Elphaba818:
I am so, SO SORRY READERS! I can't imagine how frustrated you've all been since May when this story was last updated! To put it simply, life has been so busy for me since May with being accepted into the Disney College Program that it was hard for me to make the time to keep writing! I had to be fully moved into my current apartment in Florida by June 15th, so right after posting the last chapter, every waking moment was devoted to preparing for my eventual move here! Then when I got here, I was immediately swamped with unpacking and preparing for my new job in the DCP. I am currently working in Epcot right now, as a quick service cast member of the World Showcase Festival food kiosks. The Food and Wine festival is currently going on in Epcot, and just about every day for about 7 hours I help out at a different food stand and either work the register or prepare food for guests. Some days I open the stands, some days I close them. My work schedule changes every week, so it's been completely impossible to set up a new writing schedule for myself. Whenever I'm not too tired in the morning before my shift or at night after my shift, I do my best to try squeezing out some writing for Howl of the Dragonwolves, but it's not easy! After a full year of not working at all, it's exhausting working for Disney! Still, I'm determined to give it my all here at Disney! If I can, I want to eventually become a full time cast member so I can then take part in the Disney Aspire program which is only available to full time employees. In Disney Aspire, Disney pays for you to continue your education for free! Getting into that program is probably the only way I'll be able to continue my animation studies, so yeah! I'm determined to give a 150% every day so I can eventually continue full time and get into that program!
Not to mention that on my days off, I'm enjoying my time here in Orlando. I've been visiting the theme parks with my complimentary admission pass, and I've even visited Universal a few times now! Plus my countless trips to Disney Springs and the Character Warehouse! I have absolutely no intension of abandoning HotD, so I will keep writing whenever I can, but please don't be mad at me for enjoying my free time here in Florida! I want to go to the beach at least once before the weather gets too cold! Can you blame me for enjoying myself? I love it here! And if you were all in my shoes right now, I think you'd be having fun here in Florida too!
With all that finally said, let's move onto the story! I'm pleased to note that at last we've reached the end of Season 5! It took us twenty-two chapters to get to this point and I'm sure some of you are annoyed by the slow-burn of this story, but I promise you that everything that's currently happening is happening for a reason! Now we can at last move on to Season 6, which I'm personally very excited to start writing now! Season 5 was our main introduction to Torrhen and Lyaella, but now we can move on to some great things that Longclaw and I have been planning for awhile now. Trust me, you're all going to love Season 6! We've got quite a few surprises in store for all of you! ;D
I think I've said everything I wanted to, so I'll pass the mic over to Longclaw now. I hope you all enjoy the chapter! And be sure to review when you're done! :D
Happy Reading!
- Elphaba818
Longclaw 1-6:
Sorry about the long wait… it's been an eventful time for us. But here we are and I hope you like it!
Chapter Twenty-Two: End of Innocence
Snowflakes floated down from the sky, the air crisp and cool. The Wall was standing tall and proud dead ahead, it's icy structure twinkling in the morning light. Lyaella had been too anxious when she first arrived in the past a year ago when her future father found her to truly appreciate it's beauty from afar, but even now when she could fully absorb it's greatness, she was hardly aware of it. She was staring at it right now without really seeing it.
No, all she could see were the weary, grateful faces of Tormund, Munda, and all the other Free Folk as they marched past the aged weirwood tree in the Haunted Forest and across the tundra to the entrance of the tunnel. Her father's tired, resigned dark eyes as he clutched her hand and dragged her along as he led the way for everyone. Sōnar's pained limp as she trudged through the snow at her side, too weak to fly thanks to her injury from the ice spear.
And worst of all, the ominous Night King raising his arms and reviving thousands upon thousands of dead men, women, and children to stand as one at his side, each one focusing it's icy blue eyes upon their small dinghy as they floated back to the ships.
Her left wrist flared in icy pain at the mere memory, and she immediately let go of Jon's hand to rub it warm through the bandage. The handprint scar around her wrist had stopped hurting within an hour of warming up in front of a fire, and according to some of the more of the medically-inclined Free Folk spearwives who'd survived the massacre, warming her wrist by soaking it in warm water until the chill was gone and then wrapping it would prevent it from getting worse. Still, for reasons no one could explain, just thinking about the King of the Dead would make her wrist ache and feel cold. Edd theorized it was just the memory of the traumatic encounter that made her subconsciously remember the pain. The Free Folk on the other hand speculated that whatever evil magic flowed through the Night King was the cause of the constant flare ups. Lyaella personally believed both sides were right. Magic was definitely the main reason her wrist was still hurting, but it probably only happened because she couldn't forget that horrible encounter.
After a lifetime of believing that the return of the Night King and the army of the dead were nothing more than a story her Stark relatives had spun to make themselves look like heroes and her parents look like mad fools, it was her punishment for not being willing to accept the truth. That's how she saw it, anyway.
"Something wrong, Lyaella?" Jon asked, making her look up.
She shook her head. "Mm-mm," she murmured, taking his hand again. "Just thinking, I guess." He was her hero and she felt so much safer with him — no longer was he someone on a page in A Song of Ice and Fire doing heroic deeds. Lyaella had seen him protect and save her with her own eyes… I love you, father. You're my hero.
Unaware of the secrets within her mind, he nodded once and tightened his grasp on her hand before picking up the pace. Lyaella didn't mind. The sooner they reached the tunnel, the sooner they could get inside the safety of Castle Black.
It seemed to take ages, but finally they were at the edge of the Wall. A long silence fell over everyone as Jon stepped out from the crowd. Craning back his neck, he gazed up wordlessly at the watch posts high above. Lyaella couldn't tell if he was looking up at anyone in particular — the top of the Wall was so far away she couldn't make out any of the watchers currently on duty — but she hoped that those up there would give the order to open the gates soon. It was so cold out here and she just wanted to warm up in front of a fire and tell Maester Aemon everything that happened at the Hardhome nightmare.
An eternity seemed to pass, but at last the gate began rising. Jon's tense stance visibly relaxed as he motioned everyone to follow him. Had he been worried the Night's Watch would leave them all stranded on this side of the Wall despite his orders? Perhaps he had been… Regardless, at least the Night Watch's was obeying him despite their personal feelings regarding the Free Folk.
Wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders, Jon kept her firmly at his side as he steered her into the tunnel, everyone else marching silently behind them.
Still, the solace and gratitude that flowed through the watcher's that had joined the expedition to Hardhome did not extend to the rest of the Night's Watch upon entering Castle Black's courtyard. Aside from a rare handful like Sam and Gilly, almost every other face in the Night's Watch was as cold and cutting as ice as Jon signaled for the gates leading out to the rest of Westeros to be opened. The men in charge of the entrance shook with fury, but did as he commanded without protest. With echoing creaks, the wooden gates swung open, and at last the final barricade blocking the Free Folk from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was officially gone.
Squeezing her shoulder again, Jon moved to continue leading the way beyond Castle Black, but Edd suddenly stepped forward. "I'll lead them all down to the Gift. You stay and focus here on Castle Black. Looks like our furious brothers aren't the only ones you're gonna have to deal with now."
"What? What d'you—?"
"Lyaella! Lyaella, you're back!"
Lyaella jolted, hardly believing her ears. She whipped around. Bounding down the steps to the upper walkways was none other than the friend she never expected to see again when leaving Castle Black. Yet the Princess of House Baratheon was not only alive and well, she was as cheerful as always and was beaming from ear to ear as she rushed towards them. At her heels was none other than Ser Davos, smiling in mirth at her delight before nodding cordially to her and Jon.
Words failed her as Shireen glomped her in a tight hug. She didn't reciprocate it. She didn't smile. She didn't move at all. Between everything that happened to her beyond the Wall and now seeing her friend still alive, she was struggling to process all that changes seemed to be occurring in the past in rapid succession.
Still, Shireen was blissfully unaware of the horrors that had happened at Hardhome. She was all smiles and chattering away like usual. It took Lyaella several seconds to remember to actually listen to what she was saying. "—worried when I saw you and the Lord Commander hadn't returned yet, but I'm glad you're back! It's great to see you! Judging by all the Wildlings here, I take it the trip to Hardhome was a success? And how's Sōnar? My father wanted me to ask you about her. I know you wish to stay neutral when it comes to my father's claim for the throne, but do you think you could possibly—?"
Ser Davos smiled, setting a hand on Shireen's shoulder. "Woah, princess. I know you're excited to see your friend, but let's give Lyaella here a moment to breathe. She's only just arrived, after all," he chuckled.
Shireen blinked. "Oh, right!" She giggled, her smile turning sheepish. "My apologies, Lyaella. I didn't mean to overwhelm you. I was just excited to see you again."
It took Lyaella several moments to find her voice. She meant to assure Shireen that it was all right, but her words were lost in her shocked daze and all she could say was, "Your alive…"
She tilted her head, pleasantly puzzled. "What? Of course I'm alive! Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're alive… You're alive…" Her vision blurred, and moments later all the tears she'd been holding in since escaping Hardhome burst forth as she threw her arms around her friend and sobbed. "You're alive!"
