A.N.: Thank you all for your patience! I feel like I say that a lot – alas, full-time work must take priority.

Valyrian Steel

59

As You Wish

Dozens of little faces gleamed in the firelight, gazing enraptured at the storyteller who held them spellbound with the latest instalment of a sweeping tale of colourful characters engaging in murder, revenge, true-love, treachery and miracles. The gilding on the leather cover of her book glimmered in the firelight as she adjusted the book in her lap to turn the page, avoiding her swollen belly.

"Wait a moment," one little girl frowned, her emerald eyes slits of disdain. She grumbled, horrified, "This isn't a kissing story, is it?"

"Oh, my darling! It is so much more than a kissing book," the storyteller enthused. "Fencing. Fighting. Torture – revenge. Giants, monsters, chases – escapes! True love. Miracles!"

"It doesn't sound too bad," the little Lannister yawned widely, shifting to settle beside a dark-haired beauty with enormous sapphire eyes, who was sucking her thumb and cuddling with a slim pearl-haired girl. The two little girls were always together, moonlight and shadow. The golden lioness yawned, "I'll try and stay awake."

A bedtime story had been in order the last few nights, as storms buffeted the castle and spooked even the white-beards. Stories had been shared by Valemen and by Free Folk and by Bran Stark. Tonight it was Lady Larra's turn: she had just finished binding together The Princess Bride.

"Oh. Well, thank you, dear. It's very kind of you," Lady Larra sniffed from her settle. "Your vote of confidence is overwhelming. All right. The Princess Bride by Larra Snow, She-Wolf of Winterfell." She cleared her throat and settled in to read. "'Chapter One. Anemone was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin. Her favourite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was Wyman, but she never called him that.'"

"What a wonderful beginning," murmured one of the ladies, stroking her children's hair as they cuddled close to her. Surrounding Lady Larra's settle were many other seats, benches, the floor piled with cushions and children cuddled under blankets, their eyes glinting in the firelight as they gazed at her. Around them were adults, too: Nestor Maegos and his lady, Lord Lonmouth, Duncan Storm and Lord Velaryon. Darkstar's amethyst eyes glittered in the firelight like slumbering purple embers, watching her carefully as Lady Nym lolled sensuously beside him, sipping expensive southern wine she shared from a skin tucked close to Lord Tyrion.

"Yeah. It's really good," Calanthe Lannister muttered without feeling. Lady Larra gave her a deadpan look.

"'Nothing gave Anemone as much pleasure as ordering Wyman around. 'Polish my horse's saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning,' she would order. Wyman would answer gently, 'As you wish.' As you wish was all he ever said to her. 'Farm Boy, fill these with water…please.' As you wish, he replied. Day after day, Anemone did this, until one particular day when she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, 'As you wish,' what he meant was 'I love you.' And even more amazing was the day she realised she truly loved him back. 'Farm Boy, fetch me that pitcher.' As he always did, Wyman replied, 'As you wish'. Wyman and Anemone fell deeply and irrevocably into a love so pure and so true that –"

"Hold it, hold it!" Calanthe Lannister blurted indignantly. "What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where's the danger? The duels? You said this is more than a kissing book!"

"Wait, just wait," Lady Larra chided gently.

"Well, when does it get good?" Calanthe asked indignantly.

"Keep your bonnet on, let me read!" Larra said, clearing her throat. She turned back to the book. "'Wyman had no money for marriage. So he packed his few belongings and left the farm to seek his fortune across the sea. It was a very emotional time for Anemone –'"

"I don't believe this," Calanthe sighed disdainfully, and Lady Larra's pretty lips twitched. She started to read, giving each character their own distinctive voice.

'"I fear I shall never see you again," said Anemone.

"Of course you will."

"But what if something happens to you?"

His voice like iron, Wyman told his lady, "Hear this now: I will come for you."

"But how can you be sure?" asked Anemone tearfully.

"This is true love," answered Wyman, with an ironic little smile. "You think this happens every day?"

Wyman gave her a coaxing smile full of confidence. Anemone's tears dried and she smiled, flinging herself into her lover's arms, kissing him passionately. When he left, Anemone stood and watched until long after Wyman's golden hair had stopped glimmering in the sunlight… Every day, Anemone watched the road to her family's farm. Every day she was disappointed, yet every day she returned… Wyman never made it to his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Aeros, who never left captives alive. When word reached Anemone that her beloved had been murdered – "'

"Murdered by pirates is good!" Cadeon grinned, and Calanthe sighed contentedly.

