HI!
It looks like I managed to shave about a month off my update time, yeah! He... he... he...
In all serious, I'd like to thank anyone for their patience. In the past few months, I lost my beloved great-grandmother and my youngest brother spent a month in the hospital. It has also been the busy season at my bakery (So! Much! Frosting), so I haven't had as much time to work on this story as I'd like.
But, onto the fun stuff!
I've started a blog on Ko-fi! My user name is VixenRose and checking me out there will the letting you see sneak peaks of upcoming chapters, general updates, pictures of my person art work and quilting project, and some of my favorite recipes. For example, I just posted my recipe for bourbon chicken!
But, before I go, I have an issue I'd like to address.
A while back, someone attempted to leave a highly rude and aggressive comment on this story, one that insulted me personally. Now, I do not take issue with negative comments in general, I leave plenty of them out. However, I WILL NOT, allow personal attacks on myself nor anyone else, especially not for something as silly as a goofy fanfic that I write for fun! This indivdiual attempted to post the comment anonymously, so I was not able to report him for his represhensable, insulting behavior. But, if he is still reading, please know that no only do I not WANT you here, every it I type 'KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!' I will be doing so to annoy you spectifically.
Oh, and the fact that use 'monkey' as an insult, tells me all I need to know about you as a person.
Anyway, ENJOY THE CHAPTER!
Shireen II
Despite never having known any other home, Shireen had always seen Dragonstone as a cold, grim place. It was the place where Targaryens' had first set foot in Westeros when they left the Valyrian Freehold. It was the place where they'd claimed their original seat and built their first castle, some say with dark magic and stones mined from Hell itself. It was a place of dragons and for dragonlords. And it was a place that Shireen had never felt welcome.
No, she'd once heard her father admit that he'd never asked for nor wanted the island, and Shireen sometimes got the sense that the feeling was mutual. Dragonstone didn't want Stannis or Shireen, or any Baratheon here either. Some said the originator of her bloodline, Orys Baratheon, was Aegon Targaryen's bastard half-brother. If that was true, then the traces of dragonlord blood in Shireen's blood were not enough to warm the ghosts of dragons past to her. Scarcely a night passed in her childhood where Shireen did not dream of them coming to eat her.
Yet, for whatever reason Uncle Robert dumped it at Dragonstone at her father's feet all the same. With him gone, that responsibility now fell to Shireen.
And even now, as the island drew closer on the horizon, Shireen could not find any comfort in the sight. It was her home, yes, but not one she felt any warmth for. She didn't even have her parents, distant and unconventional as their love could be, to return to. All that was waiting for her would be cold stone, salt, and sea air.
'There are good things there too,' Shireen tried to remind herself. 'There is Maester Cressen, Patches, Davos' family... They're still there. I still have people who love me.'
"Almost home, Shireen," Davos said, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze.
She forced a smile. "Yes, you must be happy to see Marya and your boys again."
While Davos' home was technically in Cape Wrath, he, his wife, and their younger children had moved into Dragonstone after her father's death to more easily help Shireen. She was glad to have them; Marya was warm and good-natured in a way that Shireen's mother had never been, and Davos' younger sons had always been fun to play with, never giving any mind to her Greyscale scars. That is, with what little time she got to play after becoming the official Lady of Dragonstone.
"Always. I dream of the day we all —you included— can live peacefully."
Shireen rested her head against the man's shoulder. 'What a beautiful dream.'
Above them in the crow's nest, a voice rang out, declaring that they were almost approaching land.
"Lady Shireen of Dragonstone, we are all elated at your safe return."
As was customary, the entire household had been present to retrieve Shireen and the others. With Maester Cressen acting as the voice, the all knelt and bowed before her in proper courtesy. By the same etiquette, no one yet mentioned Shireen's missing mother, nor the mixed-matched crowd of other Houses, colorful strangers, and foreign sailors.
Shireen jutted out her chin and did her best to look proper and in-control, just like she'd been practicing in the mirror. She gave the signal for everyone to rise, and projecting her voice the best she could, Shireen said, "Maester Cressen, I trust that my household has been kept in good order in my absence."
"Of course, Lady Sh—Lady Baratheon," the elderly Maester nodded. "I have taken the liberty to have food, drink, and beds prepared for you and our men. I understand you have been through a terribly upsetting journey."
Maester Cressen had been part of Shireen's life since the day she was born. In many ways, he'd had a larger part of her upbringing than either of her parents did. Shireen had vivid memories of sitting in the old man's lap and playing with his long, white beard as he dabbed foul smelling pastes and ointments on her scarred skin with his trembling, wrinkled hands. And yet, despite his gentle warmth, Shireen always saw sadness in his eyes whenever Maester Cressen looked at her.
'I wonder... will he ever be able to see me as anything more than a mark of his failure? Does his kindness come from love or guilt?'
"Thank you for that but, as you can see—" Shireen gestured to the group behind her "—we have more guests than anticipated. Please see to it that they are giving adequate chambers for rest and recovery. Everyone will need baths and food, and some of them are in need of healing."
The old maester's eyes scanned the group, growing wide when he undoubtedly recognized more than one face. "But, my lady, I—"
"We will discuss this more later, Maester," Shireen insisted, adding a hard edge to her voice. She leaned closer, "King's Landing took too many lives already, including my own mother. I would rather not see more bodies in my courtyard due to lack of care. Some of the people are the reason I am standing in front of you right now. In return, I will see that Guest Right is properly observed."
Maester Cressen gnawed on his lip, looking ready to say something, before giving a slow nod. "Yes, of course. I will see to it immediately."
The man waved over a group of servants and, just like that, the first challenge of the day was over.
The Master Chambers of Dragonstone were beautiful, decorated in the richest Valyrian finery and Targaryen tastes, and completely unused. To Shireen's knowledge, her parents had never shared a bed beyond what was needed to attempt to conceive a child. They had certainly never spent the night in the master chambers, preferring to keep to their own separate apartments that kept more to their tastes. Mother's was filled with symbols of her faith, and a locked chest that Shireen had never been allowed to touch, though she'd once caught a glimpse of large glass jars once. Father's was largely barren, with sparse decoration and minimal in the way of anything sentimental. One could not be faulted for thinking the owner of these quarters had no family at all.
That was, however, except for three small portrait paintings on a bookcase. One was of Shireen's late grandparents, Lord Steffon Baratheon of Storm's End, and Lady Cassana Estermont. The second was of Mother and Father's wedding day; neither looked happy in it, and the painting was covered in a thin layer of dust, but the fact that it was there at all said much. The final one was of a much younger Shireen in her cradle. This one was the largest and most well-cared for.
And it was these three portraits that Shireen had to mourn over. Her father, for all his stern, taciturn nature, had loved Shireen. He'd been good to her, more so than plenty of fathers were to their daughters. But words were never Stannis Baratheon's strong suit and, having never been verbal with his love, Shireen was left with little warmth to remember him by.
"I miss you," Shireen told the portrait of her parents. "I just wish I had more to remember. I know Ser Davos loves me; he and his wife treat me as one of their own. But I still wish you both were here. I'm not ready to do this on my own."
"And yet you must."
Shireen jolted up in fright when the low, feminine voice spoke up from behind her. "Eeek!"
She spun around to see Lady Melisandre staring at her with those strange red eyes of hers. "L—Lady Melisandre, I didn't hear you come in."
'You're not supposed to be in here. These are private quarters!'
The red-clad woman smiled at her. "Of course not, child, I was already here. You simply did not see me."
"Oh... I suppose I was too distressed to notice."
Shireen felt a shiver run up her spine when Melisandre's smile widened in such a way that told her the woman was hiding something.
"Yes, that is likely it. You poor thing, you've gone through such an ordeal in these past weeks."
Without warning, Melisandre stepped forward and enveloped Shireen in a hug. The moment the woman touched her, she went ridged with fear. Even though the Red Woman's embrace was warm —too warm, unnaturally warm— and gentle, almost motherly, Shireen saw the falseness behind it. Since the day they'd first met, she'd known there was something wrong about Melisandre. Even now, after years of the woman being nothing but kind and encouraging to her, Shireen still refused to turn her back on the Red Woman.
"You know what happened then?" she asked, hoping fear didn't come through in her voice.
"I saw it in my fires." The woman stroked an elegant hand through Shireen's hair. "I only wish I'd been allowed to accompany you and your mother, perhaps I could have protected you both. Ser Davos' intentions for keeping me here were good, however, so you should not blame him."
For the briefest moment, all of Shireen's fear was replaced by rage. She wanted to lash out and demand what right the woman had to criticize Davos! She wanted to demand why Melisandre's so-called Lord of Light didn't show her what was going to happen before they left for King's Landing! She wanted to push her away and demand to know why Rh'llor didn't protect Mother, his devoted follower! Shireen wanted to bite and scratch and hit and like and burn everything related to the Red God down on the beach, and then throw everything left in the castle about the Seven in the fire too for good measure.
'There are no gods,' Shireen thought to herself, her head starting to ache at the heavy scent of Lady Melisandre's perfumes. 'Gods wouldn't have let all this happen. And, if they did, then I want nothing to do with them.'
Instead of lashing out like she desperately wanted to, Shireen forced herself to remain still and calm until the Red Woman finally pulled away.