This time, it was Shireen's turn to be speechless. She blinked repeatedly, awkwardly patting her back as Lyaella sobbed into her shoulder. "Were you worried about me accompanying my father? He had Ser Davos and some of his men escort me back…"
"Why?"
"My mother persuaded him to. You made quite the impression on her before."
"What?" Lyaella said, breaking away in surprise.
Shireen shrugged. "I'm not sure. I can tell she still doesn't like you, but I guess what you said to her made her see you really don't mean any harm. I've never understood my mother, so I can't say for certain. All I do know is that she probably wouldn't have cared if I came back were it not for Sōnar."
Lyaella twitched. "P-Pardon…?"
"My mother convinced my father to send me back here because of Sōnar. They both think — and I agree — that you and her are my father's best chance at winning his upcoming battle against the Bolton's."
"B-But… But I already told y-your father that—"
"Yes, we remember. We know you initially told him no, but that was before the Bolton's men invaded my father's camp. They really crippled his forces…" Shireen paused, frowning in memory of the sneak attack. "We really need your help if there's any chance of my father winning. Please, Lyaella! Let us borrow Sōnar just for this one battle. My father's offer to you before still stands. If he wins, he won't hurt either of you, and he'll legitimize you under a surname of your choice as long as it's not Targaryen. Your brother too if he bends the knee."
Lyaella pressed her lips together, her body growing stiff. "I d-don't… I don't want that, nor does Torrhen."
"Lyaella, please—!"
"Shireen…" she stammered. "By the g-gods I am h-happy to see you, b-but your father's offer means n-nothing because it is nothing. He… He can offer to legitimize m-me and Torrhen as many times as he l-likes and even under the… t-the real Targaryen name. W-We won't accept. Not now, not ever."
Shireen stared, bewildered. From the corner of her eye, Lyaella could see Jon watching in stunned silence. It took everything she had to not flinch or shy away from his look of disbelief. To do so would mean she was ashamed of her own ideals, and she would never do that. She was shy and timid compared to her brother, but she was firm when it came to matters that were important to her.
"Then… Then if you won't do it for that, would you do it for me? Please, Lyaella!" Shireen seized her wrists, her eyes brimming with tears. "I love my father! And I know my mother was cruel to you, but I don't want her to die! I'm begging you, please!"
Lyaella softened, bowing her head as she fiddled with her dragon pendant. "I… I don't k-know what it's like to have p-parents who… who love m-me unconditionally, but you're my friend, Shireen. And I d-do know what… what's it's l-like to not have them. I'd help you and your f-father for those reasons alone… b-but I can't."
"Lyaella, please! Don't say no just because—!"
"N-No, I mean I really can't. Sōnar's h-hurt, Shireen."
Shireen jerked in surprise, turning at once to the snowy white dragon. Sōnar let out a low warble, hobbling forward a bit so the little doe could see the heavy bandages tightly wrapped around her thigh.
"Oh!" Shireen exclaimed, darting forward to see better. Ser Davos and even a few other Stormlands guards tried to stop her, but she easily slipped past their reaching hands and got up close to the dragon. "What happened?"
Lyaella sighed, head still hanging as she gave Sōnar an affectionate scratch in her favorite spot under her chin. Sōnar crooned despite her pain, eyes slowly closing as she leaned in closer to her little mistress. "She… S-She got hit. By t-the Night King…"
Her friend stared blankly. As did Ser Davos, her Stormlands guards, and other members of the Night's Watch who were listening that hadn't been at Hardhome. "Who?"
"The… The Night King…" she whispered, squeezing her scarred wrist. She shivered, the very memory of those icy blue eyes making a chill creep down her spine. "The… The King of t-the Dead… and the w-white walkers…"
The Stormlanders and a good portion of the Night's Watch pretended to cough or snort to hide their amused disbelief. The Free Folk still crossing through to their side of the Wall shot them nasty scowls, but they didn't stop chuckling. Shireen didn't though, nor did Ser Davos. The Onion Knight turned to Jon questioningly. Her future father nodded, confirming her words. Ser Davos blinked, bewildered.
Shireen on the other hand just kept staring at her. "Wait… you mean the old stories are real? I know Lady Melisandre told my father he's the Prince that was Promised and destined to ward off the darkness… but the stories are real? This so-called Long Night isn't just an old legend? Or a metaphor for something else?"
Tears flooded Lyaella's eyes again. Without a word, she pulled back the sleeve of her dress and unwrapped part of the bandage. Cringing at the sight of the scarred red and blue finger marks, she shyly held out her wrist so only Shireen could see it. Her friend gaped, stunned.
"H-He… He grabbed me there, Shireen. The N-Night King… He almost… almost killed me himself b-because I wouldn't l-let him kill S-Sōnar… If… If J-Jon and Tormund hadn't c-come when they did… m-me and Munda… And Sōnar… W-We'd… We'd all b-be…!"
Lyaella couldn't hold it in anymore. Tears ran down her face as she shoved her sleeve back down and threw her arms around Sōnar's neck, burying her face deep into her scales to suppress her sobs. Sōnar crooned, nuzzling her snout into her silver hair in comfort.
Shireen said nothing. She was too bewildered by Lyaella's reaction to speak, but she was nothing if not her usual kind self. Swallowing thickly, she patted Lyaella's back in reassurance. "I'm sorry, I… I didn't realize."
Lyaella didn't reply, but she did glance back in acknowledgment, her face red and puffy.
"Is — Is there anything I can do to help?" Shireen asked, her gaze flicking back warily at Sōnar's bandaged side. "Like — does she need a certain type of medicine or poultice? Does she need her bandage changed?"
"No… she just needs rest. I d-don't know what kind of magic the Night King used… but it's made Sōnar v-very weak. She's not up for… for m-much right now. I'm sorry…"
The look on the Baratheon princess's face was that of utter devastation, but she stayed silent and moved aside as Lyaella quietly led Sōnar towards the steps leading up to the wooden walkways. She hated having to crush Shireen's hopes like that, but she couldn't help her father even if she wanted to. Sōnar was in no condition to fly right now, and even her dragon fire was weaker than normal due to how much pain she was in. It would be cruel to force her to fly long distance to reach Winterfell just to keep flying while burning the Bolton's forces to a crisp.
She was so busy wiping away her tears that she only snapped out of it when she felt herself walk right into someone else. "S-Sorry…" she murmured.
"It's all right. Why so down, Lyaella?"
Lyaella jerked and looked up. Her feet had led her right back to Jon, and he gazed down at her curiously, concern reflecting in his gray eyes. Lyaella blinked up at him for a moment, then abruptly buried her face into the side of his cloak, hugging him tightly to muffle another loud sob. She felt her future father stiffen in surprise, but after a momentary delay he slowly patted her shoulder. "Hey, hey now. What's wrong?"
Lyaella didn't answer. She just hugged him even tighter.
Still, Jon seemed to understand anyway, and with an awkward clear of his throat he squeezed her shoulder affectionately to get her to look up. "It's all right. You — You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
She nodded, sniffling loudly.
Jon smiled. "Well… how about you come help me for now? I was about to fetch the maps to show Tormund where he can lead the Free Folk to settle. Though I'm having trouble deciding where they should go."
Lyaella straightened, her tears quickly ceasing. "You want — You want me to help you? Truly?"
"Of course. Is that all right? Not too boring for you?"
"No! No, not at all! I'd be happy to help you!" She couldn't do anything about Yerrah and all the others who died, but helping to find someplace good for Munda, Tormund, and the other survivors to settle would get her mind off her sadness.
"All right, this way."
Pressing her lips one last time against Sōnar's white scales for good measure, Lyaella whispered for her to find a quiet place to rest and recuperate before wiping away any lingering tears as she hurried after her father.
"So there's still no word of the Queen?" Missandei asked with apprehension as Ser Barristan and Daario burst into the small council chamber.
Barristan shook his head. "Drogon was last seen flying north… along the coast but away from the regions of the old Ghiscari empire."
"Small comfort at least." That comment earned a dark look from the translator, one Lord Tyrion seemed to shrink from — if one obtained the ire of Missandei, then usually one obtained the ire of the Queen. Such gave her much power and Missandei found that sometimes it could be useful. "I simply mean that if she and Torrhen are carried away, best that it be away from Yunkai or Astapor. Who knows what the masters would do with them?"
Still visibly shaken from the entire ordeal, Hizdahr needed several gulps of sweet wine to calm his nerves. Missandei would've normally rolled her eyes, but everything was unsettling and terrifying that she wished she could simply get drunk and forget it all. "Yunkai and Astapor are loyal to the Queen. Their councils would simply return her to us."
That did cause Missandei to roll their eyes. "Without our Queen, I doubt we'll keep any form of control over them." As the slave of Kraznys mo Nakloz, she understood how they operated. The masters that owned the most slaves were the authority even if they weren't the official authority, and not even dragons would stop them unless they were enveloped in the flames personally. "We need her grace to return."