'" – she went into her room and shut the door. And for days, she neither slept nor ate. Before the Old Gods and the New, Anemone vowed that she would never love again."'

"You said this was a story about murder and revenge! Where is the killing?!"

"May I keep reading?" Larra asked, and Calanthe groaned, flinging herself back against a cushion. Larra told the story of The Princess Bride, and by the time the Braavosi water-dancer finally skewered the vicious, cowardly Myrish nobleman with the extra finger, the audience was enraptured, though the atmosphere in the hall had changed throughout the story's telling, with whispers and murmurings and exclamations, people putting their heads together, exchanging papers. Curious but focused on her story, Larra's eyes glowed vividly, glittering with tears, her voice thick with passion as she exclaimed, "'I want my father back, you son of a bitch!' hissed Ozias Vollanar, stabbing Needle through the Myrman's shrivelled black heart."

The audience loosed its breath, shaky sobs and outright cheers rippling through the crowd, and Arya brushed tears from her eyes, smiling, as Darkstar nodded slowly, applauding, his violet eyes afire. Larra closed her eyes, feeling the trickle of tears down her cheeks, and for a heartbeat, she believed it: Father was alive, and her fairytale had come true. She sniffed, wiped her face, and cleared her throat, reading, "'The Myrman slumped to the blood-splattered flagstones. Ozias Vollanar's vengeance was complete, his father finally avenged. Peace, pure and light, spread through the water-dancer's body. Clutching his still-bleeding belly, Ozias Vollanar did something he had not done in decades. He smiled.'"

"What about Wyman?" breathed Briar, her enormous blue eyes wide, mouth hidden behind her fingertips.

"'As Ozias Vollanar finally sheathed his blade, a dagger was drawn in a bridal chamber. Princess Anemone, resplendent in her shimmering gown, sat at her dressing-table, pressing the tip of a jewelled dagger to her breast. For, as she had told the feeble, kind King, she had every intention of joining her beloved in death. As she was about to plunge the dagger into her heart, a voice spoke in the stillness of the chamber: 'There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a great pity to damage yours.' Anemone whirled. Reclined on the bed was none other than her beloved. She raced to Wyman and flung herself at him, showering him with kisses."

Larra read on, taking care with the voices and accents of the characters, the timing of their lines, lingering on her words to build tension. Over the course of the story, the audience had grown larger. The jokes and innuendo that went over the children's heads made the adults smirk and chuckle, enjoying the story every bit as much as the children.

'"You know, it's very strange – I have been in the revenge business so long, now that it's over, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life," Ozias Vollanar sighed.

"Have you ever considered piracy?" asked Wyman. "You'd make a wonderful Dread Pirate Aeros."

The two men jumped from the balcony and mounted their bright steeds. The four glorious white horses carried their riders triumphantly into the moonlight. They rode to freedom, and as dawn arose, Wyman and Anemone knew that they at last were safe. A wave of love swept over them. And as they reached for each other…"'

Larra cleared her throat, sniffed delicately, and shut the book. Uproar.

"What? What?!" shouted Calanthe. Briar's protests could be heard over the raucous cries of the audience, anxious to know the ending.

"No, it's kissing again. You don't want to hear it," Larra said, waving an idle hand, delight fizzing through her veins as her audience implored her to continue, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

Calanthe sighed, settling back to cuddle with Briar and Neva. "I don't mind so much." She waited patiently for Larra to open the book, resting her chin in her hand, a look of gentle delight illuminating her emerald eyes. Larra smiled gently at Calanthe, drinking in the sight of the three girls – one of pearl, one of gold, one of obsidian – cuddled together, content and happy. It was a sight she yearned to paint. How rare it was.

"Alright," Larra conceded, hiding her smile, and opened the book to the very last page. "'Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate and the most pure… This one left them all behind. The End.' Now… I believe it is time for bed."

Amid the protests, it was gentle Crisantha who approached Larra, her amber eyes bright, her cheeks tearstained from weeping over Wyman's mostly-death, her lip bruised where she had bit it during Anemone's close encounter with the shrieking krakens and then again during Wyman and Anemone's tussle with Rodents of Unusual Size in the fire-swamp and Ozias' final duel with the Myrman, her eyes bright with relief and delight at the ending.