"Oh well, the past is just that: the past," she said. "It cannot be changed, not in any meaningful way, but it can be learned from. And learn we must, if we are to survive what is coming."
"The war?" Shireen asked, trying to ignore the squirming in her gut as Melisandre dismissed her mother's death as 'the past.'
"Wars."
"What?"
"The war against man, and then the war against monsters," the woman said cryptically, her red eyes seeming to glow in the candlelight.
Shireen flinched back. "My father says that war makes monsters out of men, and men out of monsters. Is that what you mean?"
"In a way. The monsters we will be facing were men once but no longer, treating them as such would be folly. The night is dark and full of terrors, and this little squabble coming from the so-called Queen of Westeros is no more than a scuffle between greedy children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, young Shireen. And his strength is evil and beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends. Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are made of true fire."
"I don't understand."
"Your forces are coming together, Lady Baratheon, yet I see if my fires they will not obey you as is," Lady Melisandre said. "My god and I can help you with that. We need these men to fight the final war, but first they need to see the Light. Let me help you convince these men to follow the true path, let me light their hearts ablaze so they can be useful in the war that is to come."
It occurred to Shireen that the woman was absolutely genuine. Her desire to help, her belief in her god's power, and the idea that converting the people of Westeros was the best way to go about winning future wars wasn't a façade used to gain power. It was absolutely genuine.
And Melisandre was all the more terrifying for it.
'You want to use me just like you used Mother and Father?' Shireen realized. 'You want to use me to get more followers? More blood for your god? I won't! I won't be your tool! I won't lead my people in the fire!'
"My mother and Father were always grateful for your aid and counsel, Lady Melisandre," Shireen forced herself to say as politely as possible. "Your words always have a place here."
'Mostly because I can't get rid of you without risking the ear of the court's ladies.'
The woman gave Shireen a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. "You'll fill your role well. I have seen it in my fires."
'Fuck your fires! Fuck what you can see! I have no use for them.'
"Thank you. I endeavor to live up to your faith in me."
Shireen forced a weak smile at the group in front of her. "I thought it important for us all to share bread and salt as soon as possible. Once everyone had a chance to wash, rest, and have any injuries tended to, of course."
"And we thank you for that," Captain Adelaisa Vendicci said. "As well as allowing my men and I to refill our ship's stores."
"Of course, it seemed only right fair after your kindness and aid," Shireen replied. Others certainly wouldn't be happy about it, or approve of her giving away supplies, especially with what was coming. After all, a single bag of potatoes or flour could make all the difference in a siege, and after her father's infamous one at Storm's End, it was something he had taken very seriously.
But she had to. Shireen could not let her rule start with selfishness and hypocrisy in the face of those who had given aid to her and those she cared about.
"Well, here we all are," Tyrion Lannister said, faking cheeriness as the group of escaped lords, ladies, and assorted others gathered for super. "In one place waiting for all seven hells to break out across Westeros."
"Not all of us," Loras Tyrell spoke up. "Renly is still in the coma."
"Is this true?" Shireen asked.
She'd known her uncle was in bad shape, but couldn't force herself to go see him. Uncle Renly had always been kind enough to her face, yet she'd always sensed that the man never really liked or cared for her. That being said, he was still her uncle, and some of her only remaining family. If nothing else, the man awaking and returning to full health meant that Renly could resume ruling Storm's End so Shireen didn't have to.
"Unfortunately, he still has not awakened," Lady Valerica said in her tight, controlled voice. "Nor has he shown signs of doing so, despite treatment. That does not mean he won't, mind you, but it's been over two weeks now, and that does not bode well for the man's prospects."
"I must concur with Lady Volkihar," Maester Cressen said, though he didn't look happy with it. "I examined Lord Renly myself, and indeed, his condition is not well."
At the woman's words, a tangible shutter went through the group. The death —and that is what being in a coma seemed to be for Shireen, dying without truly being able to rest— was another complication for the war that was going to happen. Someone trustworthy needed to take control of Storm's End, needed to lead those forces, if they were going to successfully contain Cersei. A seat of so much power couldn't be left empty.
"Let's put those matters aside for tonight," Jon spoke up, his voice cutting through the somber atmosphere. "We've all been through so much hardship, I think we all—"
Creek!
The door to the dinning hall swung open as Lady Serana strolled into the room, a smaller figure following closely behind her.
"Apologies for my tardiness. I needed to assist my niece in getting prepared, and it took longer than anticipated," the woman said.
"Niece?" Shireen asked, eyebrows shooting.
Lady Serana had never mentioned having a niece, nor had Lady Valerica spoken of having another child, let alone one traveling with them. Around her, the group also broke out in mummers. Clearly this was as much news to everyone else as it was to Shireen.
That was, however, except for Jon, Arya, Enzo and... Lord Tyrion. They all sat up a little straighter in their chairs, attention going fully to the girl, though it wasn't surprise that crossed their face, it was… something else. Something Shireen couldn't name, not with the small amount of it she got a glimpse of
'What's that about?' Shireen wondered to herself. 'I can understand Jon knowing about her, he and Lady Serana are to be wed, and Enzo seems close to the family too. I know that Arya spends a lot of time with her brother and the Volkihars, so she'd likely be told about other family members. But Tyrion Lannister? He and Jon are friends, but to that degree?'
"Yes, I forgot that I had not made proper introductions. Forgive me, the poor girl is quite shy," Lady Serana said easily, like she couldn't understand why this was such a big deal. "Everyone, my niece: Myra Volkihar."
The young woman said nothing, just gave a nervous curtsy. She looked to be a year or so older than Shireen, with inky black hair cut short like she was in mourning, light skin, and green eyes. The black and red dress she was wearing was simple, aside from the silver lace trim and a small ruby necklace. There was something familiar about her, but no matter how hard she tried to focus on Myra's face, Shireen couldn't put her finger on it. As servants came to lay out the first course of the night, she decided that it was only because Myra looked like her aunt and let it go.
After appropriate greetings were made and Myra joined them at the table, Shireen turned back to Jon.
"You were saying something earlier, weren't you?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "I was saying that we should try to relax tonight. After everything, we all deserve that. The state of affairs is grim, yes, but we can have a proper, full council tomorrow when we're all better rested. No proper decisions can be made in exhaustion and anger. A full night of sleep on land will do us all wonders."
"That sounds like a good idea," Lord Stark agreed. "It will allow everyone to get our thoughts in order. I know I would like a chance to get my children settled in for the night before making decisions regarding our futures."
A dark cloud still filling the room, there was a soft choir of agreements and acquisition. Shireen stirred her soup and hoped tomorrow would look a little brighter.
"Well, that could have gone worse," Davos said as he escorted Shireen back to her chambers. It was an old ritual of theirs and provided a quiet sort of comfort in its familiarity, brief as it was.
"We didn't decide on anything," Shireen pointed out. "Nothing got better."
"You provided a group of powerful individuals a night of rest and safety after a terrible experience. If there's a hint of honor in any of them, they'll remember that in the coming times."
Davos gave her a smile so warm and so loving that it made her ache inside. "I'm so proud of you. Both today and during the trial, you held your own in a room of your peers. Even in the face of their scorn and distrust, you did not flinch. Keep your chin held high, Lady Baratheon, and soon no one will doubt that you're capable of leading your people."
Shireen scoffed, "I doubt that. I just know people are looking for the first excuse to replace me with a male heir."
"Gently as I can say, your father had no sons and his will was quite clear. You are his heir, no one else. More than that, you are the only trueborn Baratheon of note at the moment, what with Princess Myrcella missing."
'That's part of the problem.'
As it stood, Shireen was already forced into a position to claim control of both Dragonstone and Storm's End as well as, potentially, the Iron Throne itself. None of which she wanted in the first place! Shireen would have gladly given up the position to a younger brother, should one have existed. Both because she'd always wanted a younger sibling and because it might have made her family happy. Unfortunately, her mother's womb had never produced a surviving child again, leaving small, sad Shireen to shoulder the burden of her father's title alone. To keep things together as best she could and pray that Uncle Renly would wake up soon.
'No siblings... I do have cousins though.'
Joffrey and Tommen were dead and Shireen mourned one of them. Myrcella, who'd always been sweet to her, was... gone. The Queen's letter claimed that she'd been kidnapped by the Starks. Yet Shireen had seen neither hide nor hair of her cousin while on the ship, and besides, Jon was too kind to do such a thing. Aside from them, there were Uncle Robert's bastards.
'Most of them are dead,' Shireen thought with a shiver. She'd never met any of them prior to the coup, of course, but the thought of so many innocent children being killed for the simple crime of existing! It also made her wonder if the attack on Shireen and her group was merely to take hostages... or get rid of her completely.
'Except for the three Jon and his friends were able to save.'
Due to the close quarters of the Bell Singer, it was inevitable that Shireen had met her illegitimate cousins. Mhaegan had been nice, though Shireen had to hide her blush when the woman started talking about how she met Uncle Robert, and little Barra was cute. Dalla wasn't the most talkative of folks, but she was kind enough and busied herself by helping with the chores on the ship. Of all of them, she'd probably had the most contact with Dustun, a happy, friendly little boy who was excited to chat with anyone he could, especially the various sailors. At one point, he'd asked Shireen about the scars on her face. His mother had shushed him quickly, but Shireen had just answered the best she could. Children could be cruel, she knew that from experience, yet they were more often simply curious about what they didn't know. They rarely judged or pitied and, because of that, Shireen didn't mind their questions.