"Well, I don't know if that's going to work," laughed Daario, which seemed more frustrated than anything else. "I knew it… I knew it from the moment that little shit tried breaking into the pyramid he'd be trouble."
Looking at him with narrowed eyes, Missandei knew of whom the sellsword was speaking. "Are you truly blaming Torrhen for this?"
Daario looked at her patronizingly, as if she made an idoitic comment. "Come now, Missandei. We all saw that stupid boy yell at the dragon… beast probably got so mad that he took them both to gods' know where to teach them a lesson."
"Ah yes, fire-breathing beasts acting like spoiled boys — that sounds more like something my idiot nephew would have done… only not as cruel." Tyrion calmly sipped at his wine. "But whatever the fact of the matter, what we saw in the fighting pits proves that Torrhen is the Targaryen bastard he claims. Not what branch he is but that he has the dragon's blood. Drogon wouldn't harm him lest he turns on the Queen."
"Which he could honestly do."
At the comment, Ser Jorah rose up. "Do not speak of the Prince as if he is some usurper!"
Another laugh, Daario playing with his lewd knife. "Remember, Jorah, the boy hates being called a Prince." Jorah did not look amused at that. "I've been asserting this from the beginning, the boy is just a liar looking to pawn himself off to our Queen for money, influence, something more sinister… I don't really know nor care, except now he has our Queen and we need to find her before he does something vile."
"The boy is not even entering manhood and has a powerful loyalty to her grace." Missandei remembered how close they had gotten, and cared for Torrhen. She saw him close to the nephew that he positioned himself as when he referred to her as almost like an aunt to him. Jorah viewed him as his redemption while Barristan saw him as a mentor would, but only Missandei viewed him as a boy — a darling, wonderful boy that ultimately was vindicated in his assertions and didn't deserve such horrid treatment. Not by his vile relatives in Westeros and not from Daario Naharis. "Unless you have something constructive to offer, I suggest you do not speak."
He grew visibly irritated. "You are not the Queen. You have no authority over me." Daario rose with a finger leveled at her, only for a low growl to be heard from under the table.
Missandei smirked, making everyone aware of the furry mass of black fur. "I suggest you choose your words carefully, Naharis." Glaring, he nevertheless crossed his arms and resumed his seat. Good boy, Shadow. The direwolf had been in her care since the Queen and Prince disappeared, and Missandei quickly figured out why Torrhen loved him so much. He was a delight, the most devoted of beasts.
As for Shadow himself, he lolled out his tongue as she scratched his fur.
Clearing his throat, Barristan stepped forward. "Now that this posturing contest is done, we need to figure out what we need to do."
"Find the Queen, I thought that would be obvious." At a chorus of glares, Tyrion held up his hands. "We don't want to cause a panic, and sending an army of Unsullied or Second Sons may attract the wrong sort of attention. Probably a small team — one that can blend in and not tip off the more… unsavory sorts in this part of the world."
"He's right." Jorah rose. "I'll go. This is all my fault, anyway."
"I'll do it as well," Daario remarked. "I've fought in these lands before so I know them."
"So… do… I…" In walked… or rather hobbled Grey Worm. He looked rather pale, fighting a sudden fever that gripped him in the last few days. The healers were confident he'd recover, but it put him back into bed rest.
Missandei knew this all, and seeing him brought her to her feet as she dashed to him. "Turgo Nudho. You should be asleep," she murmured in High Valyrian.
"I cannot sleep, not while the Queen and boy are missing." He tried to step forward, only to wince. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he was swaying as he walked. "I swore to fight for her and for House Targaryen and fight I shall."
Once translated, Barristan patted the man on the back. "Fight you will, Grey Worm, but not now." He sighed. "I'll lead this mission. Torrhen is my squire and I am the Lord Commander of the Queen's Queensguard. I failed his Grace, Prince Rhaegar on the field of battle… never will I allow his sister to suffer the same sort of fate." No one challenged the three of them.
"Well," Tyrion clapped his hands. "Now that that's taken care of, what do we do about our little visitor?"
At that, Missandei found a headache forming. She initially wanted to take Grey Worm back to bed, but instead called the servants to do it — watching him leave after squeezing his hand. This, however, needed her attention since it was such a novel issue. "We should bring him in. Interrogate him then let him go."
"He may have hostile intentions, given whom he serves." Previously silent, the recently arrived Lord Varys made himself known. Tyrion vouched for him, as did Barristan — albeit reluctantly. The council made the tentative decision to keep him until her grace returned… then they could deal with whether to keep Varys in the fold on a permanent basis. "But killing him will only anger them and that is not advisable."
The Golden Company. Famed enemies of House Targaryen, though they fought on behalf of the offshoot branch of House Targaryen, House Blackfyre. An oddity, both for the dragons and against them. "I'll speak with him alone," Missandei insisted.
Tyrion shook his head. "Not advisable. The council should…"
"That'll be enough, Lord Tyrion." Barristan made his voice heard. "I will accompany the lady in speaking with him. The rest of you see to the city — we want a prosperous and pacified realm to give to her grace and Prince Torrhen when they return."
"When you bring them back, you mean?" Missandei asked Barristan as they walked out of the chamber."
"Hopefully it won't come to that," the knight responded.
Two guards of the Second Sons watched over the envoy from the Golden Company — he had been confirmed disarmed, but one couldn't be too careful. However, with Ser Barristan being present the two weren't needed and Missandei dismissed them. "Good day," she said without delay. "We already know that you are a member of the Golden Company."
The nameless man looked up at her. Unlike many, there was no pretension that came with dealing with a former slave… nor a leer that came with dealing with a pretty woman below their station. "Aye, I am."
"Your name, then?"
"Allard Marcus… formerly of House Darry's retinue, or at least my father was."
Missandei nodded. "And I presume those were allies of House Targaryen?"
"Very loyal allies," Barristan answered for her. "So you joined the Golden Company not with Daemon Blackfyre's loss but with Aerys Targaryen's loss."
"Aye, I joined after Rhaegar Targaryen died. Was no point in it anymore, unlike you — Barristan the Bold." The implication on his part was obvious. Missandei knew the story, and while the Queen had forgiven Barristan kneeling to Robert Baratheon there were others that clearly didn't.
She couldn't afford to mire herself in petty squabbles like this, though. "If you have business with the Queen then speak plainly. I am busy."
A laugh from Allard Marcus. "According to my commanders I have no business with the Queen, only the bastard dragon." That certainly got their attention. "But for me, I came to see both. Mayhaps an alliance can be formed where you pay us and we fight for the both of you."
"Would the Golden Company be amenable to fighting for a trueborn Targaryen of Daeron's line rather than Daemon's?"
He shrugged. "Can't be sure, but they'd fight for the boy. Doubtless to say he's a true dragon after facing down the Black Dread Reborn." Marcus' face fell though. "So the Queen and the boy aren't here?"
Missandei didn't answer. "We won't release you just yet, but you will be treated as a guest until the council can decide what to do with you." She called in the guards and had him escorted to his quarters. "Well…" She ran a hand through her frizzy hair. "Seems Torrhen's wish might come true."
"Depends on if the Queen can meet their terms, cause he won't betray her or mount his own claim. If they want to follow him then they'd have to follow her as well." Missandei nodded in agreement.
"Lady Missandei," stated an Unsullied messenger, clasping his fist on his chest as he entered the chamber. "There is a visitor from Westeros that has asked to see the Queen."
Missandei looked at Barristan with a curious raise of the eyebrow. "Did you inform him that the Queen isn't available to see either petitioners or envoys?"
"He says he doesn't care… only that he wishes to see her Grace. That he was informed by the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch that…"
"Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?!" At Barristan's surprised tone, Missandei found him very pale, eyes wide. "By the name of Jon Snow?"
"He said his name was Cotter Pyke, but that Jon Snow was the one that sent him, yes."
"What do these names—?"
"We will meet with him." The Unsullied bowed and left to carry out Barristan's directive.
Missandei snapped around. "What is this, Ser Barristan? What is so important about Jon Snow?" The name meant nothing to her.
There was a pregnant pause while Barristan thought… as if he were trying to think of a plausible answer — each moment that passed made Missandei more and more suspicious before he finally replied. "Jon Snow is the bastard son of Eddard Stark. Perhaps he'd have a clue regarding Torrhen's family and we should see what he has to say."
A lie, but not an obvious one. Missandei couldn't attack it for now. "Fine. I'll meet with this Cotter Pyke with you." What could a bastard son of one of House Targaryen's most ardent opponents want with her Grace? She honestly had no clue, and it scared her.
"So you're putting the Free Folk here?"
Smiling at Lyaella as she studied the map, Jon nodded. "Aye. Probably best they're not close to the Wall and Castle Black, or to House Umber, so I'll settle them in Alysanne's Gift."
She seemed intrigued. "Alysanne? You mean the Good Queen?"
"You do know a little of your family's history then?" Jon asked, surprised. From what it seemed, her relatives had actively hindered her and her brother from knowing of their past… half of their blood. It bothered him greatly, knowing just how horrible it was to be sundered from half of what one was — he'd give anything to know his mother's history and bloodline.
