A/N: Longclaw: Hey guys. Sorry for the long delay. Had to make this perfect.

BRuh4: Hey all. Got a pretty longish one for y'all. Definitely longer than we normally produce. There's a lot to go through so read intently. Some cool shit for sure, and there's a lot more to come in the next handful. We're reaching another of those tentpole moments in a while here. It'll be here before you know it. We certainly can't wait.

Enjoy.

Chapter 25: What You Are

There was a silence in the room of the Painted Table. The small council of the Targaryen Queen waited with shared looks and curious, apprehensive expressions as their monarch read the raven-borne dispatch that had just arrived from Winterfell. Judging how she had changed from irritated, to curious, to completely white in the space of several seconds. Each wanted to speak up and ask what was in the letter, but none of them had the courage to do so…

Until Ser Barristan stepped forward from his place at Daenerys' side. "Your Grace… is it bad news?"

Violet eyes dazed as she scanned the words up and down for the fifth time, Daenerys set it upon the Painted Table. "I am not alone after all…" Her voice was halting, barely above a murmur, but it held a tiny bit of hope.

The old knight blinked. "Pardon, your Grace?" Did he hear right? Was there a lost Targaryen… an image of a comley, brooding face…

"Aemon Targaryen." The speculations of Barristan and the others in the room were thrown on their heads by her words.

Varys himself was surprised. "The last person of that name was the second son of Maekar Targaryen, your Grace. One that took the robes and chain of a Maester. He would be over a hundred and most likely dead…"

"No, wait." Much of Tyrion's mind from the more mundane days of Joffrey and Robert were clouded from how drunk he was during them, but his trip to Castle Black - especially since the legitimized Jon Snow returned to his orbit - was rather vivid. "There was a Maester Aemon that was one of the sworn brothers of Castle Black… he was basically a walking skeleton by then but he could have been a Targaryen."

Alone among the other four that were truly hopeful from the light in their Queen's eyes, Missandei leaned over from Daenerys' other side to take her hand. "Is that whom the letter is from? Your long-lost great-uncle Aemon?" She had no idea of this man other than a name on the page of a genealogy of House Targaryen - Daenerys didn't either, but now that this man was alive, no longer was Daenerys the last dragon. At least while he remains alive. Missandei didn't wish to vocalize that part. As a slave, death was always around the corner, so one tended to cherish the here and now for as long as they could.

Daenerys shook her head, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Ones she hadn't felt since she lost Rhaego, though these were suppressed from falling. "No, they are not from him… but he is coming to Dragonstone."

"That seems rather difficult, considering he is a sworn brother to the Night's Watch." Tyrion fiddled absentmindedly with a figurine supposed to represent a Riverman force. Long removed from the playing field since Duskendale. "The Lord Commander may have allowed Lord Stark leave to… well… leave, but Maester Aemon as well?"

"Last I checked," Varys responded, "My birds in the North found the current Lord Commander is a man named Alliser Thorne… one who served in your father's army during the Rebellion. His loyalty to House Targaryen is unmatched, so I could see him trying to ingratiate himself to you for the benefit of the Watch - so that a steady stream of supplies could continue there in the event of… your victory."

Taking a seat, the events overwhelming her, Daenerys let her head fall to the back of the chair. Staring up at the ceiling and trying to process everything that was starting to occur. It was all giving her a blistering headache. "Lady Sansa Stark has sent him to us as someone allowed to speak for her in negotiations. Daario has ships in White Harbor that can ferry my great-uncle over."

Her translator's lips curled into a frown. "Perhaps it would be best if Daario is as far away as possible."

"I don't want him here, Missandei, but bringing my uncle Aemon is leagues more important." If I look back, I am lost. She had made up for his transgressions… at least Daenerys thought she did.

"Anyone else travelling with Aemon? A northern Lord perhaps? One of my former wife's brothers or sister?" Varys had indicated in past briefs that Rickon Stark, Brandon Stark, and Arya Stark had all returned to Winterfell. The reconstruction of a House long thought to have been butchered completely.

Taking the dispatch in hand, Barristan quickly scanned it. "No, only mention of Maester Aemon and his 'Acolyte.'" Barristan frowned, trying to imagine the angle. "The Night's Watch has stayed out of the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. Why get involved now, even at the request of the acting Lady of Winterfell…"

"We're discounting the possibility here," Missandei interrupted, drawing everyone's attention. "Something quite likely if the Night's Watch is this desperate for southern aid… if that is truly Lord Commander Thorne's intention." She paused, knowing what they would think. Even Grey Worm thought she was crazy for believing it, but Missandei wasn't swayed. Jon Stark… he may be many things but a gifted liar he is not. "They need the resources to fight the Long Night."

Tyrion snorted, while Varys gave one of his rare smirks. Even Barristan glanced at her skeptically, though what other opinions he possessed he kept to himself. "Come now, Lady Missandei. I know Jon Stark is an honorable man, but grumpkins and snarks roaming the wilds north of the Wall?"

She glared back at him. "Why not? I'm sure few people believed dragons could be hatched by a fire, but her Grace did so."