Then there was Gendry.
Gendry seemed... nice, even if they'd hadn't properly spoken yet. The young man had tried to approach her once, on one of the first days they were all on the Bell Singer, but she'd fled to her cabin at the very sight of him. Gendry looked so much like her father that it was painful. More than that, it was frightening.
Her newly discovered cousin, baseborn though he may be, looked like a young lord. He was tall with broad shoulders and strong muscles that cut an impressive frame, especially in the well-made, dark clothing and fur cloak the Captain had lent him. She'd seen him read too, so he at least knew his letters, and his appearance left little doubt he was a Baratheon by blood if not name.
'He could be my enemy. There are plenty who'd latched on to him and try to shove him into the role, even if Gendry doesn't want it first. He seems like a good enough young man, but the temptation of power has corrupted many good young men.'
They passed a window, giving Shireen a quick glance of her land.
Her land...
A thought dawned on her. 'Gendry doesn't have to be my enemy. There are two regions that need a Baratheon heir, another seat that Gendry could fill. One closer to his blood.'
Shireen hoped Uncle Renly would wake up from his coma. That being said, she needed to plan for the very real possibility that he wouldn't or, if he did, wouldn't be the same man he once was. From what the Bell Singer's healer had said, people who woke up from long comas could have memory loss, vision issues, and a change in personality. None of which would bode well for a major lord. Strong Gendry, who looked every part the young Baratheon lord, could be a handsome substitute.
'By the Seven, I'm terrible,' she thought, nearly stopping in her tracks. 'I'm already planning for my uncle's death and how to manipulate a cousin I've never spoken to before. Is this what it means to lead?'
"Shireen? Is something wrong?"
Davos' voice pulled Shireen's from her thoughts. She blinked at him," Oh... I just have so much on my mind. Enough about my family, it's caused too much trouble for everyone as is. What about yours? Are Marya and your sons alright with having to stay at Dragonstone longer."
The former smuggler took a long moment to answer, seeming to want to take care to choose the right words.
"Marya misses being home, and she misses having me home even more," he said eventually. "The younger boys are at an age where they need their father around to guide and teach them. I miss us all being home together at our keep in at Cape Wrath."
Shireen felt something inside herself wither up at Davos' words. Of course she knew that the man, for all she loved him like a second father, had his own family and responsibilities that he had to put to the side for the sake of Shireen.
"But..." Davos continued, taking her face in his rough, callous hands so Shireen would look him in the eye. "...you and your future are important to all of us. You may be the Lady of Dragonstone, but are also our family. Marya sees you as the daughter we never had, and my sons see you as a sister to protect. And we will protect you. We will protect and aid you in any way you'll allow us."
.
.
.
"I don't want you to die," Shireen whispered, tears welling up in her blue eyes. "I can't lose you too, not after everyone else. You and your family—"
"Are by your side," Davos said gently. He pressed a kiss into her forehead. "For now and forever more."
Shireen let herself hug the man, finding comfort where she could. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'
Shireen's quarters were exactly the same as they had been when she'd departed for King's Landing, right down to the doll knocked askew on her dresser. She righted it, taking a moment to stroke the doll's black yarn braids before undoing the pins of her own hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Having dismissed her maid for the night, Shireen took a moment to relish the quiet and stillness of her room. After having been in crowded Red Keep and then in the close quarters of the Bell Singer, being alone seemed almost magical.
But when Shireen went to change into the nightgown that had been set out for her, a low giggle echoed in her ear.
Shireen shrieked, spinning around to see a shadow-cast, multicolored face staring at her dead in the eye.
"Patches!" she gasped, stumbling back on her bed. "What are you doing in here?"
The fool let out another giggle before ignoring her question to wander over to the nearest window that overlooked the sea.
"Under the sea the mermen feast on starfish soup, and all the serving men are crabs," he said.
Shireen didn't bother asking what that meant, she'd long since stopped trying to decipher Patchface's riddles.
"Did something happen?" she asked instead.
"Many, many things have happened~," the fool sang. "Have happened, are happening, will happen~."
'The war...'
"Yes," Shireen agreed sadly. "We will have to send men marching out to war soon, no matter how much I wish otherwise."
Patches nodded.
"Men march off to war,
Men march into the sea,
Men march into the dark,
Never again to be seen.
Rain falls,
Night falls,
Blood falls for the sky.
Water will boil, and walls will crumble.
Pray to the Crow and hope he never dies,
For when the wind sings the Darkness comes.
Who will survive, and who will die?
Who regrets, who remains?
Who has secrets, who has pain?
Who will hang their head in shame?
The Darkness feasts on blood,
The Darkness quells the pain.
Women shriek, and children cry,
But only silence answers.
And though we may all struggle,
Death always comes~."
Shireen swallowed hard, every hair on her body standing on end. She said nothing as Patches skipped out of the room, leaving the young girl alone with her nightmares.
Arya VII
"Well, that went well," Arya said. "No one threw any punches, at least. No fires."
Myrc—Myra fiddled with a lock of her dyed hair. "Oh, someone saw through my disguise. I just know they did! New hair, a different name, and some—" she tugged at the necklace Lady Valerica had given her "—necklace to keep them from seeing me for who I am!"
"Serana and her mother promised that, so long as you kept that necklace on, the chances of anyone recognizing you are slim to none," Arya replied from her perch on the bed.
As Serana's niece and Lady Valerica's granddaughter, 'Myra' would be sharing one of the guest apartments of Dragonstone with the two women. Ayra was sure that the quarters were undoubtedly smaller and less fancy than the princess was used to, yet she hadn't complained. Arya had been tempted to ask to stay here with them —she was sharing with Sansa, who did nothing but alternate between pouting and crying into her pillow— but now didn't seem like the time nor the place.
"And besides," she continued, "even if they could tell who you were, it isn't like they could do anything. For one, how would they prove it? And, for two, we'd protect you, Jon, Enzo, Serana, and I. We'll make sure you don't have to go back to your mother. Besides, they wouldn't want you getting recognized either. Too much trouble if that happend."
"But— "
Arya reached out to grab Myra's wrist, stopping her frantic pacing around the room. "Hey, do you trust us?"
"Yes, but— "
"Do you think that we're strong enough to protect you?"
"I know you are," Myra said. "But still, I— "
"Then have faith in us." Arya gave the other girl her most confident smile, "I don't know how much good I'll be, but you're my friend. I'll always do what I can to help you. And I trust Jon to protect both of us, so... no matter what happens, I think it'll all be fine in the end."
.
.
.
"You're a good friend, Arya," Myra said, her voice weak and shaky. Without warning, she threw herself at Arya, wrapping her in a tight hug. "The best friend I ever had."
'That sounds very sad,' Arya thought, hugging the girl back as tight as she could.
Then, after a moment, Arya realized that her own only true friends growing up had been her siblings, which didn't really count. She'd spent casual, friendly time with the children from Winterfell orphanage and the children of other lords and enjoyed it, but, again, that didn't really count. She'd never truly had a real friend either. She'd made brief friendships before, in the way young children do with others around, but they never lasted longer than a few days.
"Me too," she said.
They stayed like that for a long moment, hugging and both trying not to cry as they mourned the opportunities they'd lost throughout their lives. Others had certainly had it worse, but wounds shouldn't be counted, and the positions they'd been born into had still cost them much.
When they finally pulled apart, Myra wiped the wetness from her eyes and said, "Okay, time to get myself under control. You promised you'd show me how to do some spells today."
"Oh, right." Arya gnawed on her lower lip nervously. Once again, she was having second thoughts on her promise to help Myra learn magic. "You know, I'm not really the best person to teach you. I'm still learning myself. You'd probably be better off asking Serana or her mother; I know they have some books on magic with them. Or maybe Jon would let you join me in my lessons, even if they're less frequent now that things are going crazy."
"That's fine, I don't want to bother any of them," Myra replied, sitting down next to Arya on the bed. "And I trust you more than any of them."
Those words tugged at Arya's heart and she felt her reluctance slip away. "Alright, let's get started then. I won't try teaching you any destruction magic though, that can go really wrong if you're not careful."
"How so?
Arya felt the tips of her ears heat up and she rubbed the back of her neck. "I, uh, once set a tablecloth on fire by accident, had to put it out with tea."
Myra burst out in laughter. "I remember that! I thought you were just trying to get out of spending time with my m— Queen Cersei and your sister!"
"I mean, that was a nice side-effect," Arya admitted. Her smile fell as she realized there was a question she hadn't bothered to ask yet, "Myra, why do you want to learn magic? Is it so you can fight? Because, if that is the case— "
"No, not that," Myra said, cutting her off. "I do have plans, but they don't involve the battlefield."
Arya let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, that's good."
"Yes, I was hoping to learn more about something Lady Serana mentioned. She called it Conjur- Conjuration magic. Do you know anything about that?" Myra asked.
"Hmmm, I know one spell, and am learning another. I could teach you that."
"Good, I want to get started right away."
Arya awoke to a banging on the door, the shock of which jolted her so badly she nearly fell out of the bed.
"Wha!" she yelped, grabbing at the covers to steady herself.
"On your feet, Arya! The day is wasting away while you sleep!" Syrio Forel bellowed from behind the door.