Lyaella bit her lip. "The Good Queen is probably the only Targaryen liked in the North," she offered.
"Not true." Jon chucked her chin. "We're in the North now and I happen to like you very much," he said genuinely.
For the moment, she didn't say anything, but the warmest smile soon bloomed on her face. "Thank you." And without warning she threw her arms around his waist and hugged him. "Thank you for everything."
Jon automatically tensed, but soon forced a chuckle as he gently ruffled her hair. "You're welcome." He didn't know what else to say. Ever since Hardhome, Lyaella seemed to be more attached to him than ever before. He knew it was because he'd fought to protect her and her dragon from the army of the dead, but he honestly felt like he hadn't done much in regards to the Night King himself.
More and more did he play it back in his mind the things he hadn't noticed in the heat of the moment. The minute he'd charged between him and the little girl, the Night King had been on the defensive. Jon hadn't cared. He'd assumed it'd been because Tormund had killed his white walker with one of the dragonglass daggers. Getting Lyaella and Tormund's surviving daughter out of danger had been more important than chasing after him, so aside from verifying that the giants grabbed Sōnar and Ghost and Tormund had his daughter, Jon didn't dare linger any longer. He'd simply grabbed Lyaella and ran.
Still, she didn't act this way around Tormund on the way back. Sure, she smiled at him a bit more and was friendly around his daughter, but she only glomped him in hugs whenever she saw him. It made Jon feel slightly awkward, but he felt it best to let her do it if she wanted. She'd been in such a funk after encountering the army of the dead, any form of happiness he could offer her was good in his opinion.
And he found that he liked her hugs as well, uncomfortable as they made him sometimes.
Unfortunately, their happy bubble was soon burst. "Jon…" Sam burst into the room, puffing… "Oh, Lya. Good. I… need…"
"Sam, Sam!" Jon hurried around his desk, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. "Breathe, and talk slowly."
What he said next shattered the both of them. "Maester Aemon… I think he's on his last legs."
"Egg… Egg…" The frail yet loud voice of the Targaryen maester could be heard through the door. "Muna's looking for you… come back…" Taking a deep breath, Jon opened the door and was faced with a toasty heat — such was all that could be considered comfortable about the maester's chamber, for the stench of decay and oncoming death hung like a noxious cloud.
Gilly, where she'd been sitting in the chair next to Aemon's bedside, rose and headed for them. "Thank the gods, yeh've come." She kissed Sam on the cheek before clasping Jon's upper arm and motioning for the bed. "He's been callin' for yeh."
Frozen at his side, Lyaella stilled and tears filled her eyes as she stared at the bed. Placing a hand on her shoulder, Jon felt her reach up and squeeze tight — seeking a comfort that he gave her in any way he could. "How's he doing?" The answer to the question was obvious, but Jon knew he had to ask.
Sam sighed. "Close. His time is coming, his watch ending."
"No!" Lyaella's voice filled the room, running to Maester Aemon's side. "Uncle! Uncle, please don't leave me!" Her tears were unabashed at this point, gently hugging him as best as she could. "You can't leave me… you're the only one who knows, how can I trust anyone else?"
Jon blinked. Maester Aemon knew a secret about Lyaella? What was it? Why'd she need to keep it a secret? Yet he shoved his questions aside. This man — one of the smartest men he had ever known alongside his father and uncle — was her last surviving relative aside from her missing brother and far off relation in Essos. The last two Targaryens in Westeros for all Jon knew, and Lyaella was feeling a pain unimaginable. Jon had felt the same when hearing of Ned Stark's death, of Robb's death.
He couldn't blame her for only fully trusting him. Especially not when it came to Maester Aemon, of all people. The old blind man was like the grandfather he'd never known. The sorrow welled in his gut just as agonizingly, but as the Lord Commander he needed to be strong. For Lyaella, he needed to be strong. "Lya," he murmured, going to her. "All we can do is wait…"
She shook her head, trembling with grief and fear. "I can't lose him… I just can't… there is no one else…"
"You can stay here," Sam offered. "He'd want his family with him."
Nodding, Jon stroked Lya's cheek — she leaned into the touch, accepting his affections. Jon's hand automatically stiffened, but Lyaella didn't appear to notice and he didn't dare pull away. It still seemed a little odd how attached Lyaella seemed to be to him, but it appeared he was going to have to get used to it. To deny her comfort now would make him no different than how he felt during the one vague recollection he had when he was a boy that he'd made the mistake of trying to go to Lady Stark for comfort after skinning his knee playing with Robb and he'd tried calling her 'mother.'
Lady Stark had not been pleased, and he learned from that day on to never try calling her such again. The mere memory of that day still made his cheek sting from the phantom pain.
"You'll be here for him… I promise." She still hesitated, not wanting to let go of the weakly breathing old man before her. "I'll stay too, if you want, Lya. You won't have to be alone." Then she looked up at him, her gray eyes shining with tears in the low firelight. For a moment, Jon was taken aback… her eyes reminded him so much of both Sansa and Arya, the first during the rare occasions she sought comfort from him if their father or Lady Stark was busy and she couldn't find Robb when Arya threw mud at her pretty dresses, and the latter when Septa Mordane cracked her knuckles after she'd skipped her lessons to train in archery and swordplay with him and their brothers. Their eyes haunted his deepest dreams, as he'd never see them again. Just like he'd never see their father's, Robb's, Bran's, or Rickon's again either. But the moment soon ended as she nodded to him, disentangling from Aemon and moving to join him in a chair by his side.
"Shae…" A gnarled hand reached out and grasped Lyaella's arm, making her wheel around to look at Aemon. Jon stilled as well, focusing back on his dying mentor. "Shae… I… I dreamed I was old…" he murmured with his toothless lips, violet eyes hazy.
Lyaella blinked, biting her lip. "Who's Shae?" she asked in a soft voice.
Not knowing what to tell her, Jon looked back at Sam. His friend cleared his throat. "Perhaps Shaena Targaryen, his niece — her father was Aegon V, perhaps that was 'Egg' earlier?" Jon shrugged. Made as much sense as any.
Looking back to Aemon, Jon was somewhat startled that his cloudy violet orbs were suddenly more focused… as if he weren't blind anymore. Aemon's fingers brushed along Lyaella's face, bringing more and more clarity to his expression. His mind clearly rallying. "Lya… oh my sweet, dear great-niece."
"I'm here, uncle," she replied, leaning over to grasp his hand. "Please… don't die. I love you."
"And I love you too, hatchling, more than I could possibly imagine." His voice was weak, frail, but unlike before it was firm with resolve. "But my time has come."
"No… no, no, no…"
His hand continued to stroke her cheek as Jon rubbed her back, the two of them trying to calm her. "I have lived a full life, one of joy and of sorrow. Gods, I feared I would not know true joy again in my last days upon this world, but you brought it to me." He managed to coax Lyaella to look at him through her teary eyes. "In peace I can go now to my family, knowing that those who are left are in good hands."
But Lyaella shook her head. "You can't go. I need you, uncle! Please…" She sobbed again, burying her face in his nightshirt. "You — You still have to meet Torrhen! And Queen Daenerys! Please, don't go…!"
"Shhh… shhh." Jon's heart was breaking, both at Lyaella's pain and the resignation in Aemon's face. Was this what his father looked like in the moments before his death? Did Robb? An almost serene contemplation? Ygritte's had been. "Do not fret, hatchling. You are stronger than you know, do you understand me?" Lyaella looked up at him, eyes still watering but meeting his unseeing gaze. "You have the blood of Old Valyria inside you, the fire of a dragon," he murmured weakly. "But more than that, you are of the North. Of ice and snow. The blood of the First Men flows through your veins, and the stories of them and the Children of the Forest are even more legendary than Old Valyria and our dragons. Keep your friends close. Embrace your fire and ice — you will win if you do." He grabbed her hand and squeezed it in his. "Promise me."
She sobbed, but smiled softly. "I sh-shall, uncle… I promise…"
"Tell your brother and Queen Daenerys when you find them that I love them, child."
Lyaella only cried even harder. Sniffling loudly, she hugged him close. Maester Aemon only smiled, gently stroking her hair as he returned it.
Eyes shut for most of it, feeling a sudden sorrow overcome him that he couldn't explain, Jon moved to guide Lyaella to her chair when Aemon reached for him. "Egg… my boy… come here…" the old man feebly begged.
Jon was confused, but couldn't deny his mentor his last request. "Yes, Maester Aemon? This is Jon Snow…"
"I know, my boy, I know," he replied, voice increasingly hoarse and rambling — his breathing uneven. "By the gods, you've grown from what you were." Jon felt a great pride at impressing Aemon. "But you're not there yet, kill the boy and let the man be born."
Again with that request, but Jon nodded. "I'll be the man they need me to be, Maester."
Aemon nodded. "Do… do something for me, my son." He weakly pointed towards the hearth, which was crackling with warmth. "There are… loose stones. Pull them aside. Remove what is within."
