Chapter 25: You Know Nothing, Rhaenys Targaryen

One thing about being a Princess, it required Rhaenys to get used to the fact early on that people would gravitate towards her. To be her friend, to win her favor, to simply gawk in awe at the presence of a legendary Targaryen. Much later, a legendary Targaryen Dragonrider, which only added to the attention.

Adoration she understood.

Delight, she was quite familiar with.

Awe, she rather enjoyed witnessing.

But curiosity mixed with loathing… such was strange to her, if a little intimidating. In the wildling camp she'd been led to, hands still bound and being guided by Ygritte - with how the Lord of Bones or others stared at her, Rhaenys learned quite early on that Ygritte was her best option, the redhead quite… gentle with her as could be - everyone stared at her with such expressions. A naturally mistrustful bunch, but ones without the compunction to dismember her limb by limb if she so crossed them.

With her sword tied round the hip of the Lord of Bones and poor Nysar still wounded in the arms of Tormund Giantsbane, there was nothing she could do. Only bide her time, but the fear persisted.

"So, you ride a dragon?"

Talking with Ygritte, annoying that she was, provided a necessary distraction. "Aye, I do."

While Ygritte's blue eyes - not like the sapphire of the Baratheons or the riverine color of the Tullys, but a free sky blue that complimented her wild nature - widened in quite obvious interest and awe, Tormund only huffed. "You, ride dragons?" He chuckled. "Yer' waist is barely the thickness of my thighs. Puny dragon indeed."

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. "You should see Nymerion, Giantsbane. She'd make quite the snack of you."

"Every critter in the Haunted Forest thinks I'm delicious… yet all seem to end up in my fuckin' belly." He had a sense of humor, it quickly became clear. Just buried under an avalanche of gruff and snark. "How'd ye' march a day alone with her, Yig?"

"Oh, she grows entertaining after a while." Ygritte nudged Rhaenys' side, as if they were friends. Fuck me, she's the only companionship here that's tolerable. "Can ye' ride as well as ye' fights?"

Jon and Dany always claimed they were the best Dragonriders… as did Alyssa, only louder and with a bigger gusto to show off. Rhaenys… "I was the best, whatever anyone says. Best at both." Kicking a clod of snow as they approached a large tent of hides held up by a frame of mammoth tusks, she smirked softly at Tormund. "I'd beat your ass one on one. Bigger men fall easier than littler ones."

A snort. "Forest is filled with little men that tried to cut my heart out. They feed the critters that feed me." He looked down at Nysar, the direwolf's wound having gotten worse. "Yer' a hostage, dragon, and this beast grants good fortune from the gods to you, but don't think you can get away with anything. Many want to kill ye'. Sometimes I'm one of them." Clicking his tongue, he disappeared elsewhere in the camp, taking the Direwolf with him.

Rhaenys immediately felt protective. "He better not…"

"Don't worry," Ygritte cautioned. "He loves animals… it's you I'd worry about more." Having spent an entire several days hike basically japing with or at her, Ygritte's expression grew serious. Almost… caring, as if she were one of Rhaenys' Martell cousins or female friends. "Mance needs you alive, but there are different kinds of alive. Watch yourself and try not to insult him."

"You mean the one trying to kill his way through my uncle?" Rhae snapped. "And why are you helping me?" She owed Ygritte for the twice the wildling saved her, not the other way around.

A shrug. "Can't say, just that there's somethin' about you." Reaching for Rhaenys' wrists, Ygritte untied them, releasing her hands. "Don't do anything stupid or we both die, aight?" Reluctantly, but seeing the pleading in Ygritte's eyes, Rhaenys relented.

She was the only wildling of whom Rhaenys actually didn't want harm brought down upon.

Ahead of Ygritte and behind a trio of gruff guards including the Lord of Bones, Rhaenys ducked her head and entered the tent. Letting out a shiver to ward off the last of the outside chill in the face of warmth from the campfire within. A warmth filled with smoke but warmth nonetheless. Seated around the fire were two women, other guards watching over them. "Ygritte… Lord of Bones, you've arrived." A young woman with red-gold hair sat up, hand over her pregnant stomach. She was slight, and cute. Reminded Ygritte of an older Myrcella in innocence. "And you brought…?"