In a voice as gentle as a summer breeze, she asked, "Lady Larra, please would you read it to us tomorrow night?"

It was the first time Crisantha had spoken.

Larra gazed at the gentle girl, with her billows of frothy blonde curls and glowing amber eyes, her hands clasped in supplication, and smiled gently. She reached up to tenderly cradle Crisantha's beautiful face in her hands and leaned in to kiss her brow, as she always did. She lingered, though, her eyes stinging.

"As you wish," Larra replied, and Crisantha's eyes glittered as she smiled, understanding what it meant to hear those words. Larra pressed her forehead to Crisantha's, a calm and tender moment shared between them, broken only by Leona toddling over and lifting her arms up to be carried.

Larra reached out to smooth her hair but could no longer lift her; though her belly was neat and trim, not an extra ounce of fat on her anywhere, she did have a belly. She could no longer lift Leona, or cuddle with her on her lap. Her daily exercises with Darkstar continued but at a much mellower pace. Nestor Maegos had witnessed them sparring and encouraged her to remain active, instructing her on different exercises and stretches she should do to retain flexibility and strength without risking herself or the child.

Now that she had reassured herself about keeping her skills sharp to best defend herself and those she loved, Larra felt far calmer: she had started to enjoy her pregnancy for what it was. She was creating new life; and she was slowly falling in love with pregnancy, with every intimate movement she felt and experience they alone shared. The connection she felt with the child growing within her was profound. She provided everything the child could need: all it knew was her. Her strength, her love, the beat of her heart, the sound of her voice. She had grown healthy and strong and now gave that strength and health to her child. Her and Gendry's child.

He appeared out of the darkness to scoop Leona up into his strong arms and deposit her in Cadeon's arms, leaning in to kiss Larra and tenderly brush his hand against her belly. She had not yet dropped; the women around her were on the watch for it. It would be the tell-tale sign she was due to give birth.

As much as she had been in a hurry to have the Night King and his army march upon Winterfell, to be over and done with things one way or another, Larra was in no hurry for childbirth. Not out of dread, as she would have expected: out of regret. The connection she felt with the child, part of her as she was of them, was too beautiful. She would have kept baby exactly where they were if she could. She loved feeling them move.

And move baby did. Throughout the story, she had felt baby stretching, its tiny feet pushing out noticeably against the left side of her belly. Some hawk-eyed listeners had been watching the fabric of her gown shift over her belly as the child kicked and stretched.

Now, the crowd started to disperse. Or rather, the ladies took their children to bed, leaving only adults behind. And they seemed more intrigued with Larra now that the story had ended than they had during its telling.

"My beloved former-wife tells me that The Princess Bride came into being to make fun of the romances she used to adore," remarked Lord Tyrion, walking over with Tisseia, whose eyes shone. "Do you know, in writing this satire of popular romances, you may just have created the greatest love-story ever told."

"I thank you for the compliment, my lord," Larra smiled at Lord Tyrion.

"My especial favourite was the fate of the repugnant Prince," Lord Tyrion smirked, his eyes glittering with irony. "A duel 'to the pain'? Whoever heard of such a thing? One need not think too hard on where such inspiration came from. I imagine you and your family dreamed up many a punishment for my repulsive nephew after what he did to your father."

"I would be lying if I said I had not spent months dreaming nightly of watching him be torn apart by wights. I must content myself that Ozias Vollanar will always get justice for his father," Larra said. Her eyes slid over the crowd, to Arya. Ozias Vollanar had developed as a way to get justice for her own father but he was also a warning. Ozias Vollanar lived for nothing but revenge: without it, he was nothing. His entire identity had been tied up with his pursuit of revenge. She feared that in her pursuit of revenge against Joffrey and Cersei and all those she had added to her list, Arya would become nothing more than that list of names, nothing more than a sword in the shadows.

"Well, it was refreshing indeed to have the seemingly perfect prince be revealed for his true, revolting nature," Lord Tyrion mused. "It would do well for the young ladies of Westeros to read The Princess Bride as a lesson."

"And what lesson have you taken from it, Lord?" Larra asked.

"Why, that wealth and beauty often disguise – and excuse – horror," Lord Tyrion muttered. "Myself, I am repulsive – people are only too quick to believe the very worst of me. But my handsome brother Jaime – a multitude of his sins have been forgiven for his beauty, have they not?"