"Who's that?" Myra muttered sleepily, only barely lifting her head off the pillow.
"My dancing teacher," she replied.
"Child, do you wish to learn or not?"
Myra blinked at the door. "He sounds very serious about dancing."
Then she turned back over and started snoring again.
"Arya!"
"Coming!" she finally called back, adding a few more curses under her breath. Untangling herself from the blankets, Arya glanced towards the beds that were supposed to be for Serana, only to find that neither looked like it had been slept in. 'Huh, that is strange.'
"Do not make me open this door myself!"
"Ugh!" Arya growled, undoing the door's lock and throwing the door open. "Do you know what time it is?"
The Swordmaster didn't even blink at her tone or state of disarray, instead presenting Arya's sword to her. "Yes, time to train. Go put on something more practical and meet Syrio Forel on the south-most wall-walk."
The girl blinked at him. "Huh?
"Don't keep your mouth open like that, you look like a foolish fish."
"I... don't understand," Arya said. "We're getting back to training already? You said I needed to rest."
"And you have. Now it is time to get back to work," the man said, shoving Arya's sword into her chest so suddenly that she almost dropped it in her scramble to grab the blade. "Besides, I have a new type of training in mind for you."
'New training?' Arya felt a rush of excitement shoot through her body, a smile growing on her face and any lingering tiredness fleeing. "I'll get changed and meet you there soon as I can."
"See that you do."
Then the man vanished down the castle hall, leaving Arya to whisper a quick goodbye to Myra before rushing back to her own family's quarters. When she crept inside, she saw Sansa curled up on one of the beds.
'Wow, she looks awful!' Arya fought the cringe to the sight of her sister. Sansa's hair was a wreck, nothing like the sleek, carefully brushed and maintained mane the older Stark girl was always so proud of. Her Tully blue eyes were bloodshot with heavy, dark bags that marked many sleepless nights. She'd been deteriorating all while they were sailing, but now looked worse than ever.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
Arya didn't answer immediately, too busy yanking on her training clothes and yanking a comb through her messy dark hair. "I spent last night helping Serana and her family with something, ended up falling asleep in her room."
That was mostly, technically speaking, Arya had been helping 'Myra Volkihar,' albeit with learning magic. They'd practice late into the night, so much so that Arya had been completely drained. She didn't even remember falling asleep, just resting her eyes for a moment. The exhaustion of trying to cast spells had hit Myra too, and she'd only managed a small glow from the fingertips. She could only assume that Serana or Lady Valerica had found them both passed out on the bed, and tucked them both in.
"Lady Serana," Sansa tried to correct quietly.
Arya rolled her eyes. "She helped save our lives and is going to be our Good Sister soon. I think we can drop the formalities of titles."
"Jon isn't our brother, so she isn't going to be our Good Sister," Sansa muttered. "And you shouldn't be wandering around a strange castle, not now."
"Father knew where I was," Arya shot back, feeling her annoyance spike. She turned to look at Sansa and sneered, "Besides, I'm not the one who screwed up badly enough to get locked up in a room where I can't hurt anyone else."
Sansa just broke into tears, rolling over so she was facing away from Arya. The youngest Stark girl felt a twinge of pity at the sight of her distraught sister, but she pushed it away. After all, she had better things to do.
"Just... don't get into more trouble," she said. "And tell Father that I'll be with my dance teacher if you see him."
More sniffles.
'Things won't get better until you start working at it, Sansa,' Arya thought to herself as she left the room. 'No one will fix this for you, not me, not Father, and not anyone else.'
"I'm here, I'm here!" Arya called as she skidded to a stop in front of Syrio.
"You're late."
"I had a hard time finding where you meant," she said. "This castle is so confusing."
Dragonstone was so unlike Winterfell. If Winterfell was sturdy and strong and worn comfortably with age, then Dragonstone felt... sharp. Sharp and strange and dark. A grim place made of black stone shaped in odd, unnatural ways. And the place was absolutely covered in depictions of bizarre animals; mostly dragons, which made sense, but also basilisks, cockatrices, demons, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, minotaurs, wyverns, gargoyles, and other creatures that Arya couldn't name. The gargoyles, at least, were familiar, as they had similar sculptures and crenellations in Winterfell. Every other creature seemed to stare at Arya with cold, judging eyes that made her shiver.
"It is different," Syrio agreed, "but beautiful, in its own way."
"...I suppose it has its charm," Arya said, not wanting to disagree with her teacher. "So, what is this new training you have for me?"
The man grinned at her, and nodded at Arya's sword. "Put that down first, child. Then you will see."
"Huh?"
"Put it down,"
"But— "
Syrio cut her off with a sharp look, "You swore to Syrio Forel that you'd follow his instructions without question. Are you breaking your word, Arya child?"
Arya swallowed hard and shook her head, propping her sword up against the wall-walk rampart. "No, of course not. I'll follow your lead, just... just keep teaching me. Please. I want to learn, I want it more than anything."
"And you'll have it, but first you must learn to quiet your mind," the man replied. "A loud, unfocused mind will kill you faster than any enemy blade."
Then without another word, Syrio hauled himself up onto the top of the rampart. With the grace of a cat, the man knelt down and held out his hand to Arya.
"Come on, child. Join Syrio Forel."
Arya eyed the narrow ledge, taking note of the narrow space and the force of the wind coming off the ocean. "What if we fall?"
"Syrio Forel never falls. You must not either."
Arya opened her mouth to argue again before stopping herself. 'I have to trust him.'
Stealing her resolve, Arya took her teacher's hand and climbed up onto the wall beside. Syrio allowed Arya to hold onto him until she found her footing and steadied herself.
"Wwwoooww!" Arya whimpered as the wind tugged at her hair and clothes, trying not to look at the ground so far beneath them. 'Good thing I'm not swearing a dress. The skirts would probably get me killed.'
Syrio seemed to recognize her growing fear. "Don't look at the ground; it is not important. Watch the horizon instead. Keep your eye on the rising sun, and breathe with the rhythm of the waves. Let yourself relax, Arya child."
Arya seized the man's voice as an anchor, using it as an attempt to force away the fear. She locked onto the spot where the sun, orange and bright and huge, met the ocean; keeping her eyes on it, trying not to move her head, Arya willed herself to stand up straight. Raising her arms out to her sides, she listened for the sounds of the crashing waves.
'In... Out... In... Out... In... Out... In... Out...'
Though she couldn't be entirely sure she was even actually hearing the sound of the tide — it was so far away, after all— timing her breathing with the push and pull of the waves was enough that Arya felt herself relax. Her racing heart slowed in her chest. and Arya's body relaxed, becoming less rigid. Rather than fight against the wind, Arya allowed her body to rock with it and the energy to disperse through her. It was an instinctual thing, her body adjusting to keep her balance. She didn't think to do it, didn't decide how to shift her wait or move her feet. She just did it and wondered if this was what it was like to be a cat.
Eventually, a strange sense of peace came over the girl.
"There, you have," Syrio said, pride so evident in his voice that Arya felt herself smile.
They stayed like that for a long while, staring out over the ocean in silence. Arya closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh, salty sea air. For the first time since... Arya honestly couldn't even say when, she felt completely at peace. It seemed as if the only thing that existed in the world was her, the ledge beneath her feet, and the horizon before her.
"Syrio Forel wishes to apologize."
"Huh?" Arya blinked, startled by the sudden statement. "For what?"
"For not taking your concerns seriously," the man said, folding his arms behind his back. Arya watched the way her teacher moved, so fluid and effortless it was incredible. After a moment, she mirrored his pose.
"Oh, is this about... about what happened on the boat?" she asked. "You were right though. I was pushing myself too hard; I was trying to learn too much too fast. And you saw how bad that went."
"True. Syrio Forel was not apologizing for that however. Merely that he did not give the reason behind your eagerness due respect. The desire to protect one's self and loved ones is noble, for all it can make one reckless." He looked at her then, his eyes dark and serious, "Make no mistake, we are entering terrible times, Arya child. Syrio Forel to be prepared and able to be defend yourself. He simply also wants you to not-"
"Be hasty," Arya finished. She sighed, "I can't promise that. I'll always want to learn more, always want to get strong. But I swear that I'll do better. I'll listen and I'll learn and I'll do my best to be patient."
That earned her a smile. "That is all Syrio Forel asks."
The man turned, jumping down onto the walk with feline grace. "Come along then. Time to return to your sword work."
The smile on her face growing larger, Arya followed. Her feet hit the stone hard and she found herself stumbling forward. But she moved with the momentum and, after three steps, regained her balance. Keeping her movements as smooth as possible, Arya snatched up her sword and came to a stop in front of Syrio.
'Not perfect. Not yet. I'm getting there though.'
Even her teacher seemed to agree.
"Good," he said. "Now, pick up your sword. It is time to begin."
"Here?" Arya asked, looking around. The walkway of the allure wasn't wide; two fully-grown men would probably have a hard time standing side by side comfortably on it.
"Here," Syrio nodded. "The Water Dance style is well-suited for narrow, tight spaces. This will do nicely... So long as you do not fall."
He said that last part teasingly. Yet when Arya took another glance over the side, she shook her head. "I won't."
"Excellent. Now, draw your sword and... Defend!"
"Well, this certainly wasn't what I was expecting."