"The Targaryen, Dalla," spoke the other, her back turned to Rhaenys as she ate slowly. "Didn't you hear what the messenger fucking said? Her voice was gruff, but melodious. Someone who could be both graceful and fierce at the same time - much like Rhaenys herself, or Queen Lyanna. "Which one are you girl, the one by the wolf or the one by the viper?"

Ygritte prodding her - better that than the Lord of Bones punching her again - Rhaenys cleared her throat. "I am Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Elia Martell and King Rhaegar Targaryen."

"So the viper then." The woman stood and turned, giving Rhae a good look. She was a beautiful young woman with blonde hair tied in a braid about her shoulder, waist slender and bosom full. A fierce scowl was emphasized by blue… almost grey eyes, three visible knives placed among her white woolen breeches tucked into high boots, all covered by a white bearskin cloak. Essentially an idealized form of the savage wildling warrior woman - while Ygritte was far more grounded.

Rhaenys did not like her, and predicted her a greater enemy than Mance would be, even if she hadn't met the man. "Aye, the Viper."

"You don't look like much."

"Can assure you that I could kill you before you could blink," Rhaenys replied, evenly.

The woman's eyes narrowed even as her pregnant companion gasped. "Oh, you're pickin' a fight, then…"

"Val!" came a call from deeper in the tent. "Leave her alone, she's a hostage." Emerging from the darkness was… a slender man of middling height, hair quite salt and pepper. His outfit was the same furs as all the wildlings had. "Hello, Princess," he remarked simply. "Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall." He gestured to the tent around him. "Forgive me if these aren't the usual accommodations for someone of your station."

"I've been in worse," she replied, eying him, meeting his rat-brown eyes. "So should I kneel or anything?"

Behind, Ygritte laughed, while Mance only grinned. "Oh, there's no kneeling here among the wildlings."

"Lest she wants to," Ygritte said suggestively, drawing out another chorus of laughs. Rhaenys only glowered - perhaps partly to hide her blush, image of doing that to someone here in particular in her mind. "So, we have the hostage."

"Good, very good. All but Ygritte can git." The girl blinked, but stayed. Rhaenys was grateful for that. "So, what should I do with you?"

"Kill her and send her head to Ned Stark," the woman, Val, announced. Rhaenys tensed, as did Ygritte.

"If you want a dragon to burn us all to hell, then do so," Ygritte hissed back, making Val scowl.

Mance shook his head. "No, if she had a dragon it would be with her… methinks something is keeping the dragon north of the wall, like with Good Queen Alysanne's."

Rhaenys blinked. "You know of that?"

"My dear, I was of the North before I was of the True North." He stroked his beard. "No, you will stay - Ned Stark will give anything to see you returned safely, and Rhaegar Targaryen would add even more to that."

"If you think my kepa will bow to your whims, you do not know him. Fire and Blood is our motto, and we will visit such hells upon your people."

While Mance said nothing, Val approached. Eyes locking with Rhaenys'. "We've all stared literal death in the face and emerged alive. Your precious dragons don't scare me, pampered cunt."

"Enough, Val. You're my goodsister but that doesn't give you free reign." Snarling, Val left Rhaenys' sight, stalking off. "Ygritte, you'll watch over the Princess. Don't bound her again, but keep her confined to a tent until further notice."

"Aye, Mance." Tugging Rhaenys off, they left the tent. "Better than I expected."

"Your King does not impress me… and Val needs a smack on the mouth."

"She would say the same of you, Princess." Well… something they could both agree on.

Pride was fleeting. Triumph was momentary when not grounded in that of family or personal enlightenment. A lesson taught in many different ways among the northmen, from father to son, mother to daughter. In the domain where the weather could freeze armies or conquered lands turned into essentially wilderness worth nothing, a stable home with plenty of well-fed children mattered more than anything.