"Politics have more to do with your brother's pardons than anything," Larra said. Lord Tyrion made a thoughtful noise, his eyes glowing.

"It was a wonderful story, Larra," Tisseia beamed, her dimples winking. "Truly."

"Thank you, Tisseia," Larra smiled. "Though there were parts I think that did not captivate as much as others."

"What do you mean?" Tisseia asked innocently. Lord Tyrion's eyes gleamed shrewdly.

Gendry lingered, putting his arm around her shoulders and drew her close for a lingering kiss. When he drew back, his face was unusually sombre. Lord Tyrion gave Larra a courteous bow and he and Lady Tisseia disappeared into the throng of people.

"What's wrong?" she asked Gendry quietly.

"Large crowd for the story tonight," Gendry muttered, and Larra nodded, watching his expression carefully. Her shrewd husband rarely betrayed his thoughts in his expressions but she knew him well enough to know he was concerned.

"I'd like to credit my story-telling skills," Larra said, "but your worry makes me think something's happened."

Gendry sighed heavily. "All afternoon, I've been hearing things," he said softly, reaching inside the folds of his heavy over-tunic. "I've never known the forge to be rampant with gossip but it's spreading through the castle."

"What is?" Larra asked cautiously.

He handed her an aged scroll. Holding it to the firelight, she saw the four-legged dragon of House Targaryen imprinted in the wax seal, broken in half. Raising her eyes to Gendry's face, he watched her quietly. She glanced back at the scroll as she unfurled it, her gaze turning to the elaborate text beautifully scribed and illuminated on it.

Larra was never more aware of the eyes on her than in that moment: the hall seemed to have held its breath.

"This is a royal proclamation," she blinked, slightly dazed. There were their names – Aegon Torrhen and Aella Alarra – written plainly for all to see, surrounded by elaborate illuminations. Below them, the signatures of several men made her stomach turn over – or was that the baby, wriggling into a more comfortable position?

Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Oswell Whent… Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Beside each, a smaller seal set in wax – the ancient sigils of each knight's House and that of Prince Rhaegar… It was not the four-legged dragon but the ouroboros: a winged dragon and the direwolf of House Stark, the initials R and L intertwined within the never-ending circle.

The document was a royal proclamation announcing the birth of Prince Rhaegar's legitimate heirs by Lyanna Stark, Princess of Dragonstone.

"Who gave this to you?" Larra asked, glancing up sharply at Gendry.

"The Greatjon," Gendry muttered. Larra glanced back at the proclamation, carefully rolling it up again. The wax was incredibly fragile. Aged. "Lord Lonmouth saw the Greatjon give it to me and showed me an identical one that he'd received. He was looking for you, agitated. I told them Rhaegal had taken you out. That did nothing to settle Lord Lonmouth."

A break in the storms had her taking to the skies with Rhaegal, desperate for fresh air and cold and quiet. Rhaegal had touched their muzzle to her belly when Larra had gone out to them: Rhaegal knew what it meant, perhaps could even hear the child's heart beating like a tiny bird's, and had flown with noticeable care. The more Larra flew, the deeper her connection with Rhaegal: and perhaps that connection told Rhaegal all they needed to know about Larra's pregnancy.

"The Greatjon received this?" Larra asked quietly. Gendry nodded.

"Samwell says ravens have been arriving all day, from all over Westeros," Gendry muttered. "He had no idea what they were talking about until I showed him this proclamation. Apparently, lords and ladies all over Westeros – and beyond – have been receiving these proclamations over the last few weeks, declaring your legitimacy as Prince Rhaegar's only surviving heirs. People have been writing, seeking confirmation from House Stark – from the King in the North, the bastard Ned Stark raised, the child he brought back from the war after finding his sister dead in Dorne. They've put the pieces together."

"No-one has said anything to me," Larra frowned.

"Jon won't acknowledge it," Gendry said. "He's too focused on siege preparations; he won't entertain discussion about it, even. And Sansa… She asked me to show this to you. She doesn't know what to do. Won't do anything without consulting you."

Larra examined the proclamation. Too many people knew already, even within Winterfell. It was only a matter of time until it spread like wildfire. She just hadn't imagined it would be so soon – or that it would be spread from outside Winterfell. Someone, somewhere, had discovered the truth. They were using her and Jon as pawns.

Gendry asked quietly, "What in seven hells would anyone gain by spreading this truth – after so long?" Larra sighed heavily.