"There were dragons in recorded history, Lady Missandei," Varys said, tone as if a patronizing maester. "We have the skulls in the Red Keep to prove it. Monsters made of ice that can raise the dead? Even my few birds far in the North haven't sung such a song."

"Enough." The Queen put to bed any further comment. "I will not have that argument again." Gods knew how much her Small Council had debated what Jon Stark had told them. "What are the disposition of the armies?"

In this, Barristan was at his element. "Euron Greyjoy has withdrawn back to King's Landing, though he still has raiders all over the place. The frontline in the Crownlands has stabilized, while no sign of Stannis has been seen from anywhere but Harrenhal close to us. I believe he is either planning to hit King's Landing or invade Dorne."

Daenerys furrowed her brows. "Dorne?"

"Aye. Lord Leyton Hightower was assassinated in Oldtown." Everyone stiffened. "Lord Baelor, his heir, blames both Arianne Martell and you, your Grace."

"I gave no such order."

"Only a brash fool would think such," Tyrion mused. "Arianne just had her high command butchered by the Ironborn. If she was in the place to plan such a high-level assassination, she'd target Euron or Cersei, not the Hightowers." House Lannister knew quite intimately the vengeance mindset of House Martell… tragically, it turned out.

A sigh left Daenerys' lips. "Tell Arianne Martell to take whatever steps necessary to protect her lands. I won't lose another Kingdom as I lost the Reach." That defeat still stung. "Meanwhile, make sure my uncle is treated to the best accommodations."

"Yes, Your Grace," Missandei said.

"I wish to know when he will arrive," Dany added, unable to hide her excitement. She'd always felt alone in this world. Despite being surrounded by people who've helped her. Aside from the scoundrels, Dany's always had people to speak to - a surrogate family there to fill the hole in her heart as best as they could. Jorah was the first. Now, Missandei was here for her. But she never had someone she truly felt like she could relate to. No one in her family.

Viserys was the worst imaginable. She hardly missed him only wishing he might've been smarter. Maybe if he had a sharper mind her House may have already taken the Throne back. Instead he sold her to horselord, thinking he could reason with the Dothraki. What a fool he was.

But to think, another Targaryen in the world. She thought she was the last. The thought felt impossible. Yet, it wasn't. As someone did still live, and she might still speak with them. Even if just for a moment, that would be worth it.

Daenerys turned away from her advisors, towards the open air behind her. "Leave me." Wordlessly, the presence of everyone began to dissipate. Though she sensed someone lingering.

Their voice hit her ear, she knew it to be Ser Barristan, immediately. "Your Grace, if I may?"

"Of course," She welcomed the wisdom of her Hand.

Slowly, Barristan approached until he stood next to her. "I wish to speak of Jon Stark."

"Oh?"

"I believe Sansa Stark is sending Aemon because she wishes for him to convince you to free her brother."

"I suspected that." Very crafty of her. Had they not been opponents, Daenerys would have wanted her counsel.

Barrstain grimaced a bit, "I do believe the Night's Watch wishes for aid, but they've been self-sufficient for centuries. That's not what this is about. It makes the most sense that Aemon wanted to come here. Surely, it was Sansa's idea."

"Do you believe Sansa Stark manipulated Aemon at all?" Dany huffed, the thought made her furious.

"No," Barristan shook his head. "The old man was eager, I suppose, to be an emissary. Sansa Stark only wishes for her Brother's safe return. Aemon is a brother of the Night's Watch. He could've easily refused. He wanted to see you before he dies."

Now, that thought did soften her hard outer shell. Aemon wanted to see her. "Will Aemon have terms for me?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not, we won't know until Aemon arrives. I just wish to make you aware of the situation as I perceive it. There's no veil of manipulation here, it's an old man wishing to see the last of his House before he dies. Also, Jon Stark is a part of this because they were close at Castle Black."

"Aemon knows Jon Stark well, you think?"

"Yes, I believe so," Barristan nodded firmly. "That must be the reason Sansa Stark has sent him. She cares not for you seeing Aemon before he dies. She knows you'd want to see him. No way you'd cast him away, it's an easy way to get a negotiation started. The interesting thing will be how Aemon speaks of Jon Stark. His words will not be rehearsed. Likely, his words will be very illuminating as to who exactly Jon Stark really is."

Dany regarded her Hand's words - wisdom of many decades of proud service. "I see." Jon Stark… he'd been an enigma for so long. Only she and Missandei had even scratched the surface, but except for the one outburst over the dead men north of the Wall, he had remained largely guarded and brooding. And yet he bonded with my uncle… A Targaryen and Stark, friendly to each other. "If Aemon cares for him, then there may be hope for Lord Stark after all."

"It will still be a slow process, to gain Jon Stark's trust - and even longer to gain his fealty. Ned Stark never broke his oath to Robert even when the Usurper laughed at your butchered family."

"I am well aware of that."

It wasn't just Ned who kept oaths so firmly… "Jon seems to have a much greater sense of justice, but we cannot count on Stannis to commit so grave a crime as to force him to us."

Daenerys looked at him firmly. "I won't manipulate him to our cause. People would see right through it…" And she couldn't. There are enough beaten worms in this reality. The Dragon Queen couldn't destroy the dignity of the one honest man left, even if he were her enemy.