Unable to deny the request, even if the point of it was lost to him, Jon made his way to the hearth and reached for the loose stones. Sure enough, while they looked firm the mortar was but weak plaster and it gave easily, Jon shoving around the stones to shimmy them out of the way so he could reach inside. The secrets these walls hold within. A literal secret, apparently, that Aemon was keeping in the stone.
Behind him, he heard Aemon speaking to Lyaella again. "Child… my final gift for you. I finally remembered where I hid it. Something worthy of a proper Targaryen hand, be it yourself or another you deem more worthy." He coughed. "The one who held it last was tasked by my grandfather to bring glory with it as its wielders did before him, but he was undeserving. A wretch at heart that nearly brought doom on us all." Jon never heard so much venom in Aemon's voice… not even when speaking of the unnamed maester that gave Lyaella such a horrid concoction for her wheezes.
Finally taking out the final stone, Jon saw something glittering within. He reached inside and grabbed something wrapped in a burlap bundle. "Is this it, Maester Aemon?"
Letting the old man feel it, Aemon smiled toothlessly. "Aye, that is it. Give it to her, my son."
Furrowing his brows, Jon removed the burlap and found a sword… immediately his eyes widened, jaw dropping. Even Sam — who was silently being coaxed to leave with red eyes by Gilly — couldn't help but gasp, freezing in mid-step in utter disbelief. It was something from the books and songs he read as a child, wielded by the greatest warriors… "Dark Sister?"
"Aye, Dark Sister."
Gilly glanced back and forth between him with the blade and Maester Aemon before tugging on Sam's sleeve and murmuring her confusion. For once, Sam completely ignored her, too dumbstruck to register her inquiries. Lyaella on the other hand tilted her head, puzzled. She stepped closer, standing on the tips of her toes to see the blade better. "What's Dark Sister? And why hide a sword in a wall, uncle?"
Sam stared at her, but Jon did a double take. Did she really not know what this was…? He knelt in front of her and held out the blade. "Lyaella, do you know what Valyrian steel is?" She blinked but nodded. "This… This is a Valyrian steel sword."
"It is?" She glanced back down at the weapon, surprised yet not overly astounded. "I thought — I thought Longclaw was the only one at Castle Black."
Jon swallowed. "So did I 'til now… But Lyaella — this sword… this is legendary—"
"Legendary? I know Valyrian steel's rare, Jon, but lots of rich House's have one."
His lips parted, words escaping him as he shook his head. She didn't get it. She really didn't get it. She was a smart little girl. Smarter than him, actually — not counting her trip beyond the gate at Hardhome — but in this instance… No. This wasn't stupidity. This was sheer ignorance due to how her relatives refused to educate her and her brother on even the most basic historical facts about her true House. It wasn't her fault. Still, he had to close his eyes as he felt a flare of heated rage spark within him for her and her brother's treatment. The maester could be the one directly responsible for her medical abuse, but this? This was just sad. How low and dishonorable could these aunts and uncle of hers be to not even tell this little girl about one of the most famous artifacts of House Targaryen? One believed to have been lost for generations?
It took everything he had to keep a steady voice. "Lya, do you… do you know who Visenya Targaryen was?"
Lyaella furrowed her brow. If he didn't know better, he'd say she looked almost offended by the question. "I might not know much about House Targaryen, Jon, but even I know that. She helped Aegon conquer Westeros. She was his sister-wife queen. Like Queen Rhaenys."
"Aye. Aye, that's right… And did you know she was called The Warrior Queen?"
She immediately brightened, smiling wistfully as she nodded. "Torrhen and I like pretending we're Torrhen Stark and Visenya Targaryen when we spar. He likes it when he wins and pretends the King of Winter has made the Warrior Queen bend the knee." She giggled lightly. "He's cocky sometimes, but it's okay. We like playing that game!"
Maester Aemon chuckled, bringing forth another round of hoarse coughing. Sam and Gilly exchanged incredulous looks as they helped him sip some water, yet Jon merely blinked. He and Robb would often play make believe like that when they were little, but he hadn't been expecting that. Arya liked to pretend she was Visenya when she was Lyaella's age, but for Targaryen bastards to be playing pretend about Torrhen Stark bending the knee and actually laughing when they pretended Torrhen Stark triumphed over Aegon the Conqueror — or Visenya, in this case? He'd have to remember to ask her more about her brother one of these days. He knew the boy had a direwolf like him, but he was struggling to process how any boy related to Lyaella could willingly play make believe like that without getting overwhelmed and shutting down from lack of confidence, especially since they pretended Torrhen Stark won.
He shook his head, purposefully clearing his throat. "I see… I take it neither of you know that Aegon and Visenya each had their own Valyrian steel swords when they conquered Westeros, do you?"
"They did? Really?"
"Lyaella… Dark Sister was the sword of Visenya Targaryen." She jerked, her gray eyes bulging. She gaped at him for several seconds before finally letting her gaze drop back down to the sword. "Maester Aemon, do you truly mean to give this to her?"
Aemon nodded. "There is no one left of me that should be the one to hold onto it than her. Take it, child." Holding the cold, smooth steel and removing it slowly from Jon's hands, she looked in awe of the blade. Jon could understand — he wielded a Valyrian steel blade in Longclaw, but something about Dark Sister… He couldn't put his finger on it, but it felt right to be with that sword. Seeing Aemon bid him closer, Jon complied. "Protect her, Jon… protect the sweet hatchling. I leave her in your care."
"But Maester…"
"No… I'm close… so close. Please, give me your word on your blood, that she'll be safe with you. Gods…" Aemon coughed, but was too weak for it to be more than a murmur.
Jon reached out and clasped his hand. "I promise, Maester Aemon. I'll make sure no harm comes to her. You have my word as the son of House Stark."
"You are much more than just that, my dear boy," Aemon replied. Reaching up, his hand cupped Jon's cheek, feeling him as he did to Lyaella only moments before. One last look at the young bastard boy that had risen to Lord Commander based on his vote alone. "You're just like him… look, act just like him." A faraway look appeared in his milky eyes. "Egg… my sweet Egg… he failed… but you… st-still have… time…"
"Maester Aemon, just rest, don't tire yourself…" Lyaella behind him, Sam on the other side, Jon reached over and clasped Aemon's hand, feeling him squeeze and squeezing back. "It will all be alright, I promise."
"Kill… the boy… and let… the man… be born… Egg…" With a final gasp of breath, exhaled softly, Aemon Targaryen's eyes closed for the last time.
Jon let go of the now limp hand, easing it down gently right by Aemon's side. "Farewell, Aemon Targaryen. Your watch has ended." Across the bed, Sam and Gilly bowed their heads in respect, tears in the eyes of the portly novice.
None could compare to Lyaella, who simply fell apart. What had been sobs turned to wails, the poor girl burying her face in her hands and bawling her eyes out. Ghost was on his feet, whimpering and nuzzling Lya with his snout and fur. He wasn't the only one. Falling to his knees, Jon enveloped Lyaella in a tight embrace. Soon, both were openly crying — mourning the loss of a man who had touched their lives in unimaginable ways.
They were both now alone… with only each other, and only one truly realized it.
Her son warbled, nosing his snout through her hair.
"Not now, Drogon. Please."
He growled indignantly, butting his snout against her harder.
"Drogon, enough. Not now."
A low snarl emanated from him, and he snorted thick puffs of smoke in her face.
"Drogon!" — the black dragon tensed, unaccustomed to her sharp tone — "I will tend to you next, I promise! For now, enough! Sit down and wait patiently!"
There was a tense pause, but finally he grunted and hobbled some ways off to roast a goat for himself a little further down their grassy plateau. It pained Dany to be so harsh with her son, but she forced herself to ignore the ache in her chest and continued binding Torrhen's wounds. Drogon had carried them so far from civilization that there was literally no one around aside from the three of them. When he'd first landed, she'd begged and pleaded with him to bring Torrhen and herself back to Meereen. While Torrhen's injuries weren't at all life threatening, he still needed proper care from a Ghiscari healer and by now the Harpy attack would be long over. But Drogon was in no condition to make the long flight back. A quick examination revealed that aside from one or two deep cuts, most of his wounds were superficial, so he'd be better after some rest.
Problem was, Drogon wanted to rest and recuperate now rather than later despite their current location. Hence why Dany was left with no choice but to rip off strands of fabric from the skirt of her dirty white dress to clean and bind Torrhen's injuries. Like Drogon, most of his cuts and scrapes were merely flesh wounds and would heal up easily, but he one gash across his shoulder blades was particularly bad. Part of her suspected it needed proper sewing, but with no one around and she not knowing any other medical knowledge, all she could do was apply pressure on the gash and bind it as tight as she could.
And considering she knew he was truly of House Targaryen now, cauterizing the wound wasn't an option either. Targaryen's were known as the unburnt, after all.
A low groan from her patient brought her back to the present, and she watched as Torrhen shifted around across the grassy knoll before slowly opening his eyes. "Ugh… ow, my back… Queen Daenerys?"