Arya froze up before slowly turning to face her bemused-looking father. By the man's side stood Nymeria, who cocked her massive furry head to the side as she looked at her. Swallowing hard, Arya followed her father's gaze to the sword still clutched in her hand before looking back up to him.
"Don't tell Mother," she blurted out.
At her words, a flash of... something crossed Father's face, yet it was gone before Arya could put a name to it. Instead, he put on a calm mask and asked, "Where did you get that?"
"..."
"Arya, I'm not angry. I knew you had a sword; I caught glimpses of you training on the ship," he said. "I just want to understand how all this happened."
The youngest Stark girl bit her lip nervously. "...Jon gave it to me. He had it made by Gendry and his master."
To Arya's surprise, Father laughed at her answer. "Why am I not surprised?"
It was then that Nymeria finally decided she wanted some attention. Letting out a quiet bark, the direwolf padded over to Syrio, bumping her head against his hip. Clearly she still had not forgiven Arya for the boat ride.
For a brief moment, the swordmaster looked down at the direwolf in confusion before scratching Nymeria behind one of her ears. "Greetings, noble beast."
Father turned to Syrio, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Dancing instructor?"
"Syrio Forel is the former First Sword of Bravos. His skill with the Water Dance sword style is legendary," her teacher replied without hesitation or any hint of the guilt that Arya was feeling. Perhaps that made sense though, he had no loyalty to the man. "Though he is a fantastic ballroom dancer as well."
"Ah." Father turned back to Arya, "I take it Jon hired him as well?"
Arya gave an awkward, guilty smile. "You're really not angry? Are you going to stop my lessons."
"I suppose I'm upset this was all done without my knowledge... but no, I'm not angry. And since these skills aided you in escaping King's Landing, I truly have nothing to complain about, let alone attempt to stop," her father sighed. Then he smiled at her, sweet and sad at the same time. "Your aunt loved swordplay. Perhaps, if our father had allowed her to train formally, things could have gone differently..."
He trailed off, going quiet for a moment before shaking himself back to the present. He smiled again, "From what I saw, you were doing very well. I would like to watch you practice your… dance from the beginning one day soon."
"Well..." Arya looked at Syrio questioningly.
The man shrugged. "Typically, Syrio Forel only allows other students to sit in on training sessions. However, as he is your father, I will allow it."
"Thank you. I hope we can discuss Arya's training as well," Father said with a nod. "But first, I would like to speak with my daughter."
"Of course."
Giving them some privacy, Syrio vanished further down the allure. Taking the opportunity for a short rest, Arya leaned back against the stone wall behind her and took a drink from her water skin. "What is going on? Have you heard back from home yet?"
"Sadly no," Father said, shaking his head. "For now, we have to take this as everything is going well, or as well they can be."
"I just wish we knew what was going on with Robb, Bran, and Rickon."
"Me too. Yet until we hear back, we have to trust that they are safe with your mother. Robb has trained and prepared his entire life for this situation, he can handle things until we return."
"Can you ever actually be prepared for something like this?" Arya asked, trying to imagine what had been going through Robb's mind since he got news of the events that unfolded in King's Landing.
Father winced. "...No, not truly."
At that moment, Arya's father looked older and more frail than she'd even seen him. She wanted to say something... anything to make him feel better.
Instead, she just gave him a hug. "Don't worry. We'll see them all again soon."
"Aye, that is the hope," Father said, hugging her back. "In fact, that is what I wanted to speak with you about. As soon as possible, you and Sansa will be sailing back for Winterfell. With war brewing on the horizon, it is the safest place for you both right now."
"But what about you?!"
'Is he planning on staying here? Or go somewhere else? Is he leaving us behind?' Arya couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to her Father, not after everything they'd been through!
"Tonight's Council will decide more, yet if all goes well, then I hope to sail with you both. Regardless, you and Sansa both need to be with the rest of the family."
"You and Jon are family! You need to come too!"
"It's not that simple. As far as anyone can tell, Cersei has not moved her forces. If she moves first, it is an attack on her own subjects. But, if we do before her, it's a rebellion. That can be an important difference in the eyes of many," Father explained. "For now, I simply ask that you trust me. In return, I offer you my own trust."
.
.
.
"Alright," Arya whispered. "Alright. I don't like it, but I trust you. I'll go, I won't argue... So long as Syrio can still come."
Father let out a laugh, "Sneaky little wolf! Of course. So long as he agrees, Syrio Forel will always be welcome in Winterfell."
Father gave her another hug. His embrace was tight and warm, so much so that it was able to give Arya the illusion of safety.
It was midday when Syrio finally ended their training session, telling Arya to stretch and bathe before eating. This was something he often stressed, the importance of rest and rejuvenation after practice. This, he'd say, was a key component in getting stronger, for if you just endlessly abused your body, day after day, then it never had a chance to repair itself until it was better than ever.
So here she was, flexing out the muscles of her legs when she heard someone else approach. By her side, Nymeria lifted her massive head up off her paws. Glancing over her shoulder, Arya was surprised to see Gendry standing a few feet away.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I've never been outside King's Landing in my life. I got curious and was exploring the castle grounds. I saw you up here, thought I would say hello," Gendry shrugged. He nodded towards her now sheathed sword, "You're good at that. I saw you on the boat too."
"Thanks," Arya said. One day, she'd stop preening at such praise. Today would not be that day. "I never thought I'd have my very own sword, let alone properly train with one."
Gendry stepped closer, holding out his hands. It took Arya a moment to realize what he was silently asking for. When she did, the girl handed over her sword with only slight hesitation.
"It's a beautiful piece of work," the blacksmith's apprentice said, pulling the blade from its sheath and holding it up to the sky to examine it. "Still looks good, you've been taking care of it. I'm proud to have had a hand in its creation."
"You made my sword?" Arya asked.
"Hardly," Gendry laughed. "I just helped with the grunt work. No, this type of work was still too delicate for me. Look at it, as skinny as a needle."
Delicate was a good word for the blade. Thin and light, lacking any cumbersome, unnecessary ornamentation, and designed so that Arya could comfortably wield it with either hand. That was something Syrio had taken full advantage of, drilling her over and over again with one hand before forcing her to twitch to the other.
"Have you given it a name yet?" Gendry asked. "I know plenty of people do."
Arya hadn't even considered such a thing, hadn't really had the time. Still, perhaps she should. Candle had a name, after all. "Have you ever named a blade before?"
"No, it was never my place. Besides, swords never interested me."
The idea of a man not being interested in swords was strange to Arya. She thought all men, even the more bookish types, liked the idea of fighting.
Speaking of which...
"Wait, can you fight?" she asked.
Gendry shrugged and gave her a small grin. "I saved you back in King's Landing, didn't I?"
Arya rolled her eyes, making the young man chuckle. "No, I mean, like, really fight. Properly."
"Nah. I know how to throw a punch and have been in my fair share of tavern brawls, but that's it. No fancy training for me."
"You should get some as soon as possible!" Arya said quickly. "I can ask Syrio to let you join us, or maybe Jon can help you!"
"I can handle myself just fine."
"That's not good enough," she insisted, Nymeria letting out a bark of agreement. "Not with what's going on. Not with how everything is changing. Not with what already happened to your…"
She trailed off, not wanting to think of the dead children of the late King Robert. Any of them.
At her words, Gendry flinched. He looked away, out towards the ocean.
"Life has changed," he agreed. "I'm the bastard son of the dead King Robert, and we're going against the Queen. I never imagined myself being a part of something that big, aside from helping make the armor made to protect soldiers alongside the swords meant to kill them. How long do you think the war will last?"
"Weeks, months, maybe even years. Or, if there is a miracle, it might never come at all," Arya shrugged. She didn't remember her father marching off for the Greyjoy Rebellion; she'd just been a newborn after all. "After it's all over... What will you do?"
"If I'm still alive, you mean?"
"Don't talk like that! We have to believe that we'll all make it out! I know it is foolish, yet we can't let despair sink in and give ourselves over to the Stranger before he's actually here. That won't do us any good."
Gendry looked shocked for a moment before flashing Arya a teasing grin. "Why, Lady Arya, I didn't know you were so eloquent! You're Lady Mother must be so proud."
Arya punched him in the arm, feeling a flash of pride when he winced. "Shut up, I'm being serious. And don't call me a lady!"
"Fine, fine." Gendry rubbed his arm, his face growing grave. "How am I supposed to know what the future has in store for me when I can't even imagine what tomorrow will look like?"
That was a good question, one Arya had no true answer too. Instead, she decided to answer a question with another question. "Well, is there anything you'd want to do? Anywhere you'd want to go? Things you'd want to see?"
"I'd always pictured myself opening my own blacksmith shop one day," Gendry said. "I thought I'd find a wife, start a family, and grow old having a normal, comfortable life. I never thought to want or wish for anything else. And yet I doubt a life that simple is possible here in Westeros anymore, not after everything that has happened. Not after knowing what I do."
He looked back over the sea once more. "Enzo said Jon would let me come back to Skyrim with him, that blacksmiths are always welcome there, and they could help me get established. I think, if we all survive, I'm going to do that."
Something in Arya's heart hitched at those words. 'You're leaving me too?'
"You don't have to go that far away!"
Arya was surprised at how quick and high pitched the words that tumbled out of mouth. Gendry was too, if the look he gave her was anything to go by.