"Information is a weapon, as dangerous as any dragon," Larra said. "Whoever is behind spreading this information is doing so to destabilise Cersei's reign and call into question the legitimacy of Lady Targaryen's claim."

"They're assuming people will believe it."

"People only believed Rhaegar was a rapist because Robert won the Rebellion," Larra said sadly. "Had Rhaegar won, he would have been celebrated as the greatest romantic hero of our age, the beloved prince torn between his love for his father and his duty to his people, and Robert the jealous warmonger that whored his way through life, dishonouring his House until he was cut down by the better man."

"And now that Robert's dead," Gendry mused, "and this is revealed…"

"People are allowed to remember Rhaegar as they knew him, not how Robert wanted everyone to think of him," Larra said. "This gives them permission to love and respect the Last Dragon, as they once did… It's more than that, though. This proves Rhaegar left a legitimate son to inherit the Iron Throne. And the lords of Westeros will cling to that like a lifeline thrown to a drowning sailor… The alternative is either Queen Cersei or Lady Targaryen – and so far they've both gone out of their way to prove to the world that they are brutal and incompetent fools."

"This changes everything," Gendry said urgently, his eyes alight with dread.

"We're snowed inside this castle – will be, for years potentially," Larra reminded him. She raised the proclamation. "There's little anyone can do about this."

"Don't be so sure," Gendry said, frowning.

"What are you worried about?" Larra asked him earnestly.

"I'm worried that you're not more concerned," Gendry said.

"Who says I'm not concerned?" Larra sighed. "I wonder who had these proclamations all these years – and who released them into the world. What their agenda is beyond destabilising Cersei and Daenerys. If they have a goal beyond that."

"Whoever it is, they know you and Jon are alive," Gendry muttered, and Larra frowned at him.

"Why do you assume that?"

"Otherwise, this knowledge would be utterly redundant."

"They could find pretenders anywhere," Larra said negligently.

"They don't need to – not when you've bonded with Rhaegal," Gendry said. "Someone knows."

"It would be foolish to imagine what happens at Winterfell stays at Winterfell," Larra sighed.

"So there are spies in Winterfell."

"Oh, there always have been – and always will be," Larra said. "But I imagine Lady Nym and Darkstar and the Knights of the Vale have written home about what happens here." Larra closed her eyes, sighing heavily. When she opened her eyes, her gaze rested on Lord Lonmouth. The pale stripes in his beard shone like silver in the firelight, his eyes glittering as he watched her intensely.

"I would like to know who had these documents," Larra said quietly, "though I suppose that doesn't matter nearly as much as what they intend to do with the chaos they will likely have created. I would like to know who is attempting to use us in some scheme to grasp for power."

Without even turning, Gendry grunted, "I'd say he's your likeliest bet, only he seemed angry that the proclamations have been sent out." She knew Lord Lonmouth had been a squire to Prince Rhaegar and had attended the wedding of her parents on the Isle of Faces. But he had only known she and Jon were children of Rhaegar when he first set eyes upon them. He had not been at the Tower of Joy, to her knowledge. And he had also been living in exile in Essos for over two decades.

Who would know to send a raven to Lord Lonmouth here in Winterfell?

Spies. There had to be hundreds of them in Winterfell. But who did they report to? Cersei, the Citadel, Essosi princes and magisters? All, most likely. Anyone with coin to pay handsomely to mitigate the risk in providing this information.

Why would Lord Lonmouth be annoyed that the truth was known, when he was still Prince Rhaegar's greatest supporter? "Someone has interfered with his plans."

"What plans?"

"He remains devoted to Prince Rhaegar," Larra said quietly. "He saw me and Jon and knew the truth with no need for proof. And he has witnessed Jon rule the North. He's no fool. With Queen Cersei and Lady Targaryen frothing at the mouth to attack each other over the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Lonmouth will not be the last to think of putting Jon on the Iron Throne in their place."

"You think that's what Lonmouth's after?"

"I doubt he's had the time – and most definitely does not have the resources or influence in Westeros – to plan to put Jon on the Iron Throne," Larra said, "even if he's thought about it. He remains Rhaegar's most loyal supporter; why wouldn't he conspire to put Rhaegar's only legitimate surviving son on the Iron Throne?"

"Especially when faced with the alternatives," Gendry grunted, and Larra nodded.

"Someone's beaten him to it," Larra sighed.