"It's not about manipulation, Your Grace. Jon Stark cannot be manipulated, not with this. If you want him to follow you, then you must show him why you're worth following. Missandei can fill his ears with your victories all day. Unfortunately, I don't think that will ever be enough," Barristan said, trying to make her understand what he did. "He has to see you for what you are. Not what you've done. Only you can show him that."

Hearing his words, she sighed. Knowing likely he was right. She might have to go talk to the brooding man herself. "I understand. Thank you, Ser Barristan."

"Of course, Your Grace," Barristan smiled and nodded. Then he walked off and left the Dragon Queen to her thoughts.

"One hour!"

"For gods' sake." Daario Naharis wanted to bash the obstinate, obnoxious pimp in the head. He had been to pleasure houses all over the world - much as he preferred to seduce his conquests, sometimes the urge didn't leave much choice - and even in the former slave dens of Astapor he hadn't found a pimp as horrid as this northern cunt. "In Pentos this buys at least three hours."

The ruddy-faced man growled. Ignorant of the ways Daario could kill him in mere seconds… but the gaps where his fingers should have been forced only the best behavior. "'Ere in Aight Arbor! One hour!" Shrugging, Daario nodded and forked over the gold dragon. This was accepted with eager fingers fat as sausages. "And no silver hair, only blonde. I no's Lys." The door to the… sampling chambers shut.

Stupid shit. "Well, I guess it's just us," he accepted with the signature cocky grin. One that hadn't died in the punishment the Queen had given him. "Best make the best of it."

The whore was slim, young, and quite fair of color. Hair a golden blonde and skin a pale milk… something not seen often in Essos. Skin could work, eyes… blue… size, the same. While the pleasure houses in Lys could accommodate his… specific tastes quite well. "I don't often get dashing warriors not of the North," she giggled, furs pulled up to just above her breasts. Legs bent alluringly as she sat up in bed.

Daario grinned wider. He knew the drill… the whore telling him what he wanted to hear. Didn't matter to him. She was a warm body and looked enough like her. "I'd prefer it if you didn't talk. Just enjoyed."

She looked… relieved… "Most men don't care about that part…"

"Ah, no talking." Quickly disrobing, he pulled away the furs so he could slide underneath them. Even with the roaring hearth, the north was still too fucking cold for Daario. Not surprising that the wolf cunt came from here…

The whore was a professional. Hitting all the right notes - well-timed moan, bucking her hips. Wrapping her arms and legs about him as if she actually enjoyed his advances. Daario knew he was skilled enough to drive even a whore to legitimate pleasure, but he never counted on it - this one wasn't his intended woman. Eyes closed and simply feeling the warm channel and petite body underneath, it was easy enough to imagine his top conquest. The one woman that had dazzled him rather than the other way around.

Efforts almost mechanic at this point, Daario pictured Daenerys as the one. Their bodies intertwined, seeking release in a frenzied abandon. They had shared each other's bed almost every other night of peace… until she kicked him out. Daario didn't begrudge her, for Daenerys' desires did come second to her need to consolidate control in Westeros. Seeking alliance by marriage was part of that, but only after her victory…

Pushing up with his hands, Daario's hand ached. Reminding him of his punishment. Of why he was sent to this frozen hellhole. Had I been unshackled, I'd have saved Olenna's army. Somehow, the mighty Queen that had so dazzled him had gone soft. Had in turn been dazzled by a northern barbarian that nearly killed her dragon. Every blow he rained on Jon Stark, every insult, he saw the look in her eye. The knowledge that she was risking her very strength for that man. No matter what anger she showed him, Daario could tell - for he saw the same look in himself in regards to Daenerys.

Gasping as he finished inside the whore, the anger and bitterness… and determination only welled up inside him. He would not let Jon Stark be the ruin of his Queen. Not while he still had breath in his body.

His attempts to get his coin's worth for the hour were dashed when a rather loud banging on the door rang out through the chambers. "Fuck off! Occupied!" Daario shouted, hands continuing their exploration of the whore's slim body. The knocking continued, causing him to snarl. "Fuck off!"

"Get oot o' ere, sellsword!" came the gruff voice of the proprietor.

"Kiss my ass, I still have…" he glanced at the hourglass. "Half my time and I intend to use it." The whore kept quiet - knowing better than to say anything.

But the proprietor didn't back down. "Starks want er' time now. So git before I 'ave er' booted oot!"

Groaning, Daario rose from the bed. Giving the girl one last slap on the asscheek before reaching for his breeches and tunic. Ignoring the shouts for him to hurry up, making sure his curved blade was closeby. Fingerstumps aching as he laced the ties of his clothes - yet another thing for him to clench his teeth on - Daario finally felt himself presentable and armored against the cold. Opening the door, he found the proprietor gone. Someone far taller and burlier in his place. "Well," he said, giving a shit-eating grin to hide his annoyance. "What brings you here, Lady Brienne?"

If the fact that he was forced to deal with some female highborn playing knight irritated Daario, he didn't show it. But the icy demeanor of the Lady of Tarth clearly did. She wore her feelings on a sleeve. "Why am I not surprised that I found you here?"