"You just found out you have brothers and maybe even sisters, don't you want to get to know them?" she asked, trying to cover her slip-up. "I know younger siblings can be annoying, yet having them around is usually worth it. Trust me."
Gendry chuckled again. "They're cute, I'll give them that. They're so young though, I'm not sure that I can ever be close to, or feel the love for 'em that you feel for Jon and your other siblings. I'll wish them well, of course, and won't mind spending time around 'em, but that's it."
Arya bit her lip, deciding to change tactics. "Well... You could also come up to Winterfell with Sansa and I! King Robert was my father's dearest friend, I'm sure he'd welcome you with welcome arms. You even still be a blacksmith; the North has plenty of use for them."
"It wouldn't be the same. Even in Winterfell, my past would still follow me. Who my father is would still be important there, as would being a bastard. From the way Enzo describes it, in Skyrim none of that would matter. No one would know me, I could become whoever I want." Gendry grinned at her, "You seem very intent on getting me to stay here. Any particular reason for that?"
"I just..." Arya looked away so she couldn't see Gendry's stupid face and bright blue eyes, the tips of her ears starting to burn. "I just... am glad you're with us."
.
.
.
"Me too."
Margaery II
The first thing Margaery became aware of was how thirsty she was. Her mouth and throat felt as dry and rough as parchment paper. When she tried to swallow, Margaery's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as her throat spasmed wildly.
'I need water,' she thought. In that moment, nothing else in all of Margaery's existence mattered more than finding just a single glass of water. 'I need it now!'
Yet, to obtain the elusive liquid, she first needed to open her eyes. A task that proved to be more difficult than one would imagine. Margaery's eyelids felt like they were welded shut!
'Open up! Open up! Open up!' the young woman demanded of herself.
Slowly... Painfully, vision returned to Margaery. Yet it wasn't the same. She couldn't quite understand, or even properly put the issue into words, but there was something genuinely wrong with her vision. More than that...
'Where am I?' Margaery wondered, forcing herself to sit up as she looked around the room.
The rows of beds separated by hanging sheets, shelves full of salves and herbs, and stacks of bandages told her she was in an infirmary. Yet, instead of the wide windows that let in plenty of sun, warm wood, and flowing linens of High Garden's main infirmary or even the grand, ostentatious one found in the Red Keep, this one was cold with walls made from dark stone and had little in the way of windows to let in light. While the dimness felt soothing against Margaery's pounding headache, she also shivered at the unwelcoming atmosphere.
However, all that confusion fled her mind when Margaery spotted a pitcher and empty glass resting on a table across the room from her.
'Water!'
Margaery pushed the blankets covering her away, only taking the briefest moment to notice how clumsy and uncoordinated her movements were. Under different circumstances, it would have concerned her more but, for now, all she could think of was getting a drink. She swung her legs out of bed to stand and—
BAM!
—crashed to the floor.
Ahhhh!" she screamed in pain, feeling tears coming.
What was going on? Why couldn't she move properly? Why was her body so weak? Why did falling hurt so much? Why couldn't Margaery see right?
The sound of footsteps approaching broke through the chaos raging in Margaery's mind. Foolishly, her heart leapt in joy at the thought that it was a member of her family.
'Mother?' she thought. 'Father? Grandmother? Is that you?'
Yet, when she looked up, Margery found herself staring into a pair of cold, inquisitive green eyes of a severe-looking, dark-haired older woman.
"Good, you're finally awake," the woman said. She reached down, causing Margaery to flinch, and grabbed her by the biceps. With surprising ease, the woman lifted Margaery from the floor and sat her down on the floor.
"Who are you?" Margaery coughed, her voice dry and rough. Just forcing those three words out was nearly impossible.
"Valerica Volkihar," the woman said. Without asking or hesitation, she put two icy fingers on the base of Margaery's neck. "...Good, your pulse is steady."
That didn't mean anything to the young woman. She still only had one thing on her mind. "Water."
"Hmm, yes. You're probably thirsty," Volkihar said with a nod as she continued her examination of Margaery. The woman's hands, while gentle enough, made her shiver. They were so cold! "One moment."
Volkihar went to retrieve the pitcher of water, but rather than pour Margaery a glass, she pulled a clean washcloth from a cabinet and soak it with water.
"Here, suck the moisture from this first," she said, handing Margaery the wet cloth. When she gave the woman a confused look, Volkihar explained. "You need to pace yourself while reintroducing water into your body. If you drink too quickly, you risk vomiting, and no one wants to deal with that."
Under most circumstances, a cultured and privileged young lady like Margaery would have balked at such an uncouth action. Today she shoved the rag into her mouth like it was a slice of the finest pie in the world.
"Hmmm," she moaned as the moisture wet her mouth and slid down her throat, soothing her discomfort. Margaery had never thought much about the taste of water, but right now it tasted as sweet as honey.
"Your body is hungry as well, even if you do not realize it yet," Volkihar continued. She turned to two young women watching on while huddled in a corner, so quiet that Magarey hadn't even noticed them. Infirmary assistants, if she had to guess. Volkihar pointed at one of them, eliciting a loud, fearful squeak. "You! Go get some food from the kitchens for this girl. Either a warm broth or applesauce. Nothing too heavy, do you understand me?"
"Yes, milady. Right away," the assistant said quickly, scurrying out of the room like a mouse being chased down by a cat.
"That girl will never be good at this if acts like she is about to faint every time I look at her," Lady Volkihar said, mostly to herself. She turned back to Margaery, her face growing contemplative. "Alright, let's look at you."
Her cold, delicate fingers reached out and cupped Margaery's face before sliding up to adjust—
'Bandages?I was... I was injured,' she wondered, reaching up to touch her own face. Her fingers slid over the texture of soft cloth. "What happened?"
Lady Valerica cocked a dark brow at her, "Do you not remember?"
Margaery frowned, shaking her head. That very small action sent a sharp stab of pain through her entire head. Still, she fought through the pain and tried to focus on the most recent members she could drag up. "I... My family and I were in King's Landing... There was a knock on the door... Someone attacked Renly, then... then..."
Her fingers slid up on her face. Higher and higher until she was touching the thick layer that was covering her left eye. Or, rather, where her eye should be. Her heartbeat sped up and a cold layer of sweat broke out over Margaery's body.
"...My eye!" she croaked. "Where is it?"
"Gone."
Margaery doubled over, wrenching as her entire body trembled. Her chest hurt, breathing became heard and the hands clutching at her face started tingling.
'I can't breathe!' she realized, gasping for air even as none came. 'I'm dying!'
A firm, icy hand squeezed the back of Margaery's neck and shoved her head down until it was between her knees.
"You can breathe, even if it doesn't feel like it," Lady Volkihar said firmly. "I know you're upset. I know you're scared. Yet there is no need to be afraid, you are safe now. Try to imagine the melody of your favorite song and breathe along with that."
Though the older woman's voice seemed as if it was miles away, Margaery did her best to follow the advice. Through her racing mind, she screamed to remember the lyrics of her favorite song and focused on that.
'~High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most~'
As Margaery mentally sang the sweet, somber tune, she felt her heart rate slow. The tightness in her chest relaxed, her lungs filling with air once more. Even the tingling in her hands stopped.
When she no longer felt the urge to vomit her guts over the floor, the young Rose of Highgarden slowly raised her head to look Lady Volkihar in her hard green eyes. "Where is my family?"
"Here, in this same castle."
"Where is 'here'?" she demanded.
"I believe it is called Dragonstone. You, your family, and many others were brought here after escaping King's Landing."
'Dragonstone? The Baratheon seat? Why here? Did Stannis' daughter rescue us? I thought we met up with Stark's men?'
"I want to see them," Margaery said. "I need to see them, right now. Why isn't anyone here for me?"
After a moment, the older woman nodded. "That is probably for the best." She turned towards the second assistant, "You, go find the rest of the Tyrells, and bring them here immediately. If they resist, you have my permission to tell them about the good news."
With a frantic nod, the assistant all but fled the room leaving Margaery alone with Lady Volkihar once more. For a moment, there was nothing but silence until another thought occurred to her.
"Renly... He was with Loras and I when we were attacked," she said, absentmindedly fiddling with her bandages. "They hit him. Is he..."
Margaery trailed off, not wanting to fully speak the question into existence. While she had no true attachment to Renly, or even feel anything above vague warmth for the man, he was important to Loras. If Renly had been killed, right in front of Loras, Margaery feared that her brother would never recover.
"He is here as well."
"In the castle?" Margaery asked. If so, that was good. If he was here, then Renly couldn't have been injured that greatly. It also meant that he was probably with Loras. Would he come with her family?
"...No," the older woman said slowly. Cautiously. "He is here, in the infirmary as well. Would you like to see him?"
"I..." The answer caught in Margaery's throat. Did she want to know? Would it make her feel any better? 'No. No, I can't look away. Remember what grandmother said. Gather all the information you can and make decisions from there. Never be ignorant of what is happening around you, that just makes you a victim.'
She swallowed hard. "Yes, show me."
Lady Volkihar gave her an impressed, approving look. She walked over to one of the hanging sheets, and pulled it away.
"Oh gods," Margaery gasped.
Renly was laying on the cot, tucked under the sheets and so still that he looked dead. His black hair had been cut close to the skull, and like Margaery, had a swath of bandages wrapped around his head.