"I wonder who," Gendry muttered.

"Oh, it could be anyone – likely someone who's never met Jon and doesn't give a shit that he's alive. They just care about what his existence can do for them as a political weapon," Larra shrugged. "We're likely to find out, I'm sure. Though while I'm focused on the Night King, I can't bring myself to care who it was – or why."

The proclamation in hand, Larra strode over to Lord Lonmouth, who was conversing low with Lord Tarly.

"You look as though you are aching to break someone's jaw," Larra said, by way of greeting. "I assume it has something to do with this." She was aware that many of the lords and knights in the hall drew closer.

"There are many men in this castle unsettled by these proclamations," Lord Royce spoke up from behind Lord Lonmouth. His face was apologetic as he bowed courteously to Larra. "I, for one. Ned Stark and I grew up together in the Vale. We sparred together as boys; as young-men, we fought side by side in battle. I believed I knew his true nature. And yet I all too easily believed the gossip that he had fathered bastards, though in my heart I had never known him to be the type to dishonour a girl, lowborn or not… I believed the worst of Ned Stark. And I am heartily ashamed."

Larra stared at Lord Royce. Bronze Yohn was a stalwart man, carved from the windswept mountainsides of the Vale, decent and honourable, loyal and unyielding. He had the blood of the First Men in his veins, the same as her. He had grown up with Ned Stark. And he looked devastated that he had ever thought ill of his friend.

"My father went out of his way to ensure everyone believed it," Larra said quietly, aware of the hush around her as lords and ladies craned their necks to listen. "He wished everyone to believe the lie, to protect us."

"Then it is true," Lord Tarly rumbled, looking stunned. "You are the blood of the dragon."

"Rhaegar Taryaryen sired us, it is true," Larra sighed.

"Then your brother is the true heir to the Iron Throne," Lord Lonmouth said calmly. "The true King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Jon was named King in the North by those he has united, those he leads, all of whom were ignorant of the truth of his birth, including Jon himself," Larra interrupted sternly. "He has earned his crown, as few ever have. He has devoted his life to fighting the Night King and his hordes. The truth of our lineage has nothing to do with it. Neither he nor I will be distracted from the threat of the Night King – especially to put Jon on the same southern throne that killed our father."

It was easy for those who had never seen it to ignore the threat of the Night King. It was too abstract for them. Many had to see to believe, and such was the case with the Night King's army. It was far easier to wrap their minds around the idea that usurpers sat upon a throne rightfully Jon's, to be incensed and driven to act against those who had taken what was rightfully his. Scheming and politics, human wars of succession, they were all things they had been exposed to throughout their lives, could wrap their minds around. They knew what to do and how to fight that threat.

"The King refuses to acknowledge these proclamations," Lord Lonmouth said.

"I have no doubt some southerner is trying to use them as a weapon against Queen Cersei and Lady Targaryen," Larra said, "but here they are nothing more than a distraction that could cost us all our lives. Understand this, my lords; we cannot afford any distractions. The war is all that matters – the war against the Night King."

"And when that war is over?" Lord Lonmouth prompted. Lingering nearby, Darkstar tilted his head thoughtfully.

"This war will be unlike any you have ever heard of, even in the ancient legends of the Age of Heroes," Lord Tarly said sombrely. He had experienced the Night King's hordes and he gazed at Larra with something close to respect in his eyes. "Lady Larra is speaks the truth: it is not worth the risk to indulge in this distraction."

"I would thank you all to tell your friends the same," Larra said, gazing around sternly at the men. Begrudgingly, most bowed and departed: she watched them muttering amongst themselves as they left in small groups. Lord Lonmouth lingered, but it was Darkstar who remained the longest, watching her as if making a study of her.

"The proclamation was not news to you," he remarked, his rich accent dripping off his tongue, decadent and sensual.

Larra sighed. She admitted, "I learned the truth of things months ago. And it matters as little now as it did then."

"You are wrong." Darkstar lingered closer, frowning at her, his violet eyes glowing in the dark of the smoky hall. Those violet eyes, his shimmering pearl-silver hair, he looked every inch a Targaryen. He was subtle and she did not doubt he could be wicked when he wished; he had a tart tongue and a wry sense of humour. Sensuality and masculine energy oozed from him, utterly comfortable in his own skin and luxuriating in its effect on others. Even Lady Nym seemed somewhat wary of him, as if he was a puzzle she could not quite work out. His strategy in cyvasse revealed more of his patient, tricky nature. She wondered what he could see in all this mess.