Something Ned Stark taught all his children, yet in the moment north of the Wall as he cleaned Ice of the stained blood of at least a dozen wildlings he had nearly forgotten the lesson. And when it so fell upon him, it fell hard like Robert's warhammer.

The plan had been simple, and very much assisted by Mance Rayder's seemingly crafty but ultimately foolish decision to place his camp just outside the exit to the large valley that stretched northeast of the Fist of the First Men. Easily defensible and only approachable through the bottleneck of the valley lest one was willing to march a hundred miles around the mountains. So when the force of five hundred Black Brothers on horseback appeared to scout and skirmish, many warriors among the less loyal clans - the Thenns among them, faces mutilated or streaked with war paint - leading a full charge to overwhelm the brothers of the Night's Watch.

And overwhelm them they probably would've eventually, but with their scouts wiped out, the valley walls that were supposed to protect them served as a deathtrap. Ned, banners high and Ice in his hands, led the northern cavalry of Houses Stark, Umber, and Karstark in a headlong charge across the flanks. Wildlings slamming against the shield wall of House Bolton and impaling themselves on Roose's pikes, the horse scythed through each flank on a double envelopment. What had to be four thousand were slaughtered within the wall, the remainder fleeing. A drop in the bucket of what Mance was supposedly bringing to bear, but Ned was confident that the King Beyond the Wall would see any advance as too costly or cursed and simply fall back. Giving up the idea that he could cross the wall.

So happy was he and proud of his genius that Ned retired to his tent drunk on ale, smile on his face and the expected nude welcome Cersei would give him when he returned to Winterfell. Perhaps they'd have another child, another beautiful daughter to look just like her lioness mother…

But such welcome dreams and joyous celebration died in the blistering cold winds that the cloud-shrouded sun brought upon the Land of Always Winter as the scouting teams returned to the camp. Ned knew something had gone wrong upon the sheer dejection and self-loathing on Benjen's face, but never in the life of him did he expect…

"What do you mean you lost Rhaenys?!"

Eddard Stark was rarely furious, the more mild-mannered and kindly - if stoic - Lord of Winterfell in comparison to his mercurial wife and fierce sister. But this time it was truly a terrifying sight to see. The wolf emerged… as much one as his own wolf left in Winterfell to give birth. Most of the men cringed, all but Benjen, whose head hung in shame. "Halfhand stayed behind to watch her execute a wildling prisoner, but when we returned both he and a Black Brother were dead and Rhaenys gone."

"With the prisoner?" Ned was almost hyperventilating at Benjen's nod. "I promise my sister and goodsister and goodbrother that I'd care for her as my own, and now she's lost beyond the fucking Wall in the hands of some wildling scout! He's probably raping her as we speak!"

"The scout was a woman, Lord Stark," grumbled Sandor Clegane, only to shake his head as Ned glared at him. "But from the way she was eye-fucking Saucy Snake…"

"Enough, Sandor!" he hissed. "Comb the mountains until you find her!"

"We have, Lord Stark," spoke one of the other rangers, Cotter Pyke being his name. Acting First Ranger with the death of the Halfhand. "No sign of her."

"Not good enough, I'll send two thousand men to find her!"

"Lord Stark!" cried out Torrhen Karstark, himself in a mess but racing towards him. "A wildling! She brings news from the King Beyond the Wall."

Benjen furrowed his brows. "She? Widlings never treat… unless it's about Rhaenys."

Ned nodded. "Come, come." He kept Ice unsheathed for good measure. Wanting the intimidation factor of the Valyrian steel greatsword. Even if against a woman.

The woman turned out to be essentially a blonde version of Lyanna, and twice as outwardly mean. She rode nothing, walking on foot, but hefted a sack over her shoulder as if it were a bag of feathers. "Are you Ned Stark?" she asked, speaking his name with an icy contempt.

Last time Ned heard it like that, it was in the early days of his meeting Cersei when he was sure she hated him… or at least was disgusted by him. Oh, this wasn't going to have such a happy ending as that. "I am Lord Eddard Stark."

Before either could continue, Sandor shoved forward. "Where is the Princess, you fucking cunt?!"