"What... What's wrong with him?"
"The head trauma left him in a coma," Lady Volkihar explained, casting the prone man a pitying glance. "There is still know way of telling when, or if, he'll wake up. For now, all we can do is keep him comfortable."
"Is there any hope?" Margaery asked, a frantic edge to her voice. 'Oh, Loras! I'm so sorry!'
"...I suppose there is always hope," the older woman said after a moment. "I worry about allowing it to continue foolishly. That, I believe, is crueler in the end."
Without her permission, some dark part of Margaery agreed. After all, if Renly never woke up, then did that mean Loras would be doomed to waste away as well? Never able to move on or recover?
It was times like this that made Margaery glad she'd never fallen in love. It seemed like such a cruel, ruthless thing.
'Would anyone even be able to love me now?" she wondered, still playing with the bandages wrapped around her face. Gently tugging at the edge of one, Margaery took a deep breath. "I want to see... myself. I need to know what happened."
"Are you sure you're ready? It will be quite jarring. You may not recognize yourself at first."
Margaery shot her a sharp, angry look. "You think I don't know that?"
The older woman shrugged. "Simply a warning. I am not one to comfort others, so don't expect it when you see your new reality. I'll ask one more time: Are you ready?"
"...Yes."
It wasn't as if she could hide from the truth, after all.
Silently, Lady Valerica retrieved a hand mirror and small pair of scissors from a set of drawers. Passing Margaery the mirror, the older woman started cutting the bandages off.
"Close your eye." she said. "Don't open it until I say so."
'Eye. Not 'eyes.' I only have one eye now.'
Margaery did as instructed, breathing in shaky breath when she felt cool, fresh air against her previously covered skin. Even without seeing the face, she could feel something was different now. The skin was tighter and hotter than she remembered. When she experimentally rolled her jaw, it tugged unnaturally and sent a jolt of pain through her face.
It also itched so bad that Margaery had to resist the urge to scratch the skin of her face off.
"Alright, you can look now."
Slowly... Almost painfully... Margaery opened her last remaining eye.
And almost immediately let out a choked sob. "N-no."
She could only stare in horror at the scar —deep red and raised and ugly— as it ran from her left cheekbone up through her eye, then across the bridge of her nose before cutting through her right eyebrow and ending midway up her forehead. Her left eye socket was completely empty. After tracing it with her mind a dozen times, Margaery raised a shaky hand up to touch it. Just so that she could completely confirm to herself that it was real, that this wasn't a horrible nightmare. Only for her hand to be slapped away by Lady Valerica.
"Don't touch," she warned. "Picking and rubbing at the wound will only result in a slower healing process, and a larger, more noticeable scar. And we don't want that, do we?"
The thought made Margaery fold her hands tight in her lap. Still... "It itches!"
"That just means it's healing," Lady Valerica said, a small smile playing on her lips. Going to rustle around in a cabinet, she continued. "Believe it or not, that and the heat you're feeling is a good sign."
She turned and tossed Margaery a small glass vial, which the young woman fumbled for. It slipped through her fingers and landed in her lap. "What's this?"
"A salve of my own creation. It will soothe the itching while continuing to promote healing. Rub it on the wound three times a day with clean hands until the bottle is empty." Then, after a moment, Lady Valerica gave Margaery a look that could almost be considered sympathetic, and added, "I do understand that the healing process is long and uncomfortable. That is why we kept you asleep through a combination of potions and magic."
Magic. After everything that had happened, Margaery barely even registered the word.
"Now it is time for the wound to breathe, however, and you need to get back on your feet," the older woman finished.
Margaery turned the bottle over in her hand and scoffed. "I don't suppose you have anything that will make my eye grow back, do you?"
"Unfortunately, that is outside of my area of expertise."
A deep feeling of bitterness swept the young lady like a wave on the beach. For so long, she trained and practiced to be the best. At her grandmother's knee, Margaery learned all she needed to to bring any person, any court in Westeros under her thumb and this is how she ended up? Disfigured and doomed to be discarded?
"So that's it then?" she snapped. "I'm broken and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it?"
At her words, Lady Valerica stilled from her folding clean bandages. She looked up and turned slowly, her cold green eyes looking at Margaery as if she was a puzzle to solve.
"Oh, I have seen worse head injuries. Given time and proper treatment, the wound will heal completely and the other eye will learn to compensate for your lacking vision. It wouldn't be complete, but I foresee that you'll have no major issues navigating the world around you." The older woman tilted her head to the side, "And, if you're speaking of the scar... then I'm disappointed."
Margaery flinched back. "Disappointed? What gives you the right to be disappointed?"
"Well, Arya and little Shireen had given me hope that not every woman of this land was weak and broke in the slightest breeze. But I suppose they are the exception instead of the rule."
"Weak? I'm not weak!" the young woman hissed. "I'm... I'm... I'm just—"
"Damaged," Lady Valerica said, cutting off Margaery's sputtering. "Injured. In pain. But not broken. So, you must ask yourself, is this your end?"
"What do you mean?"
"Will you give up and accept the insult dealt to you?" the older woman pushed. "First blood has been shed. Now it is time for revenge. So... will you give tears, or will you seek blood in return for your own?"
'Is this what it really means to be in the Great Game?' Margaery wondered. "...I—"
BAM!
Margaery jumped as the door to the infirmary was thrown open, slamming against the wall.
"Margaery!" her mother cried, rushing forward and pulling her into a hug before Margaery even realized what was happening. But as soon as she recognized the familiar floral scent of her mother's perfume, the young woman instantly relaxed.
"Mama, I missed you," she whispered, nuzzling into her mother's arms. Over the top of her shoulder, Margaery saw the rest of her family hovering at the doorway, looking on in a heart wrenching combination of pain, sadness, and relief.
"Be careful of her face," Valerica warned. Spotting one of the timid infirmary aids, she called the young woman over. "You, come with me! I want to show you how to make healing tonic."
The woman squeaked, half in fright and half in excitement. "Yes, milady! Right away, milady! I'll do my best, milady!"
"Alright, stop with the sniveling."
Without another word, the two left the room so Margaery could be alone with her family. It was a small thing, but she sent the older woman a mental thanks for all she'd done.
"Oh Margaery," Mother cried, taking the young woman's face in her hands. "My sweet flower. Why did this have to happen to you?"
"I'm still alive," Margaery mumbled, recalling Lady Volkihar's words. "That is better than some."
"And we'll be forever thankful for that," Grandmother said, coming forward until she could take Margaery's face in her wrinkled old hands. She squinted for a long moment before giving a pleased nod. "Better. Much better already."
That made Margaery smile. 'If Grandmother says so, then it must be true.'
"This will not go unpunished!" Father huff, his face red with anger. "That Lannister woman will pay! I swear to you, Margaery! I will see justice is done for what has happened to you!"
"You and our people," Mother said softly, still stroking Margaery's hair gently. "We must not forget that this attack was not just on us personally, but upon our House and the Reach as a whole."
"Cersei Lannister went after everyone. All houses, big and small. The fact that the Tarlys managed to escape is a miracle," Grandmother corrected. "She wanted to control everyone, and didn't care how much blood needed to be spilled for her goal."
"The bitch," Loras hissed under his breath, eyes fixed on the comatose Renly.
Then he blinked, seeming to only now remember that he wasn't alone. He looked at Margaery, staring at with so much intensity that the young lady was certain he was trying to burn the image of her scared face into his mind.
"Hi, Marg," he whispered.
"Hello, brother," she whispered back, reaching out to take her sibling's hand. 'Garlan... Willas... I wish you were here too. You've always protected and indulged me. Now I need your help taking my vengeance.'
Margaery pulled out of her mother's embrace, just enough so she could more easily look at her family. "I'm alive," she repeated. "I'm alive, and now must survive with what has been done to me. As you said, Father, what happened cannot be forgiven. We must remind the Lions that Roses are brutal as they are beautiful."
She took a deep breath. "So, what is our plan?"
With a familiar grin, Grandmother tapped Margaery under her chin. "There is my most precious rose. You've grown so strong, stronger than perhaps even I realized."
"Of course she did," Father said. "Was there ever any doubt that our girl could survive a bit of trampling?"
Grandmother gave Father a soft, strangely sentimental smile. "We will have our revenge, my dear, there is no doubt about that. But first—"
The old woman pulled something from one of her small, ever-present purses, passing it over. "Here, Margaery. See how it fits."
'An eyepatch,' Margaery realized after a moment, stretching the slip of decorated cloth across her hands.
It was made of black silk and soft, supple leather, with the patch decorated with overlapping layers of red fabric so it vaguely resembled a rose.
"There wasn't much time to make it," Grandmother said quickly. "We'll get something more fitting made as soon as possible, perhaps even a nice glass eye. It'll do for now though."
"It's perfect," Margaery said, stroking one of the 'petals,' before pulling the eyepatch on. As Mother helped tie it behind her head, she drew herself up and tried to pretend that she wasn't afraid. "What is our first move?"
Jon XXIV
"So have you all decided to forgive me yet?" Jon asked, tossing another chunk of fresh, bloody beef at Ghost.