"How so?"

"It matters because all these men have had months to learn who you and your brother are without titles, without even a name," Darkstar said, his accent so beguiling Larra might have become lost in it. She imagined idle nights under a lambent moon, the air full of spices and scents as strange music drifted on the heavy air whenever he spoke; he evoked visions of a place she had only ever imagined. Were all Dornishmen like him? Threatening to seduce with every syllable, no matter how benign? "These men have learned who you are and what you value, how you treat others who are in need and those who have something to offer."

"So?" Larra prompted, aware how stubborn she sounded.

Darkstar sighed. "One day, gods willing, they will return to homes ruled by Queen Cersei – or Lady Targaryen… And they will remember how it felt to be led by House Stark, who respected them, collaborated with them, gave all the opportunity to be heard and valued, who united them and led them and provided for them when they were at their most vulnerable. And after not so very long, they will yearn once more to bend the knee to someone they respect. They will ache to pay fealty to House Stark once again."

"I don't know who you're putting more faith in – House Stark, or everyone else's opinions of House Stark," Larra said. Darkstar's smile was ironic.

"You are not wrong to scold the others for their lack of focus," Darkstar sighed. "But do not imagine for a moment that they will not take the first opportunity to begin plotting." He sighed, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder. "You have until the war is won, lady. Then the games begin in earnest. Do you desire to be a pawn or a player?"

"Perhaps I wish to take myself off the board entirely."

Darkstar smirked but his eyes remained unaccountably sad. "You should know that such a thing is impossible. In death, Prince Rhaegar is now as much a piece on the board as he ever was in life. So, you must choose."

Larra wrinkled her nose, irritated, and rubbed her tired eyes. The fresh air from her ride with Rhaegal and the smokiness of the hall now exhausted her. "I do not have the capacity to think about it."

"Yes, you do," Darkstar said, a steely strength in his tone that reminded her of Jon. "You just do not wish to."

Frowning at Darkstar, Larra was prevented from replying by Samwell Tarly, who rushed over looking agitated, his hands full of raven-scrolls.

"What fresh hell is this?" Larra grumbled, and Darkstar smirked, his eyes flashing with amusement.

"There have been ravens, Larra," Sam blurted breathlessly.

"About the proclamations, I know – Gendry's caught me up."

"No – yes – no. This is something different," Sam said. "Ravens from the Neck, Larra, and from Gulltown and the Fingers."

"What has happened?" Larra asked sharply.

"Dothraki have been seen travelling south along the King's Road."

Larra frowned. "South? They were headed north – and the white mare rode amongst them."

"Maesters from the Neck have been sending ravens, keeping us updated: the Dothraki have left scores of their dead, burned, along the King's Road."

"So they have stopped the spread of the sickness?" Larra said, relieved.

"As much as they know how to," Samwell said. "They're brutally efficient: even the suspicion of sickness and they're cut down. They're burned, along with their possessions – even their horses – to stop the spread."

"Well, that is good news," Larra said. Had she not told the others that it was not up to them – or Rhaegal – to eradicate the threat of sickness, that the Dothraki were quite capable of doing so themselves? "So why are you cringing with worry?"

"There have been more ravens," Samwell grimaced, "from Moat Cailin, among others. The bogs had frozen over but with all the horses, the ice broke – they lost so many horses, the horde was forced to stop. They could see the horde from the battlements with a Far-Eye."

"And?"

"Well… It appears they turned on each other," Samwell said.

"The Dothraki were not made to ride in such numbers," Larra said grimly. "They were bound to come to blows – I am glad they did not make it here before such a thing happened."

"Well, now it seems they're divided. Most rode north, finding their own path around the bogs," Samwell said. "The others that survived tried to aggress Moat Cailin but gave up as soon as they realised how efficiently a few good archers can defend it… They turned south, back the way they had come. They've started attacking easier targets."

"What?" Larra's sharp tone made Samwell jump.

"It seems Lady Targaryen's influence over them has waned in her absence," Sam said. "They've been stealing livestock, poaching in the forests… People have fled to their lords' castles for protection. But if they couldn't reach them in time, if their lords barred the gates –"

"They've taken slaves."