"After weeks at sea with nothing but gruff men, can you blame me?" Such charm was wasted on her, but it was a useful fallback. "I presume something important led you to interrupt me, Lady Brienne? Is it something with the grain?" Couldn't you have talked to the ship's steward instead of me? I'm no shitty grain merchant. Somehow, the indignity hurt worse than his fingerstumps.

"No. The gift your Queen has given us has been unloaded on schedule." The word 'gift' came out as if it were the vilest poison. Defeating their army and imprisoning their lord had made Daenerys and her people quite hated by the northerners. Only guaranteed his thinking that she was wasting her time trying to woo Jon the Bastard. "Lady Sansa Stark has requested that you ferry a delegation to Dragonstone on her behalf… to consult with Queen Daenerys."

Daario raised an eyebrow. "Leaving out the fact that my Queen wants me here… what makes you think that Lady Sansa's delegation would be received?" The soft Daenerys currently reigning on Dragonstone probably would, but the sellsword wanted to poke through the request to see what was mush and what was steel.

Brienne rolled her eyes. "While I volunteered to lead the delegation… Podrick!" A rather mousy young man with dark hair stood from where he was sitting, a gaggle of whores gushing over him. "We're here to work, not play!" The boy bowed and hurried out. Must be either very long or very rich. Shrugging, Brienne went on. "Lady Sansa found the proper person to lead the negotiations between the North and Dragonstone."

"And who would that be?"

"Maester Aemon Targaryen, formally Prince of Westeros." Turns out, there were things that could surprise Daario these days.

After witnessing his sister's throat being slashed open. Theon feared he was next. His only action was to leap off the deck of the Seabitch. Luckily, there was some debris nearby for him to latch onto. The waves carried him away as Euron's ships sailed off. They didn't look for him. Probably assuming he'd just drown. Even that would've been better than meeting the fate Euron had for him.

For a while, Theon thought he'd just eventually let go of the piece of wood that had been his lifeline. His strength began to drain quickly. His body was tired. Passing out would mean certain death, and pass out he did. His head sunk under the crashing waves, washing over him. Thankfully, he began to breath again. The water rushed inside his mouth and immediately into his lungs. Under the waves, his eyes shot open. Bringing his head back up, he wretched hard, coughing the seawater out onto his arms. Breathing hard, he used what strength left he had to muster to bring more of his body up on top of the wood.

There he stayed. For a length of time immemorial. Be it hours, days, weeks, he could not be sure. The moon hovered over him at least once, though in his daze he couldn't be sure. Remembering Yara, the sight of Euron's knife at her throat. The blood spurting from it. As the thirst began to overcome him, the sun beating down on his tired body, perhaps death would be fitting. After failing Yara, didn't he deserve it…

But it was all for naught. The drowned god had other plans, washing him ashore. The current carried him where it wanted to go. Allowing him to be found by the Dornish patrols. To be taken to the Water Gardens and treated for his wounds. Perhaps there was a use for him after all?

Resting in the lone room where he had been kept for weeks, for the thousandth time that day he gazed outside the window. All stories painted the Water Gardens as a paradise, and with its palm trees, vibrant pools and fountains, and brilliant columns covered in vines, he could see why it was thought of as such. But now… it was pandemonium. Sunspear still under constant Ironborn patrols, all of the Dornish court had been moved here. As such, the courtyards were filled with tents, boxes of supplies stacked everywhere. Squabbling courtiers and bannermen were constantly bickering, and who could blame them. Most of the senior Dornish lords had been butchered by Euron, leaving in some cases ten year old boys in charge of great houses that had survived multiple conquest attempts.

And Theon could see the looks of hate given to him. Regardless of the fact he was on their side, an Ironborn was an Ironborn to the Dornish at this point. Only direct orders from the top kept him from having his throat slit in his sleep.

Maybe that would be for the best…

His morbid musings were interrupted when the door flew open. Theon barely had time to turn when three guards escorted in a petite, commanding figure in a rather elaborate burnt-orange gown with a tiara atop her head. Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne. He bowed. "Princess. Forgive me for my state of undress."

Eying the bandaged torso bare to the world, Arianne waved it off. She had seen worse. "Good news, Theon Greyjoy, you are to return to Dragonstone by order of Ser Barristan Selmy."

Theon blinked. "Shouldn't my uncle's patrols prevent that?"

"A lone fishing skiff shouldn't draw their notice, but even if it does we are to take that risk." At his raised eyebrow, she continued. "Dorne will be invaded, likely within the moon."

This was surprising. "What? Why would any fool do that?" Even Aegon the Conqueror couldn't subjugate Dorne, and he had dragons.

"Apparently, Lord Leyton Hightower was murdered in Oldtown." The beautiful Princess shook her head. "While I did not order this, the assassin they found is claimed to be a bannerman of Lord Yronwood. Since the old Lord Yronwood is dead and the new Lord is but four and ten, I highly doubt he gave the order."

One of the guards… not a guard, but a rather handsome Dornish knight, muttered, "I bet it was Cersei. She's the only one conniving enough to pull it off."