"Clegane, back!" demanded Greatjon Umber, but Clegane was too strong even for him.

"If I don't see her now, I'll rip your legs off and fucking beat you to death with them!" Turned out the Hound did have loyalty to the Royal Family deep down.

The woman regarded him with amusement. "The boys would like him."

Ned didn't care to banter with her. "Where is the Princess, and who are you to treat with me?"

She laughed. "I am Val, goodsister to Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall." Val gestured behind her. "And the dragon is safe, cared for by our King while you await our demands."

"And what demands can you possibly give us?" growled Lord Karstark. Beside him, young Torrhen was ready to draw his sword and hack down the wildling. "Savage bitch," Rickard added for good measure.

"Temper, temper." Val grinned. "Keep it up and I'll send you her hand in a chest."

"And we'll burn all of you to the ground!" Torrhen yelled.

Ned narrowed his eyes. "How can we be sure you even have her?"

Yawning, Val tossed the sack to the snowy ground. Two heads rolled out, one of the Halfhand, the other of the other black brother that had been killed by the wildling prisoner that took Rhaenys. "Lest you want your girly to be with these two, send your horsemen back to the south and gather the black brothers at the Fist of the First Men. We will be waiting."

An order Ned knew was near impossible to give, but what choice did he have?

Perhaps another dragon can get Nymerion north of the wall?

Drumming his fingers on the table, Archmaester Aemon Targaryen cracked a toothless smile, bearing quite good cheer even as he approached his hundredth year upon the earth. "This takes me back to my youth, reading all the Citadel had to offer about the origins of our House." A sigh. "If I only had possession of my vigor and my sight, I would complete what I set out to find."

Interest piqued from the tome she scoured through, Dowager Queen Rhaella looked at her great uncle. Meeting his eyes even though they would never see her. "What do you mean, uncle?"

"The secret collection of Daenys the Dreamer… the true founder of our dynasty. Lost on Dragonstone to the tests of time, waiting to be discovered."

"There's a secret collection hidden on Dragonstone, uncle Aemon?" asked young Daemon, his gaze ever curious and devouring of new knowledge. Each of her grandchildren and children had their own little interests in the culture of their people. Some, like Aegon, Rhaenys, Baelon, and Rickon focused on the martial arts. Others like Daenerys, Viserys, and Alyssa found love in the art of dragonriding. Her dear, sweet Myrcella was attracted to music and dance. Daemon… he was a reader. A budding historian at that. Rhaella found no better way to connect him with the fire of his blood than through the study of their people, especially in the discovery they found.

Aemon, ever the scholar compared to Grand Maester Qyburn's experiments, heartily concurred. "It's a bit of a myth according to some… like my dear kepa. He'd tell us to stop believing in fanciful tales like the survival of the Great Four dragons or Daenys' secret collection… but that never stopped Egg and I. Uncle Brynden believed, and he passed on the legends to me."

"Bloodraven?" Both Rhaella and Daemon spoke at the same time, to which Aemon chuckled. Rhaella chuckled as well. Mother to four and grandmother to eleven, she still sometimes felt like an eager child, soaking it all in.

"Aye, my dears," he said. "Told me all his wanderings across Dragonstone with Daemon Blackfyre to find it… then Egg and I tried to search for it ourselves. Mapped most of the island, but nothing came out of it." He tapped the desk. "I still believe, though."

"Perhaps grandmother and I can pick up where you left off, uncle?" Daemon asked with excitement.

Smiling, Rhaella kissed the crown of Daemon's head. "Unfortunately I am far too busy, my sweet. If I had your youth, perhaps, but why not you find your own group and scour the island next time your kepa and munas go there?"

Daemon pursed his lips. "I suppose that works… but I don't think they'll want to follow Little Aenys."

Rhaella's brows furrowed. "What?"

"Little Aenys, that's what they call me… my cousin Joanna mostly, but Rickon and Senya say it sometimes too. Cause I'm bookish and craven." He hung his head, ashamed.

Sighing, Rhaella merely hugged the lad. Drawing Aemon's puckering of his lips to indicate what she had to do. "Brothers and sisters and cousins tease, my sweet dragon. It's going to happen, you shouldn't let it get to you."