She smiled and brushed away a few loose curls covering his eyes. "Hello, Torrhen. How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been trampled by a thousand horses. I'm — argh!" He yelped, his hands flying to his shoulders as he struggled to sit up. "Seven fucking hells!"
Dany swiftly wrapped an arm around him and helped prop him back against a nearby boulder. "Easy. Easy there. That cut is particularly bad, and I can't sew it properly."
"Cut? What cut?"
"You don't remember? Back in the Fighting Pits. During the sneak attack by the Harpies."
He blinked at her for a moment, but then recognition lit up his face. "The Harpies! We were — We were surrounded! We all escaped?!"
She frowned. "No, unfortunately not. Drogon arrived and he brought both of us to safety. Though only after you calmed him down from his rage."
Torrhen furrowed his brows, trying to remember. It took him a second, but then he nodded. "Aye, that's right. He was outta control…"
Dany bristled. "He found us being cornered and about to be killed. It's only natural he be enraged about that."
"Aye, aye, your grace. If you insist… where are we, anyway? We're not in Meereen anymore, are we?"
She shook her head. "No, it seems Drogon's carried us off into the great unknown. I tried asking him to take us back, but he's being stubborn."
Clutching his right shoulder, Torrhen gritted his teeth and hobbled to his feet. Dany quickly tried to help him up, but he politely waved her away, determined to rise on his own. It took him a few tries, but finally he was able to lean against the boulder slightly and turn to gaze at the injured black dragon. Within seconds, his eyes were as wide as saucers.
"Drogon!" He cried, hobbling towards him as fast as he could despite his pain. Dany hurried after him, ready to catch him in case he fell. Thankfully, that didn't happen. Even so, Torrhen was undeterred and kept going until he was right beside her son. "Drogon, are you okay?!"
Drogon sluggishly lifted his jaws away from the goat he'd been devouring and snorted irritably. Torrhen ignored this and instead focused on Drogon's wounds. Dany couldn't help but stare. While she was glad Torrhen seemed to be worried about Drogon, his reaction was puzzling. It was just like when he met Rhaegal and Viserion. He seemed to like Drogon and was worried about him, but up until now he hadn't shown all that much interest in bonding with her sons. Was it possible he'd been waiting until now to pick out a dragon for himself? Did he want to become Drogon's rider? But what about all that talk about wanting to become the first Targaryen-born direwolf rider? Had he changed his mind?
She had no time to mull over these thoughts, because suddenly Torrhen was yelling back absentmindedly over his shoulder. "Shadow! Shadow, see if you can find me some thick, leafy plants! We can try binding Drogon's wounds with those!"
Dany tensed. "Torrhen—"
"Not now, your grace. I'm trying to help your dragon. Oy, Shadow! Hurry up, bud!"
"Torrhen, it's only the three of us out here. Shadow's back in Meereen."
His head immediately snapped to her. For a long moment, only the whistle of the wind could be heard as Torrhen stared at her. His face was rigid, as though a whirlwind of thoughts were racing in his head all at once and he couldn't decide which emotion he should settle on. Finally he pressed his lips together and pointedly turned his back to her before walking away.
"Torrhen! Where are you going?"
"To find some thick, leafy plants," he snapped, his voice incredibly tight. "I don't know shit about medical balms or ointments, but Drogon needs something on those wounds."
Dany stared. Torrhen was angry. Very, very angry. That was nothing new… but it was the way he was expressing his anger that puzzled her. It was like he was bottling up his anger and refusing to acknowledge it. Under normal circumstances, Dany would take that as a sign that he was trying to follow Ser Barristan's tutelage and trying to act more honorably rather than stamping his foot and screaming his head off. But something was wrong. When Torrhen normally tried to follow Ser Barristan's advice, he'd at least huff or roll his eyes before pouting. This, though? He was seething so hard, she could see the muscles in his neck bulging against the strain to remain calm. He was squeezing his fists so tightly they looked white, and even his voice held a dangerous edge to it. Something right now had him straining to control his temper… but why? Why was he suddenly so angry?
Murmuring to Drogon they'd be right back, she hurried after the boy as he trudged further down the grassy plateau. "Torrhen — I appreciate your concern for my son, but we shouldn't wander too far. Drogon can carry us back as soon as he rests a little."
Torrhen scoffed as he stomped up to a patch of reeds growing along the bank of a stream. "D'you only think of your dragons as your sons whenever it's convenient for you?!" He snapped, sifting through the plants for the largest, thickest leaves. "You're heartless!"
She jerked. "Excuse me?"
He plucked out thick, leafy reed after thick, leafy reed. "You heard me! It's not like you were all that worried about Drogon while he was alone, and now you don't care about tending to his wounds?! You really don't have a single motherly instinct, do you?! Heartless!"
"Torrhen, I'm warning you—!"
"Anyone who really cared about their son wouldn't dare treat them like that! They'd — They'd stay with them every second and wouldn't leave their side until they were back to normal! You don't even really care about Drogon or your other dragons at all, do you?! You only love your title of Mother of Dragons, not them!"
She saw red. If Torrhen said anything else after that, she didn't hear it. The blood pounding through her head made it impossible to hear anything over the thumping of her heart, and within seconds she seized Torrhen's shoulder, whipped him around, and slapped his cheek.
All was silent on the plateau after that, the breath of the wind whispering through the grass all that could be heard. Torrhen was frozen, his eyes impossibly wide as he stared up at the queen whilst cupping his reddening cheek. A small part of Dany was shocked herself at her own actions — Torrhen had never once attempted to strike her or others, after all — but she schooled her face into an appropriate authoritative glare.
"I have been more than patient with your bad behavior, Torrhen," she seethed, her every word brimming with suppressed fury. "I've stood aside and allowed only Ser Barristan to punish you, as it is his right as your liege knight. But no longer! From this moment on, you will take care when speaking to me, your queen. If you even consider back talking me, you will sorely regret the consequences. Do you understand me?"
Torrhen thickly swallowed, glancing down at his feet for a moment before hesitantly meeting her eyes, his gaze still angry yet accepting. "Aye, your grace… though may I ask one question, first?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Take care in how you phrase it, but certainly."
The muscles in his face went tense, his anger returning slightly, though this time he kept it under control. "Are you honestly ordering this of me only because you've had enough of my tongue, or because you've seen for yourself that I have the blood of the dragon in me and you couldn't look past your mistrust to act more like a role model for me before that?"
Dany blinked, her anger receding somewhat. Was that what was bothering him? The idea that she hadn't believed him about being a Targaryen prior to seeing how Drogon responded to him?
Her silence made him sneer. "Guess that settles that," he grumbled. Kicking the toe of his boot at a lone pebble nearby, he gathered up the last of the reeds and promptly shoved them in her arms. "Here! Get these on the only son you claim to care about. Hurry up!" He then spun around and stormed further down the grassy hill.
"Torrhen! Torrhen, get back here!" Dany cried, dropping the clippings and hurrying after him. "Where are you going?"
"To find more leafy plants, obviously!"
"Hold on! We must stay together, Torrhen! We can't just—!"
A shout from beyond the next hill cut her off. Torrhen paused mid-step, looking ahead curiously, but Dany froze in terror. That shout… it hadn't been made by someone in pain or someone looking for help. That had been the yell of a war cry. One she hadn't heard for a few years now, but she still knew quite well.
Thinking fast, she closed the distance between herself and Torrhen and promptly clamped him to her side. He immediately tried shoving her away. "Oy! What're you—?!"
"Shut your mouth. Now."
Dany didn't know if it was the carefully schooled neutral look on her face, the tenseness in her arm as she kept him firmly at her hip, or the severity in her tone as she snapped at him that made Torrhen stop, but to her great relief he listened for once. He still looked somewhat mad, but his confusion between the sudden far-off shout and the rapid change in her emotions had won out for now and he was at least being reasonable. He stared at her puzzled for a few seconds before following her gaze to glance out at the next hill some ways off.
Perched atop the grassy bank was the dark silhouette of a lone horseback rider. He was staring at them, unmoving. Then, quite suddenly, he cupped a hand around his mouth and let out another war cry at the top of his lungs to something behind him that neither of them could see. Moments later, another rider appeared, followed by another, then another, two more, three more… No, an entire group of riders were galloping down from the ridge, all of them yelling war cries as they raced to reach her and Torrhen. As they drew closer, it became evident that they were all bare chested and bronzed from the sun, with dark hair trailing down their backs in long, heavy braids.
Torrhen suddenly stiffened, now realizing for himself who they were. "Your grace… are — are they—?"
"Dothraki screamers? Yes, Torrhen," she said shortly, not daring to tear her eyes away from the approaching horde. As discretely as she could, she slowly removed her arm out from clutching Torrhen to slowly tug her mother's ring off her finger.
"What're you—?"
"Do not look at me. Ignore the ring," she murmured, still not daring to tear her eyes away form the riders as she dropped the ring by their feet. "They're going to capture us, Torrhen. And that ring will tell those who come searching for us that we were here. For your own sake, do not object to whatever they do to us. Keep your opinions to yourself. Do you understand?"