From how Arianne rubbed his shoulder, it didn't take a genius to see that they were lovers. "Don't be so sure, Edric." Edric Dayne - Theon thought he could recognize the infamous Dawn on his hip. "Could easily have been Littlefinger manipulating Stannis' command, but I digress. House Hightower will invade, and we need you in Dragonstone."

"Is that all?" he croaked, burns stinging again.

"No, her Grace wants you there as well… or at least Barristan does."

"Why?"

"Because they have a prisoner there that they think you could have a rapport with. Stannis Baratheon's master of war, I believe."

"Jon?"

"I know not his name. Only that you are to be transported to Dragonstone."

How Jon was captured Theon had no idea. The thought of seeing him somewhat excited him. Yet, he suspected he would be met with hostility. Given he had totally failed to bring the Ironborn to Stannis' side. He hoped Jon might be in chains to prevent him from choking Theon to death. Though aside from being given to Euron, anything was better than the cell he'd resided in. Recently he'd only thought this cell would be the place he'd die.

Why Daenerys wanted him to speak to Jon confused him. What would he have to offer? He and Jon had hardly been friends. Perhaps they wanted a recognizable face to try to sway him. He couldn't guess.

Despite that, he no longer had any qualms about leaving Dorne.

Jolt of the ship shaking him awake, Sam Tarly reached out within the narrow berth for the warm body that he automatically assumed would be cuddled next to him. Nothing but cold, empty sheets greeted the maester's acolyte. Assuming next in his sleepy state that she may be on a different bunk, or ending to their son, Sam glanced to his right only to find the cabin deserted except for him.

Reality finally hit him. He was alone, voyage mirroring his original journey from Oldtown to White Harbor years before at his father's insistence. For the first time in many moons, Gilly wouldn't be sleeping beside him, seeking out his warmth and showering him with love. Sam sighed. He didn't regret leaving his all but wife at Winterfell in the care of Lady Sansa, but sleeping alone was something he'd have to get used to again…

Then, all thoughts of loneliness and love were shoved aside as the rocking of the ship finally took its toll. Shooting out of the swaying berth, Sam rushes to the chamber pot and emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Dry heaves continuing to spasm painfully even when there was nothing left to expel. Gilly would have giggled at his still persistent seasickness. His father would have probably groaned and smacked him.

Randyll Tarly has made it clear he was nothing but a shameful failure last time they spoke, after all.

Once he had basically voided everything within his stomach, however minute, Sam had managed to weakly lace his own leather gambeson and woollen breeches, still dressed in the garb of the Night's Watch - he hadn't earned his link and chain yet. Well, let's check in on Maester Aemon. Stepping out of his cabin, Sam hadn't gotten five paces before he turned a corner and nearly ran smack into someone. "Oh gods… I'm sorry…"

"Watch where you're going, Tarly," Daario Naharis hissed, eyes narrowing at him. The sellsword that had picked them up in White Harbor to ferry them to the Dragon Queen on Dragonstone. That didn't mean he had to like it. The sellsword didn't much care for Sam. The portly acolyte felt it was partly his association with Westeros and the North, but he could find the same contempt that his father held in Naharis' eyes. Contempt rooted into derision - a soft, fat boy playacting at war. Even years at the Wall couldn't end such. "I need you on the deck."

Sam blinked. "What do you need?" He just wanted to break his fast with Maester Aemon and try to not worry about his family in Winterfell.

"The Targaryen… the old codger. He's worrying me."

"What's wrong with Maester Aemon?" Sam asked with worry.

"Follow me." The journey to the top of the cog's deck passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Sam was being pointed to the old figure of Aemon Targaryen simply staring at the sea, alone on deck. "He's been like that for hours! I don't care about any of you, but I won't deliver a dead uncle to her Grace. Deal with it or I'll chuck you overboard." He stomped off, leaving Sam alone to deal with the situation.

Approaching the old maester, Sam hesitantly cleared his throat. "Maester Aemon…" No response. "Maester Aemon." A little louder.

The maester finally turned around. "Oh, Tarly… sorry." He chuckled. "My ears aren't as they used to be… given my blindness, that's not a good thing."

Sam offered a smile. "You're almost a century old. I'd say your hearing is fine, all things considered." They both grinned at the quip. "Are you alright? The crew has been… worried."

"Thinking a senile old man is just wandering the deck?" Aemon knew what people perceived of him. "I've been in colder climates than this, and I'm warm. As for the rest… I needed some air."

"What for, Maester Aemon? Is it about your niece? Worried if she'll turn out… like her father?" Sam bit his lip - that fact had worried him more than once.

Aemon said nothing to that, merely staring out into the depths of the Shivering Sea. As if searching for something with his unseeing eyes… perhaps not on an earthly plane. "You know, Tarly," he finally stated. "This reminds me of the last time I was on board a ship. Sailing from the home I knew as a child long ago. The embrace of my brother still fresh on my arms and in my memory."

"Aegon the Unlikely?" Sam answered the unasked question as well as any eager boy in his maester's sessions.