"But what if I am like Aenys the Weak?" Young though he was, Daemon knew his history since an even younger age. Those references meant something. "Baelon will be King, but kepa talked about all of us getting lordships of our own and I don't think I could…"

Rhaella stopped him before he could continue. "Listen. You are a dragon, Daemon. You were named for the great Rogue Prince, and he was as fierce and powerful as they come."

"My dragon didn't even hatch… it is warm, but won't do anything else."

"There are many reasons why dragons don't hatch yet, little one," Aemon chimed in. "They come at the right time, I assure you. All the accounts I have read show it, from the Targaryen diaries of Aegon the Conqueror to Septon Barth's Unnatural History - one of the last few copies in existence." A prized find from the Castle Black library. Rhaella had it transcribed years before and republished. Fascinating, and one she planned on adding to before she died. "You are too young to fret. Just enjoy life and mind your lessons."

He nodded. "I will, uncle." Daemon turned to Rhaella. "Can I ride with you on Jaimexes, grandmother?"

Laughing merrily, Rhaella kissed his brow. "You absolutely may, my sweet grandson." That truly brought joy to his mood once more.

At that moment the doors opened to reveal Aemon's new acolyte. "Here we are, Archmaester," Samwell Tarly stated, a stack of texts in his arms. "Everything on the North from the earliest books on the subject…" Setting them down, he noticed Rhaella there and fell to his knee. "Your Grace."

"Get up, Samwell," Rhaella replied, smiling at the young man. "How is life treating you here in the Red Keep."

Gone was the poor, whipped boy that came with his father. With Randyll Tarly's departure and under the tutelage of Qyburn and Aemon, the boy thrived. He beamed like a mummer now, clapping his hands. "It is wonderful, your Grace. Tomorrow the Grand Maester will allow me to observe his autopsies… I'm so excited."

"I can imagine." Qyburn's going to make that boy as strange as he is. Quite the fascinating man… and not all in the good way was their Grand Maester. "Anything else, Samwell?"

"Oh, yes… I was told by Ser Oswell to tell you that His Grace wishes to call a session of the Small Council now."

"Now?" That was odd.

Sam nodded. "Aye. Ser Oswell was very insistent."

Nodding, Rhaella stood from her seat. Smoothening out the folds in her red and black dress. "Alright then. It appears I must go, forgive me, Daemon. Uncle."

"No, no. Go, attend to the matters of the Realm. I shall shepherd young Daemon here so he endures an afternoon free of his siblings' teasing." The old man chuckled, patting her grandson on the shoulder. Rhaella smiled, kissed Daemon's forehead, and was off. Motioning for the two household guards waiting outside to follow her. Smile falling to the resting scowl of a proper dragonrider.

One of someone to be feared and respected, to which she was and always would be.

Never again would she be weak and timid.

The Small Council chambers were uncharacteristically grim. Rhaella noticed it almost immediately and felt greatly concerned walking in - even the lively Tyrion Lannister, newly appointed Master of Coin, said not his witty jokes and observations. All seemed dampened, to which Rhaella attributed to the royals. Her son brooded. Hard. Queen Elia seemed pale as a ghost while Queen Lyanna's fists were clenched atop the table in a seething anger. Lord Tywin… he was stone-faced. Knowing Tywin as she did, that made her worried.

When Rhaegar slammed his hand on the table, all whipped their heads from their own musings to him. "Now that the Queen Dowager is here, we can begin," he stated, voice devoid of emotion. Normally the exchange of personal news would precede the meetings but that was absent, Rhaegar forging ahead. "A raven from Lord Stark arrived this morning. My daughter, Princess Rhaenys, has been captured by the wildlings."

One could hear a pin drop. "How… how is this possible?" asked Lord Richard Lonmouth, Master of War.

"Well… I suppose it was because those around her were killed and herself surrounded," Tyrion replied, grimace on his face.

"Enough, son," snapped Tywin. "Lord Stark narrates that Mance Rayder is seeking to use her as hostage to extract terms from us. Likely to include the awarding of the Old Gift and perhaps the New."