He stared at her, but for once he listened. Nodding only once, he forcibly turned his eyes to the approaching swarm as they began circling them. He gulped and instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword, but Dany squeezed his shoulder.
"Don't. There are too many. You'll just provoke them. Let them confiscate it."
Torrhen was definitely miffed by this, but he kept his mouth shut and let his hand fall away from his sword. Seconds later, the leaders of the horde were dismounting their horses and approaching them with thick, heavy ropes.
"His name was Aemon Targaryen. Born crown prince to the Iron Throne, he came to us from King's Landing. He was a maester of the Citadel, chained and sworn, and then sworn brother of the Night's Watch. He was the wisest, gentlest, and kindest among us all… Here at the Wall, countless lord commanders came and went during his service, and he always counseled them fairly. He was the blood of the dragon, of Old Valyria… but now his fire's died out. And now his watch has ended."
"And now his watch has ended," Jon solemnly echoed with the rest of the Night's Watch. Waiting only a moment longer as Sam sighed and reluctantly turned to accept a torch from Edd, Jon took his own torch from Olly and nodded the go-ahead. Without a word, he and Sam lit the kindling from both ends.
There was a crackle and pop, and moments later the pyre slowly caught ablaze. All was silent in the courtyard as the flames spread across the timber, licking away at the wood as they crept closer to the body of the kind old man who had been lain to rest in the middle. They had dressed Maester Aemon in his finest black robes, his maester chain gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. He had such a peaceful look on his face, one could almost be forgiven for thinking he had merely fallen asleep. Almost…
A low sniffle broke through the silence of the crackling embers. Jon turned. Lyaella had her face buried in the skirts of Gilly's dress, half-clinging to the Free Folk woman for comfort and to muffle her sobs, half-peeking out sparingly at the funeral pyre with red eyes and teary cheeks. She had initially tried sticking close to him through the whole funeral, but as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch he had to help Sam light the pyre and therefore needed to stand with the other officers through the whole proceedings. The poor girl was a wreck as she watched from the sidelines with Gilly, but Gilly was doing her best to console her. She cradled Lyaella to her chest and softly stroked her silver hair. Shireen stood with them, murmuring soft words of comfort as she patted her shoulders. Even Sōnar and Ghost tried to help, crooning and whimpering kindly as they snorted in her bangs and butted their snouts against her sides.
It was no use, though. All their efforts accomplished was making Lyaella struggle more at muffling her sobs as she cried harder.
Jon's chest clenched. It was so strange. Not even five years ago he would have traded his right hand to be at the front of a gathering like this, feeling important and being the one everyone looked to for guidance. Now, though? He'd do anything to stand on the sidelines for just five minutes, comforting Lyaella and openly grieving like her. One never appreciated what they had until it was gone, after all.
The flames rose higher, finally catching on to Maester Aemon's body. Despite the majority of the Night's Watch being made up of common brutes and criminals, there was no one in the brotherhood who had reason to hate the kind maester. Even the Stormlanders who were openly against House Targaryen couldn't find cause to hate the old dragon who'd been all but forgotten by the rest of Westeros. There were even a handful of Free Folk survivors who'd lingered back from the rest of the troupe to stay and pay their respects. But now that his body was burning away, people slowly began to disperse. Part of Jon expected Olly to stay and await his order to send for the builders to clear away the kindling when the fire died out, but his steward followed Thorne, Bowen Marsh, and Othell Yarwyck indoors without a second look at him. That stung, but he let it go. His steward was clearly still upset with him about his decision to save the Free Folk. He'd have to try talking to him again later. Still, at least the boy had the decency to pause long enough to pat Lyaella's shoulder and murmur his condolences. Lyaella was too distraught to talk to him, but he saw her nod thankfully before Olly hurried off. During the time he'd been trying to avoid Lyaella and followed by her avoiding him around Castle Black, Jon had often seen his steward try chatting with the little girl. Although clearly wary of Sōnar, the boy was nice enough to occasionally help her train whenever Edd was too busy. Jon didn't know what Lyaella thought about the boy, but she'd been friendly enough from what he'd seen. Other than Shireen and more recently Tormund's daughters, Olly was probably the only person close to her age Lyaella had had any interaction with for a year now since she'd arrived at Castle Black.
A year. One full year. Hard to believe it'd been that long already since that little girl and her dragon turned up beyond the Wall. It felt like it'd been only yesterday he'd brought her back to Castle Black. Where had the time gone?
His thoughts were interrupted however by the blast of a horn. All at once, everyone in the courtyard froze as all heads snapped up to gaze high above at the watch posts at the top of Wall. Unless by some odd chance there were any Free Folk survivors out there who hadn't been at Hardhome, the dead were probably the only things still alive in the Lands of Always Winter now. One blast meant visitors from the Seven Kingdoms. Two meant Free Folk were approaching the fortress. Three, though? That meant white walkers. The Night King… Jon strained his ears, his hand slowly creeping for the wolf pommel on Longclaw—
A watchman on duty hopped down from the upper ramparts overlooking the main gate. "Soldiers! Stannis's soldiers! Open the gates!" He ordered.
The tenseness in his shoulders subsided. That was a relief. Stannis must've already fought and defeated the Bolton's. He probably sent some men here to inform Ser Davos that it was safe to bring Shireen to Winterfell, now. Maybe he even came himself. Unlike Robert Baratheon, Stannis seemed to take his role as king seriously, but even more unlike his dead brother, Stannis seemed to care about his daughter more than anything. As busy as he might be from winning against the Bolton's, it didn't seem out of character for him to personally see to it that his daughter was safely returned to his forces.
But oddly enough, it was not Stannis who was at the front of the battalion of maybe two hundred or so weary soldiers who trudged through the gates. It was Lady Melisandre, cloaked in red as usual yet her face unusually somber as her black steed trotted to a halt a little ways off from the entrance. She dismounted her horse without a word, her eyes hollow and lifeless.
All at once, Jon's stance tensed again. He knew that look. He'd lived that look. When Ygritte died… The priestess didn't have to say anything. Something must've happened. Something bad…
Out of the corner of his eye, Jon could tell Davos had reached the same conclusion he had. Still, he miraculously kept a straight face as he shuffled swiftly through the regathering crowd.
"Shireen!" He called, forcing his way past some watchmen gazing curiously at the new arrivals to reach Gilly with the girls. "Princess — your father's men are tired… Aye. Aye, very tired. How 'bout letting them rest before—?"
"Father! Father, you're back!" Shireen squealed, smiling brightly as she darted away from Gilly and Lyaella and sidled her way through the onlookers. She hadn't heard Davos, let alone seen him. And she was way too small to see any of the new arrivals clearly. She could probably only make out the burning stag emblem on one of the tattered banners one of the soldiers brought in and maybe a fleeting flash of scarlet from Melisandre's cloak between the cluster of bodies all packed together.
Lyaella was still a sniffling mess, but she dried her eyes with her dress sleeve and sluggishly followed. Jon didn't have a clue why she was going to meet the Baratheon army soldiers, but he hastily trudged after them. None of them had hurt her while she was sheltering here at Castle Black before, but only because Stannis had honored his guest right privileges of the Night's Watch and ordered his men not to harm her. If what he suspected was true and Stannis hadn't made it… who knows what the surviving Stormlanders would do to Lyaella. Plus, he wanted to know if Stannis died taking the Bolton's down with him. If there were any gods out there — old, new, or lord of light — let them have listened to his prayers and have made winter come for one of Robb's murderers.
Still, the little doe was completely oblivious to the somber mood of the Baratheon army goers who'd just trudged in. Shireen was still beaming from ear to ear as she finally stumbled out from the rest of the crowd. She paused though, her smile falling when she saw that Stannis wasn't there, but she perked up after a few moments. Dodging Davos' hand as he finally reached her, she all but skipped straight up to Melisandre. "Lady Melisandre, welcome back! Where's father?"
The Red Woman had always looked young and youthful, but since Jon had last seen her, she looked as though she had aged ten years. Deep bags hung under her eyes, her cheeks sunken in and pale. It seemed to take all her energy to lift her head and look at Shireen. Still, she didn't say anything.
Lyaella emerged from the crowd, her face still red and puffy but her eyes much more alert than they had been a few minutes ago. Jon wasn't entirely sure why, but despite her occasional choked sob, Lyaella seemed almost… intrigued by the Baratheon party. Melisandre she spared only a passing glance, but she stared curiously at the soldiers who'd arrived with her, brows furrowing a bit as she tried to muffle her whimpers. Jon wished he could get a better look at her right now — maybe then he'd be able to figure out what she was thinking — but he was still trying to fight his way to the front of the assembly. Everyone at Castle Black be it his fellow brothers, the last of the Free Folk, and the Baratheon soldiers who'd escorted Shireen and Davos here were cramming around the new arrivals, desperate to learn what had happened in the battle.