The old former Prince nodded, grey hair fluttering in the wind. "Aye, the youngest among us. Three sons of King Maeker ahead of him, my father the youngest son as well. Much luck for them… although I consider it a tragedy." Many had died so that Maeker and Aegon could succeed to the Iron Throne. "Egg wasn't meant to rule, no more than I was. He was such a sweet lad. Cared about people, married for love… Every bit an 'Egg.'" He laughed, as if recalling a wistful, happy memory long gone from a cruel world.

Sam allowed a smile. "He sounds like someone who loved you, Maester."

"I don't think Egg could have hated anyone in his childhood…" The laughs ceased, replaced with a hardness. A dragon awoken. "But the Realm couldn't have an Egg. It needed an Aegon, a dragon." Suddenly coughing, he nevertheless waved Sam off. "'Kill the boy. Kill Egg and let Aegon emerge from the egg. Kill the boy, and let the man be born.' That is what I said to him last. My last words to someone of my blood."

Once Aemon allowed it, Sam brought the old man to a low bench to sit. "From what is said, he ruled wisely and benevolently, up to his tragic end."

Toothless gums pursing together, grief poured out of his milky violet eyes. "Tragedy… he was killed because he couldn't kill the boy…" Aemon shook his head. "If I look back, I am lost. My dear Grandfather often told me that." Taking a deep breath of the cool, sea air, Aemon closed his eyes. "I said the same words to Jon Snow… Stark. To kill the man…" A tear fell down his wrinkled cheek. "And for the life of me, when I felt his face… I saw my brother. My Egg…"

What could Sam say to that? Wordlessly, he patted Aemon's shoulder. Trying to give the old man a tiny bit of comfort. "Jon… he's a person larger than life. He underestimates himself all the time."

Aemon nodded. "I care for that boy like the son I never had. As much as Egg… and my last family is facing him as an enemy." Ever since learning of Daenerys' arrival, images of the two of them killing each other had plagued his mind.

Sam bit his lip. "Do you think she is like her father?"

The wind whipped against the side of the ship. Aemon closing his eyes. "I can't afford to believe so… but for once I trust the gods." Vibrant violet stared unseeingly at Sam. "But it doesn't take madness to make a dreadful mistake."

And here he was, his long journey of duty and conquest had led him back to where it all began. Where he began, emerging from his mother's womb to his destiny. The ancestral castle of House Baratheon - and House Durrandon before them - Storm's End.

Standing atop the highest point of the single tower that overlooked all of Shipbreaker Bay, Stannis has no fear of the great heights of Durran's Point. At long last, he could count his homeland among his domain. Protected by smooth, densely packed stone walls that could withstand the mightiest storm, Storm's End would serve as the seat of the True King of Westeros until he could rip Cersei Lannister's rotting corpse off of the Iron Throne. Disgusted at spending any more time in the Reach, Stannis was glad at the change in scenery.

Well, as glad as he could be with his aching leg in the pouring rain.

Oiled raincoat of sheepskin having managed to keep the freezing winter rainstorm from his thin frame, after half an hour the King decided not to push his luck. No desire for solitude and quiet contemplation was worth potential fever. Pushing his way into the stairwell leading to the Lord's Quarters, Stannis was greeted by his guards. "Your Grace," they bowed. Honorable men that had served him since Dragonstone, yet visibly glad to be home.

Stannis nodded. "Anything you have to report?"

"Nothing from Lord Davos or Lord Baelish, your Grace." Each was well versed in what their King was desirous of. "But the Princess Shireen did request your presence in the solar."

The one person or thing that could both calm and put a smile on Stannis Baratheon's face, it was his daughter. "When was this?"

"Just after you arrived at the tower."

Stannis grumbled. "You kept my daughter's request waiting that long… forget it." Leaning on the cane he had only recently started carrying once more, he ambled for his quarters. Guards following close behind him. Not even the armies of twenty thousand Tyrells could break through the walls of Storm's End, but assassins were a different matter entirely. One couldn't be too careful.

The solar was lavishly decorated. Teak and mahogany furniture imported from the Summer Isles, crystal chandeliers and goblets carved in the Lysene luxury guilds, hand-woven Myrish carpets… Renly had used the newfound wealth of a royal house to his advantage, and frankly it disgusted Stannis. The luxuries of this life couldn't ever be carried out into the next, and no one could use such finery for the coming Long Night. He was always weak, torpid, narrowly ambitious… Declaring himself King even before Robert's body was cold and negotiating with the Tyrells. The boy was playing at war and at this point, Stannis felt it was a proper to kill him before the horrors of conflict and ruling would have done it, only slowly rather than the sweet mercy that he and Melisandre had given him.

He snorted. Robert, Renly… winning the throne was the same as having it. Neither could rule, nor did they deserve to. He did. He was destined to rule, no matter what he needed to forego or sacrifice.

But seven hells, he did enjoy the comfort of a plush, well-upholstered loveseat on his tense back and rear.

As always, it was the blood of his blood that brought serenity to the tempest of his own mind as violent as the storms of his native land. "Father," Shireen said with a smile, hugging him tightly.

He chuckled, hard blue eyes filled with a rare warmth. "You look happy today, my dearest daughter." The cracked scars on her face brought a flash of pain to him - anger at the nameless merchant that sold her the greyscale-laced toy one that never ceased burning inside him - but it evaporated in her joy. "What's the occasion?"