"Never!" bellowed Lyanna, still much a northwoman at heart. "Those savages shan't get any Northern land. Allow me to lead an army to face them, your Grace."

Barristan stood, beating his chest. "I shall join you, my Queen. All of us honorable knights shall fight the enemy and reclaim the Princess."

Having processed everything rather bloodlessly - quite difficult since it involved Rhaenys, her beloved granddaughter and the unofficial leader of her other grandchildren - Rhaella cleared her throat. "That would be unwise, gooddaughter."

Lyanna glared at her, while Elia spoke up. "Explain, goodmother."

Rhaella nodded. "This is… a very dangerous situation. For now the news is contained to the North and within these walls. If the Queen leads an army north of the Neck, all bets are off and the entire Realm will be aware."

"So what?"

"Your Grace, the monarchy is seen as omnipotent to the Realm," Tywin interjected. "Learning of this would cause much panic and harm its standing."

"As well as certain… elements reacting to this with interest," added Melisandre cryptically. The royals realized - Rhaella especially - the specific warning.

Sighing, Lyanna looked at her grimly. "What would you advise, then, goodmother?"

"Send me North, with Jaimexes. It'll signal the wildling threat is more severe than thought but that Lord Stark can still contain the situation with his own banners." A risk, but one she knew would be reasonable.

The word from Rhaegar was law when handed down. "Done," he commanded.

She'd best dress warm.

"Tell me, what is Westeros like? The North, especially?"

Nursing a mug of sugarcane juice - something he found he very much liked especially when a little lime was squeezed in - Baelon turned to look at Althor. "Why do you want to ask?"

Althor Aekylosh shrugged his shoulders, eating some fried dough they had purchased from the brothel's kitchens. Something to tide them over until Arthur, Sansa, and Baelgora - the young girl either following Sansa or Dany around like one of the direwolves, Dany being unavailable today since Shienna was taking her out to discuss something in regards to the fire magic Jon surmised - returned from the marketplace. "Never been there, and the home of the great warrior Queen of Westeros draws my attention as a Valyrian."

Jon could appreciate that, and felt not a little pride being her son. "Well, it's pretty cold year round. Sometimes it even snows in the summer."

"Never seen snow but that sounds horrible."

"Oh, you get used to it." Helped when one had a dragon to nuzzle when it got too cold. "But I love it. The air is clear and the forests are wild. Perfect for hunting or just riding out with nature, no men around to bother you."

Nodding, Althor sighed. "Had that with my kepa's estate for a while." Jon patted his shoulder. He'd grown up with his close friends - Arthur Mormont, Gendry, Baelon Velaryon… Jon knew he had made another one. "Are the men there… good?"

"Aye. Everyone's so honest there, especially the girls. No airs with them."

"Aye… girls…" Althor winced. "Something… I've not experienced much of."

Turning to him, Baelon raised his brow - interest piqued. "You mean you've never had a true interaction with a girl your age?"

Althor shook his head. "I mean, I've seen them… but whenever there was a pretty one manning a market stall I just looked for another stall." A blush colored his cheek. "Apologies, I must sound pathetic."

"No, not pathetic." Perhaps a bit pathetic, but given he hadn't had a kepa for the longest time that could guide him through his awkwardness and the fact that scrounging around for survival gave Althor no time to actually work on his confidence issues himself, it wasn't his fault. Being the Crown Prince, people had confidence issues around Jon, not Jon himself. Interacting with his siblings and aunts and cousins and boon companions made Jon a people person and very charismatic, even if he hadn't kissed a girl yet. Watching Rhaenys is enough to pick up a thing or two. "All you need is to get some confidence."

"Only that, confidence?"

"Aye, go up and talk to…" Baelon scanned the crowd. "Those girls over there." He pointed to a gaggle of them across the way at a table, chatting with each other. There were three, two Lysene and the other dark-skinned like Missandei. Very pretty, though not in the same way Sans or Dany were.

Blinking, Althor looked to Jon skeptically… though there was fear tinging his eyes. "Them? Aren't they… whores?"