Melisandre's gaze shifted to her. Lyaella tensed and instinctively shuffled closer to Shireen and Davos, but Melisandre only hung her head, not attempting to make eye contact again. While Shireen was still smiling expectantly at the red priestess, Lyaella blinked, taking a cautious step forward.
"What… What happened at Winterfell?" She murmured, fiddling with her three-headed dragon pendant. "Why are… Why are y-you here with these soldiers?"
Still, Melisandre didn't respond. She cast a sad look over her shoulder at the men slowly dismounting their horses and tiredly trudging towards them before sighing and attempting to walk away. Davos tried to seize her shoulder, but Melisandre predicted his move and was able to sidestep out of his reach. Sadly, what she didn't count on was himself finally making it to the front of the crowd and blocking her off.
"Answer the lass' question." He insisted.
Shireen, poor girl, was still looking for her parents. "Father! Mother!" Only instead of the happy expression from earlier, she looked desperate and a little frantic. "I don't see them… where are they?!" Her desperation grew. "Lady Melisandre, where are they?!"
The Red woman merely looked up at Davos and Jon — in that instant they knew for sure. Oh no…
Finally, one of the surviving officers seemed to take pity on their Princess. "His Grace is dead."
Reacting as if struck, Shireen looked at him with wide eyes. "What…? No…" she murmured, blankly shaking her head. "No, you're lying…"
"Boltons massacred us, your Grace. I'm sorry."
Breathing hard, the Princess looked close to collapse. "My dear," Davos spoke, attempting to hug her but Shireen — bursting into sobs — simply ran to Lyaella. The girl accepted it, and allowed the princess to cry on her shoulder.
Holding sorrow for the both of them, Jon turned back to Melisandre. "How did it happen?"
The Red Woman met his gaze. "There were no horses, no siege weapons. Stannis marched at Winterfell and the Bolton horse ran them down."
"My gods…" Davos covered his face in his hands, barely keeping it together himself. "I told him to turn back… I told him…"
"Don't blame yourself, Davos," Jon replied. "Shireen is here… she's going to need you." Just as Lyaella apparently needed him…
"Do you understand what you have to do, Sam?"
His portly friend nodded, resolved on his task. "Aye… without Aemon's mind we are at a disadvantage. Even if we're without a maester, it would be worth it for me to get an education in it."
"Not just that, Sam. We need whatever information on the Long Night that the Citadel may have. If you can even find one thing…"
The door opened to reveal Gilly and Lyaella, the latter with eyes red from tears. "Lord Snow…" Sighing, Jon stood and walked over to her. Giving a gentle hug when she reached for him. "She's lost…"
"Poor dear," Gilly continued, talking about Shireen. "Ser Davos had to sit by her bedside as she cried herself to sleep."
Jon nodded. "I lost my father as well, I know how she feels." He looked at Lyaella, knowing that Shireen was her friend. "As long as I am Lord Commander she'll have a place here as our guest, though I'll talk to Davos about what to do later on." Shireen couldn't stay here long term, but without her father she'd be an easy target for the Lannisters. No good options. "In any case, Sam, you need to get Gilly ready for travel."
Lyaella looked up. "Travel? What travel?"
"I'm going to Oldtown, learn to be a Maester." The girl seemed distressed about it, but didn't say anything. "Goodnight Jon."
"Night Sam, Gilly." As the two of them left, Jon noticed Lyaella following. "Lya… you don't want to stay with me?"
"I'll be right back. I just need to ask Gilly something." She smiled hesitantly before ducking out.
Sighing, Jon sat and began to start writing dispatches. A letter to Eastwatch over reconstruction efforts. A letter to King's Landing, asking King Tommen for more men… He thought to Cotter Pyke, his embassage to Daenerys Targaryen. Lyaella needs her real family… someone to love her unlike those scum that raised her. Bastard that he was, his father and siblings never denied him love. She needs love.
Suddenly the door swung open, breaking Jon's train of thought. At first he thought it was Lyaella returning, but it wasn't the silver-haired girl… but Ollie. "Lord Commander." He looked surprised… and excited. "One of the Wildlings, he says he knows your Uncle Benjen, that he's still alive."
All else died from his mind as Jon quickly bolted upright. "Benjen?! Are you sure?" Gods, not a day had gone by that he didn't miss his uncle. The long-serving ranger could give him the counsel he needed in this critical time in the Watch.
"Said he was First Ranger." Ollie smiled, one Jon thought was genuine. "This way. Hurry!" The Lord Commander wasted no time.
Scrambling down the steps, Jon could see Thorne was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. "I've interrogated him a bit," began the new First Ranger, his voice as gruff and no frills as always. "He says he saw Benjen about the time of the last full moon near the ruins of Craster's."
"He could be lying," Jon replied, though he prayed that his skepticism was wrong. "Where is he?"
"Over there." Thorne pointed where a milling crowd of senior Night's Watchmen were waiting in a cluster. Jon pushed through them, only to stop in his tracks. A single burial cross waited there, made of cheap wood and ran into the ground. In the orange torchlight of the courtyard he could see one word hastily carved into it.
Traitor.
He only had an instant to take it in… to realize just how deeply and malevolently he had been betrayed, before he heard the steps menacingly coming behind him. Turning, Jon saw the flash of the knife as Alliser Thorne stabbed him in the gut. Grunting, he felt the wind knocked out of him, and then a sudden, unbearable pain.
"For the Watch." Thorne withdrew the knife, his voice satisfied but otherwise calm. As if this were a merchant transaction.
Another blow hit him, this time the knife bringing immediate pain. "For the Watch," hissed First Steward Bowen Marsh.
Othell Yarwyck's knife sliced through Jon's lower abdomen in another blow after Marsh's. "For the Watch." Two others followed, avid followers of Thorne and haters of the Free Folk to the point of faith. Blood soaked Jon's tunic and leathers, the Lord Commander falling to his knees.
"Jon…?" Even through the pain, even through the most unbearable agony he had ever felt in his life, Jon's blood turned to ice as he weakly looked up in horror. Eyes meeting the equally horrified grays of Lyaella, her face as white as her hair from where she was frozen mid-step on the other side of the courtyard. "Jon!" she screamed, whipping around and trying to bolt towards him.
But Thorne's grip on her collar was too strong, and she couldn't wrench herself free. "Look at him, Princess," he whispered, voice… respectful? Triumphant. "The son of the usurper's dog, the one who betrayed both the Watch and House Targaryen."
"I'm not a princess! Let me go!" Lyaella squirmed and writhed. Frantic, desperate. "Don't hurt him!"
"He's a fookin' traitor!" bellowed Bowen Marsh, only for Thorne to silence him.
"Hush, fool," hissed the First Ranger. His voice turned back into the sweet softness when addressing the young Targaryen bastard. "Consider this a token of my eternal devotion to House Targaryen." Jon wanted to roll his eyes, to speak in derision, but the pain was too much. Couldn't Thorne see that this was the last thing Lyaella wanted? But to no avail, as he signalled to one last person. "Finish it, boy. And make sure her grace sees it."
Casting his eyes to where Thorne and the other conspirators were looking, Jon saw a slight figure stepping through the snow. One that hurt worse than the knives. "Ollie…" he murmured, seeing the orphan turned his squire. There was a long knife in his hand, but he looked… hesitant. In conflict from what he had done — from what he was about to do. Eyes turned away from Jon, they finally found him, rimmed with tears.
Until it disappeared in an instant — as if remembering what Jon did. He had brought the wildlings south of the wall, the same ones that killed his family. Jon hoped he could see the truth of their position, but such was not in the cards for the hate-filled boy. A sense of hate and betrayal now directed at him.
Unable to watch such emotions play on Ollie's face — knowing that the end was coming — Jon looked to Lyaella, who was sobbing softly just as she had when Aemon died. "Lya," he called out weakly, trying to smile. "It's gonna be alright."
"Not for you." Thorne looked smug. "Do it!"
Teeth gritted, Ollie did as instructed. Slamming the knife through Jon's ribs into his heart. "For the Watch."
Apparently the men dispersed. Apparently Thorne released Lyaella. Apparently she ran to him screaming and crying while they laughed over the deed they had committed. Barely hearing any of it, Jon toppled into the snow. Blackness enveloped his vision, he felt… nothing. A sense of numbness and peace. Jon knew death was soon upon him.
"Jon!" Lyaella clung to him, wailing at the top of her lungs. Shaking him. Desperate. Panicked. "No, no, no… I can't lose you too! Not like my parents! Not like Wisp! I can't! I can't…!"
Wisp? What wisp? Had he heard her wrong? His head felt foggy, his thoughts blurring a bit. It was possible. Still, he tried to hold her… to smile comfortingly, at least. Gods, there was so much he regretted, no time to solve it. "L… Lya…" he managed to breathe out one final time.
And then nothing.
Longclaw 1-6:
Hope it was worth the wait. Had to set up a bunch of big things for the future as we transition into Season 6… but already Lyaella and Torrhen have fixed a lot of stuff. Shireen is alive, Dany isn't alone, and Aemon revealed Dark Sister.