She looked up at him incredulously. "You don't know?"

Stannis furrowed his brows. "Am I supposed to?"

His daughter giggled merrily. "Oh father." Another hug followed. "Happy fortieth nameday."

What, it's not… gods almighty. It was his nameday, forty years upon the earth. And in his stress and struggle he had completely forgot. Usually it was Davos that remembered such redundancy. Sentimentality wasn't high on the list of Stannis Baratheon's priorities, but at the moment he couldn't deny his daughter's happiness. "I suppose it is, thank you."

"Father, did you forget again?" Shireen was growing into a young maiden, but her eyes sparkled with the same childlike mirth at that moment.

Stannis couldn't help but chuckle. "Perhaps I did forget. Perils of ruling, I'm afraid."

Leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him - Stannis bending down so as to offer her his stubbly cheek - she ended up dashing off to a particular chair. Returning with a large tapestry. "I've been working on it since Winterfell. Something to hang up in the Red Keep when you take the throne, at least if it's good…"

Taking the large belt of cloth and unfurling it, Stannis came face to face with a stitched tale of his campaigns. All arranged in three rows. Boarding the ships at Dragonstone, the lines of cavalry beneath the wall, archers raining fire upon the Boltons before Winterfell, Stannis and Jon Stark battling with the Lannisters at Northhill, culminating with the great victory at Highgarden. "This is…"

"I left the last row blank… for your final victories. The final image will be you on the Iron Throne…" Shireen was cut off when her father embraced her.

"You, my daughter, are more than I could have ever asked for… thank you." From Stannis, such was the finest praise one could ever heap upon a person. "I love you."

She sighed happily. "I love you too, father." They pulled back after another moment. "I know Davos usually handles this, but perhaps I can arrange a feast for us… to celebrate your nameday?"

He shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary… but I wouldn't mind a private dinner, just you, your mother, and myself."

Shireen beamed. "I will go to the kitchens right now!" Dashing off, she almost crashed into Queen Selyse. "Mother! Father loved the present!"

The Queen offered a tiny smile. "Aye, I knew he would. Now run along child, it's time for me to change his dressings." Shireen nodded and ran off to the kitchens, Selyse closing the door behind her. "Your Grace," she curtseyed.

"Wife," Stannis offered, hobbling towards a loveseat. "Let's get this over with." Normally, Melisandre supervised such measures or did them herself, but with her gone it was his wife that he trusted with this. No one else could he trust without having ulterior motives. Gingerly, he took a seat, wincing as he placed his bad leg out for Selyse to inspect. "It's getting worse again." Elevating it managed to help.

Withdrawn and pious as she was, in being a caregiver Selyse managed to rise to the occasion. As the maester had shown her what to do, all the tools were lined out on a strip of cloth on the teak table. Folding up his breeches, she pursed her lips at the soiled bandages. "Should have been done two days ago."

"Been busy." Baelor Hightower was up in arms and demanding a full invasion of Dorne. Stannis had bought him off with one secondary to the buildup against Cersei, but the juggling of his now vast numerical advantage over two fronts needed the Golden Company to work. If only the Northerners hadn't betrayed you… He kept having to remind himself that they were defeated… Are you sure?

Sighing, Selyse took the small knife and began cutting off the bandages, revealing the open ulcer that his leg wound had turned into. "I'll have to lance it." The other knife took to his skin, Stannis gasping in pain as a large river of pus dripped in a bowl she had placed right underneath the wound. "We have to talk about Jon Snow, husband."

He groaned, only half from the pain. "There's nothing more to discuss." She had heeded his warning the last time, many moonturns ago. And yet, Stannis could tell that Jon's surrender at Duskendale only served to breathe new life into her distrust of him. "Jon may have lost, but he is loyal."

"You are the Lord's Chosen, my love… you can't afford to blind yourself to reality." Her pale blue eyes found his, an intensity about them of a mind long gone. Long surrendered to the Faith of R'hillor in a depth that even Stannis hadn't let himself descended. "He bent the knee."

"I doubt it," Stannis shook his head. "If he had, they wouldn't be holding him captive. He surrendered to save the lives of his men. There was no other choice."

Selyse scowled, biting her lip, "No. I know that boy saw that dragon and shite in his trousers. He bent the knee, must've. Besides, it's better with him gone. The men only look to you now. They praised him too much, nearly worshipped him. He doesn't deserve that. But you do. You are the chosen one. You are the Prince Who Was Promised."

"Jon was nothing but loyal. I trusted no one more."

"Forget about him, forget I tell you," Selyse nearly hissed. "He's gone. He's not worth saving. I know not why you even wanted to send Davos."

"Davos knows what he's doing. I trust him too."

"I doubt you even think he has the slightest chance of succeeding."

She was right, but Stannis found himself reluctant to admit it. "I have to try."

"What for? For some bastard who'd likely betray you at the earliest opportunity?" Selyse told him, then got up close. "Don't you see? It's a sign. A sign of the Lord of Light, the bastard boy had served his purpose. The Lord did the hard part for you. He took the boy out of your sight… All you have to do is look the other way."

