake. "Speaking of threats, why is Petyr Baelish still here? Do you not think it convenient that Lysa died so sudden and now he's here, falling into your arms? We know what he did to father."

Catelyn's expression closed off. "But I want to know what happened to Lysa, as well as your father. And there's more, Robb. I'm certain of it."

Mystified, Robb shrugged. "Like what?"

But she was not forthcoming. "As I said, it's just an instinct. Something I cannot shake. But I'm sure he's at the centre of many things that happened back then."

"I don't want to leave him alone with you," he admitted. "When I go, the Knights of the Vale will be coming with me, but he's no use to us. He will have to stay."

"Good," she replied, assuredly. "That's when I'll get the truth out of him. Honestly, Robb, I know how to handle Petyr Baelish."

Far from assured, Robb let the matter drop anyway. He didn't trust Baelish at all, but he trusted his mother. Before too long, the cold became too much for them and they were soon headed back toward the castle. Pausing by the hot forge to warm up, they could hear the sound of musicians playing inside the great hall – a treat brought in to celebrate the birth of Jon's son. But as he looked up towards the uppermost tower, he could see Petyr Baelish looking down at them from above, both eyes fixed firmly on his mother.

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

In response to Dragonfan: thanks again for your feedback. I'm really not sure how many chapters are left, but it's not that many. Maybe five or six, and then an epilogue set some time in the future.

Thanks also to all the other Guest reviewers and commentators, and all those who suggested baby names. But Aemon led the way and won the day. Daeron will be reserved for a future little brother. The two daughters I have planned are already named and four kids sounds about right for these two. Thanks again!

Next time: the long overdue conversation between Jon and Aegon. Then it's the war for the dawn beginning properly. Thanks again, everyone!