"Ravens have been sent to ensure people are prepared for their coming but…"

"But winter has come," Larra said heavily. "People will be safe from enslavement but not starvation."

"I don't know what is to be done to help," Samwell said, his thoughtful face creasing with concern. What could be done for those under siege? Had not Robert Baratheon foreseen this?

"Let's say Viserys Targaryen lands with forty-thousand Dothraki screamers at his back. We hole up in our castles. A wise move. Only a fool would meet the Dothraki in an open field. They leave us in our castles. They go from town to town, looting and burning, killing every man who can't hide behind a stone wall, stealing all our crops and livestock, enslaving all our women and children… How long do the people of the Seven Kingdoms stand behind their absentee king, their cowardly king hiding behind high walls? When do the people decide that Viserys Targaryen is the rightful monarch after all?"

It wasn't the frightened and furious Viserys III Targaryen who had brought Dothraki to the shores of Westeros. But it was his sister who had allowed them to slip their leash. Cersei was a vicious idiot but Larra knew she would remember her conversation with Robert about the Dothraki hordes – it was the only time she had ever brought up Lyanna Stark, the one occasion Robert had been absolutely truthful.

But Cersei was also selfish. She would protect what was hers – she would protect King's Landing, the seat of her power, surrounded by hundreds of thousands who would have to die before any army reached her. And King's Landing had what other settlements did not: Blackwater Bay. The Dothraki feared saltwater, had no idea how to sail: they could not blockade the bay. At the very least, the people of King's Landing could fish the bay to survive, send ships to Essos. As for defending the city, well, its walls were strong. Yet Jaime Lannister had brought her pyromancers north. How could Cersei not just defend King's Landing but attack the Dothraki?

And how would Westeros respond to Lady Targaryen's hordes pillaging and enslaving? If she condemned the Dothraki, it would be admitting she had no control over them. It would show her as weak. She would never do such a thing. Not now. Before, perhaps. Had she not already been rejected by Meereen, there might have been a chance that Daenerys Targaryen would condemn the actions of the Dothraki who sullied her name… But if she got what she wanted – people turning against Cersei for her inaction in dealing with the threat of the Dothraki… What did it matter? Those who spoke against her would be dead anyway. But if she claimed the Dothraki acted on her behalf, she would invoke the wrath of every lord and lady in Westeros. No matter what she did, Daenerys Targaryen would be teetering on a double-edged sword.

And with news of Jon and Larra's true lineage…

The proclamations being disseminated now made a little more sense.

It was no longer a case of choosing sides between Cersei and Daenerys. There was another option. Jon was the better option – and the best hope they had.

It was the last thing Jon wanted.

"You mentioned Gulltown and the Fingers," Larra prompted. Samwell cringed again.

"There've been…bodies, washing ashore, for weeks," he said apologetically. "A raven came from House Elesham on the Paps, reporting the sinking of several ships during a brutal storm. Some of the ships were dashed upon the treacherous rocks off the shore of the island, others were swallowed by the waves. The maester said that after the storm abated, wreckage washed upon the shore of the Paps, including bodies of Unsullied. Coldwater, Snakewoods, even in Strong Song they've reported bodies of Unsullied washing up on the shore, dragged from the wreckage site by the strong currents."

Larra listened grimly, something tightening in her belly. The Dothraki had turned on each other, though some were resolutely trying to find their way north to their Khaleesi with her tremendous winged mount. Thousands of Unsullied had been claimed by the Drowned God.

The armies Lady Targaryen had committed…had been decimated.

There was a reason Larra had encouraged them all to plan for the assault of Winterfell with what they had already at Winterfell.

"Do we know if any of the Unsullied survived?" Larra asked.

"The storm was so bad, the maester couldn't be sure through the Far-Eye," Samwell said. "I'm afraid we'll just have to wait and see if any of Lady Targaryen's ships reach White Harbour."

Darkstar, his eyes alight with a strange irony, asked, "Who will tell Lady Targaryen that winter came for her armies?"

A.N.: There had to be repercussions for Daenerys re the armies mobilising in winter. No way the Dothraki wouldn't turn on each other when things got tough. Only the threat of Drogon kept them united. And if the seas were rough already when Sam and Gilly went south to Oldtown, they have to be horrendous now!

It really tickles me to imagine Darkstar and Larra talking. Darkstar, with his delicious Oberyn accent with the rolling Rs and Larra, with her blunt Northern accent – two ends of the accent spectrum!