"No." Sheen of sweat on his forehead as Selyse squeezed the last bit of discharge from his wound, Stannis refused to believe it. "He told me of the true threat Beyond the Wall. He has fought for me with more loyalty than all but Davos." The scenes on Shireen's tapestry told the story. Every battle from Castle Black to Northhill, Jon Stark was there in the middle of the fight. The Wrath of the North, Master of War to the one true King.

Selyse took a strip of linen, laughing sardonically. "You always had a soft spot for him. From even at Castle Black, when you knew him not."

She spoke true here. "I did."

"You planned on marrying Shireen to him," Selyse accuses. Her one success for her husband, a daughter marred with Greyscale. She never forgave herself for that, pledging her life to the Lord of Light simply to atone for her failure. "Poisoning our bloodline with those heathens?"

Wanting to erupt in anger, the pain of the poultice burning his leg was simply tearing through Stannis… "He… he is a good man… loyal to me…"

"Then why haven't you saved him?" Selyse has been told by Lord Baelish of her husband's doubt. Of the futility expressed by all but Ser Davos in regards to ransoming or rescuing Jon from the clutches of the dragon bitch. Melisandre has preordained Stannis in the snow, bringing the Dawn. All others matter not. "Why do you not wish to save him?"

Shivering from the intense pain, Stannis could only feebly raise his head to meet Selyse's gaze. "For all I know… she burned him alive…"

"He has betrayed you!" she quickly hissed, almost ready to hit something before she withdrew into herself. Quieting down. Pious to the end, she would not let her chaotic mind serve to push Stannis away from the truth. Selyse had learned her lesson from the last time in Harrenhal where she brought this up. "All shacked up with the Dragon Queen I bet he is. Dashed off at the first sign of trouble. He's no true man. I bet he spits on your name and tells them all of our plans."

The night is dark and full of terrors… Dead men, dragons… Those words held a frightening reality to them, far more than the simple ominous warning given when Melisandre first arrived on Dragonstone. "He would never… he's the son of Ned Stark." The man of honor that had died trying to secure his reign - by that alone, Stannis owed Jon Stark every chance.

A feeling that Selyse felt she had to break - knew she had to break. "Can't you see what happened? Why do you think the Dragon Queen let the Northern army flee northward? Lord Tully, Lord Umber, Lord Reed, the filthy wildling chieftains? Because the bastard bent the knee!" she hissed.

"Impossible," Stannis murmured. Gritting his teeth as the clean linen bandages were wrapped tightly around his wound.

"Would the Mad King you faced have done that? Would the same daughter that crucified thousands in Meereen and burnt alive untold thousands across Essos have done that unless she secured something big?" Selyse's eyes were wide, glassy with a pious zeal that had gripped her for years. "You are the fire made flesh, the light that banishes the darkness… Jon Snow is ice, winter, the cold blizzard that snuffs out the light… do not let him destroy you, my dear husband. My love… my King and savior." There was silence from the King, his pain too much to control.

Minutes later, Stannis was tucked into his bed, shivering in his sleep as a small dose of Milk of the Poppy kept him out of the worst of it. Enough to tide him over till Shireen's planned nameday dinner would be ready. Closing the door gingerly, Selyse removed the crinkled parchment from the folds of her dress

Your Grace the Queen,

It pains me to relay this information to you, considering my cherishing of the Lady Sansa and my loyalty to your husband the King. However, my spies have informed me of ships in White Harbor unloading supplies. Ships bearing the banner of House Targaryen. Additional eyes hunted constantly by the Spider have Jon Stark being given accommodations among the keep at Dragonstone. Comfortable and alongside the Dragon Queen's allies.

While I am sure Lady Sansa has not forgotten the perfidy of House Targaryen against House Stark, I am afraid that Jon Stark hasn't, and has switched sides. His Grace must be protected lest betrayal come from here.

I shall make sure the North under Lady Sansa stays ready to support the one true King of Westeros.

Trust no one else… not even Ser Davos. He is too fond of Jon Stark.

His Grace's ever loving servant,

Lord Petyr Baelish.

Shaking with fear and devotion, she ran to the fireplace. Eyes closed as she begged for the providence of the one true god. "Lord," she mumbled. "Cast your light upon me… burn away my anger and sins… let me serve you…burn away our enemies and show me the path to achieve your strength... for the night is dark and full of terrors…"

A/N: BRuh4: Lots of talking, lots of underlying shit. We really enjoyed putting this one together. All the sorts of pieces coming together. I hope you can finally start to grasp what we're doing here. There were so many doubters. But we knew there was a good plan in place. We're still going strong and it will be done correctly. We are going to do our damndest to make sure it's perfect, and the two of us are working more closely to make sure there are no mistakes.

Just buckle up if you're along for the ride, is all I'm gonna say.

Longclaw: Not much action, but lots of different moving pieces. Littlefinger starts whatever he's planning, and we get a glimpse into why Daario did what he did.

Aemon... we all know he was gonna affect Dany. She's knowingly nog alone now, and his arrival will only start something that will get plenty moving.

Arianne, she finally has her birthright (the Dorne storyline was always shit).

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