Probably. "I don't think so," Jon lied. "They look like regular serving girls to me. I mean, they're dressed like Missy, see?" The midriff-baring skirts and tops were a little skimpier than Missandei's but similar enough to fool Althor. Thank the gods he was inexperienced.

Still, his lack of confidence shone through like sunlight through a forest canopy. "What in the name of Vermithor would I say?"

Tessarion bless me for this… "Fine, I'll go introduce you and wave you over."

Althor started to panic. "Wait, Ned! Come back!" But Jon was already up and bounding over to the group, determined to help his friend the way Rhaenys had helped Robb and Gendry in King's Landing when they were squires. The least he could do to salvage the future of a dying Valyrian noble house.

He discreetly fingered a few copper coins in his pocket.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Jon announced as he approached the table.

One of the Lysene girls, her eyes a vibrant blue rather than the other's sea-green, chuckled. "Hear that, girls? We're ladies."

"Mmmm, does this stud wish to sample one of us?" asked the dark-skinned one. "We girls of Naath know how to please a man." Same place as Missandei, though the young linguist had no trace of this girl's accent - making it likely original.

Jon shook his head. "Forgive me, my dears, but this is not for me." The three pouted, which Jon laughed merrily at. "My friend over there." He pointed to Althor, looking positively ready to explode from his flushed face. "Is shy and I'd like to boost his confidence." Very stealthily, he slipped them each one copper star, which bore the face of Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King. "Talk to him and hang on his every word."

"We can do that," sea-green smiled. "Shall I kiss him?"

"We can all kiss him," blue giggled.

"No, that might fry his mind." Somehow all of them thought that was hilarious. "You kiss him, after a good length of time," he told the Naathi. "He's been around those of silver hair before, so someone more exotic giving him his first kiss could be more help to him."

The young Naathi winked. "Absolutely. Just send him over and we'll give him the proper first kiss treatment." They seemed… all eager. Likely finding such innocent fare a break in the monotony of the depraved.

Baelon was not one to question it. "He'll be here momentarily, ladies." Bowing, which they found hilarious, Jon returned to the mortified Althor. "They said come on over."

He held up his head. "Truly?"

"Aye, go. You have a short opening." Jon pulled him off his seat. "Take the bull by the horns!" With that, he pushed Althor off. Watching him hesitantly approach the girls. Less hesitantly sit down as they greeted him with smiles. By the time sea-green wrapped an arm around his shoulder, Althor was smiling too. Dany and Sansa are gonna love me for this.

"I saw what you did." Looking up from his drink, Jon turned his head to see… a young girl about Rhaenys' age. Silver hair tied back into a bun, her smile bore white teeth of a woman that took care of herself. Bearing those gentle Valyrian features that so distinguished Lys from the rest of Essos. "You're a good friend, helping him out like that."

Jon could only shrug, smiling in a slight grin. "My father taught me that you always should seek to treat others in the manner you wish to be treated."

"Your father is smart." She brushed a loose strand of her hair back. The gesture exposed her slender, pale neck and delicate ears. Jon fought the urge to gulp, for this girl was beautiful - even compared to the near goddess-tier ladies that comprised the court of Rhaegar I Targaryen. The Valyrian traits of Lys truly stood strong against the test of time, this girl likely the descendent of a noble of Old Valyria and his mistress. "But I hope that you treat your foes the way they deserve."

He shrugged, response coming quickly. "Well… if I don't wish to be treated like an enemy by them, then I'm doing something wrong."

The girl was silent, only to snort with a smirk. "You are a witty one, and I like that." Rising from her seat, she sauntered to the stool at the bar directly adjacent to his. "I'm Daella."

"A beautiful Lysene name," Jon said truthfully, hoping she didn't notice how his eyes roved over her slender figure in her simple brown dress, petite but fitted out in all the right places for her proportions. "Nice to meet you, Daella of Lys," he replied. "Eddard Snow of Westeros."

He extended his arm for her to clasp, and fate seemed quite less momentous as only a slight warmth passed as their hands joined.