The direwolf let it hit the ground between his front paws, giving Jon an incredulous look. Clearly his companion still wasn't over being forced back on a ship, having to shepherd around three mischievous baby dragons, and then 'ignored' in favor of caring for said dragons. More than just a few paltry pieces of meat were required for Jon to earn Ghost's exalted forgiveness.
Phantasm, however, had no such pride, and leapt on the meat, tearing into it with great gusto. Spector, Enzo's shadowcat, was right behind her, letting out a mournful shriek when he realized that he was too late to grab his own snack.
"Oh, alright! Here!" Serana laughed, tossing Spector another chunk of meat. After gulping it down, the shadowcat leaped up into the vampiress' lap to curl up and lick her fingers. A moment later, Phantasm quickly joined her brother.
"Yeesh, they both cuddle up with you while Ghost won't even look at me," Jon said. At the sound of his name, Ghost looked up in his direction before deliberately turning his back to Jon and plopping down on the floor.
Serana cocked an eyebrow, "Wow, that's harsh."
Jon rolled his eyes. "He'll get over it once we get out into the wild again. We'll do some hunting, burn off some of that stored up energy and aggression."
"He should have gone out exploring with Enzo," Serana said.
"It might be better that he didn't," Jon replied. "Nymeria is somewhat accepted because she sticks by Arya's side. Where, as it stands, people still look like they're expecting me to suddenly start burning people alive for no reason, or impale them on stakes."
"They're looking at all of us like that. You, me, Mother, and Enzo."
Jon fought a wince, regretting that he once again drew his friends into a mess that was not their own. "Exactly why we shouldn't add to that suspicion, especially after..."
He nodded towards the three baby dragons, all curled up in the truck that had been made into a makeshift 'nest' for them with a thick, old blanket, and some mid-sized rocks. As Jon craned his neck to check on them again, he was relieved to see that the terrible trio was still asleep.
'I swear they spend an equal amount of time sleeping as they do causing trouble,' he thought with a grin. 'I suppose that, dragons or not, babies are babies, and still need a good deal of rest to grow.'
Grow...
They'd deal with that later.
"Part of me wishes that I'd gone exploring with Enzo."
"Oh?" Serana asked, leaning back on Jon's bed as she continued to stroke Phantasm behind the ears. "Why is that?"
"Dragonstone is my history," he said. "Or, at least, my father's history. Dragonstone is where the Targaryen family first landed when they came to Westeros from Valeryia. Then, when they came into power, the heir to the throne would carry the title of the 'Prince of Dragonstone.'"
"So it would have been yours?"
Jon shook his head. "No, likely not. Rhaeger Targaryen had another son, one who would have been older than me. Had Robert's Rebellion... gone differently, I'd have been the second son, making me the 'Prince of Summerhall'."
"That all sounds so complicated, makes me glad I'm an only child," Serana said. "Oh, and speaking of family, have you checked on yours yet?"
This time Jon actually did wince. "No, not yet. Even now that everything's out in the open, it feels awkward being alone with Uncle Ned and Sansa."
"Then go check on Arya." Serana smacked him on the back, "Tell her about how you want to bring her back to Skyrim with us."
"As much as she'd love that, I'm not getting her hopes up over something I can't promise." Jon sighed, getting to his feet. "But you're right, I need to go talk to them."
"What would you do without me?" Serana teased.
Jon just gave her a cheeky wink. "Would you mind looking after them?" he asked, nodding towards his dragons."
"Of course. One thing first though..."
Before Jon could ask what she meant, Serana grabbed him by the tunic and pulled him down into a heated kiss.
'Beautiful,' Jon couldn't help but think to himself as he made his way across through a courtyard back from the apartments his family had been given. Ghost trotted along his side, just far enough that Jon couldn't touch him but close enough that there was no doubt he was with Jon.
As much as Serana had been right that Jon needed to talk to his family, he took his time getting back. The conversation hadn't yielded much new information. Arya was out training, Sansa was still crying, and Uncle Ned was finalizing plans to be discussed tonight. With nothing else to do, Jon took his time to admire the castle around him. Dragonstone was truly glorious. Unnerving, perhaps, but glorious and Jon had truly never seen anything like it before. And if he never got the chance to visit the island again, he might as well take in the sights for as long as he could.
There was something else he liked about this castle too, though Jon couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.
'I like it,' he thought to himself, smiling up at a carved gargoyle that almost seemed to return the expression. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes to breath in the salty air tinged with smoke and brimstone before—
'Someone is here.'
Jon's eyes snapped open, his muscles growing tense as every hair on his body stood up. Through their connection, he could feel Ghost come to a similar realization. He turned slowly, hand going to his dagger. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Ghost mirror his movements, the direwolf's fur coming to stand on end and his teeth bared in a silent snarl.
"My god shows me your face."
They say beauty could be a terrifying thing, more so than anything obviously horrifying.
That was the first thought that popped into Jon's head as he stared at the woman before him. Tall and slender, yet with a terribly perfect figure that matched her heart-shaped face, the red haired woman gazed at him from across the courtyard with an intense kind of fascination shiny in her ruby eyes.
"Your god?" he asked, still not taking his hand away from his dagger. 'And where did you come from?'
Unless the woman had been hiding behind a tree or stone column, it was if she'd materialized from the shadows.
"R'hllor," the woman answered, her voice rich and deep. "Though he is known by many names: Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow. I find that, here in Westeros, people prefer to simply call him the Red God. I suppose that works well enough."
"The Lord of Light..." Jon did his best to recall the vague mentions of such a figure. The North was a place for the Old Gods and, reluctantly, the Seven. No one had much care for the gods that existed outside of their borders. "I know he is worshipped in Essos but nothing else, I'm sorry."
"Well he knows you." The woman came forward, moving with an unnatural amount of fluidity and grace; she seemed to glide more than walk. It reminded Jon of the way he'd seen ghosts move about their old homes. "He sends me visions of your face when I look into my fires. Why is that?"
Jon bit his tongue, resisting the urge to recoil when the woman came close enough that he could smell her perfume. More than just the primal fear that was screaming in the back of his brain, he had no desire to bare more of his past to some strange woman he just met. Especially not one who managed to so explicitly put his teeth on edge. It'd been a long time since he felt something like this, probably not since Nocturnal appeared in front of him; dark and detached and painfully beautiful to look upon. Was it not enough that he revealed his parentage?
'Besides, there is no reason to believe it has anything to do with being the Last Dragonborn,' he reminded himself.
Was Jon foolish enough to actually believe that? No, but he could pretend for now. It allowed him to focus more on the issue ahead of him.
He studied the woman, trying to pull any details from her that he could. The first thing Jon noticed after tearing his gaze away from the woman's hypnotic red eyes was the gold choker necklace she wore. More specifically, the large ruby that was embedded in the center of it, right at the hollow of her throat. As he stared into its center, Jon realized what it was about the woman who unnerved him.
Magic.
A thick aura of magic radiated out from the woman, so thick Jon could almost taste it. Though it wasn't any type of magic he could immediately recognize, the energy was undeniable. And it was most concentrated around that necklace.
'Who is this?'
"You seem lost in thought," the woman said. "Do you wish to ask me anything?"
"...Aren't you cold, my Lady?"
Perhaps it sounded foolish, but the woman was only wearing a set of layered red silk robes, loose enough to be considered modest, yet tight enough to be noticeable.
The woman smiled. "Never. My Lord's fire lives within me. Feel."
She reached out and stroked the side of Jon's face before cupping his cheek, rubbing the soft pad of her thumb against one of his scars.
Jon swallowed hard. "This seems rather forward, my Lady. Especially since I don't even know your name."
"Nor have you told me yours."
"Very well, I am Jon Whitewolf." He dipped his head in a brief bow of respect, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Lady."
"It is... and it isn't, yet it is," the woman said, still not removing her hand from Jon's cheek. It was only when he finally broke and stepped backward out of her reach did the woman sigh and continue. "Very well. You may call me Melisandre, a red priestess of R'hllor. And it is my pleasure to meet you."
For a moment, it looked like the wo—Lady Melisandre wanted to say something more, to call Jon something else, but she caught herself. Instead, she turned her attention to where Ghost was tucked up against Jon's side, now closer than ever. The direwolf's fur was still on end and his fangs were still barred.
That changed, however, when the woman held out her hand, low to the ground and palm up, and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you as well, noble beast. Ghost, come."
It occurred to Jon that he'd never said his oldest companion's name, meaning Lady Melisandre must have heard it from someone else or...
To Jon's amazement, the direwolf leaned forward to give the woman's hand a small sniff before relaxing enough to shove his nose against Lady Melisandre's fingers.
"How odd... Ghost usually isn't so—"
"Warm? Warmth calls to warmth, just as life calls to life. Ghost's fur may be as white as the ice and snow of his homeland, but the heat of life that radiates from him is undeniable." Lady Melisandre's eyes looked like two red stars, shining in the shadows and growing late-afternoon dimness of the courtyard. At her throat, her ruby gleamed seemed to glow and pulsate like a heartbeat. "He's a truly magnificent creature, a more than worthy companion to one such as yourself."
"I could not ask for one more loyal," Jon said. He never could resist bragging about Ghost to those who appreciated the direwolf's majesty. "I found him and his siblings as orphaned pups many years ago and he has not left my side since then."
"The Lord of Light certainly sent him to you, knowing that he would serve you well in the battles to come."
Jon had nothing to say to that, spurring the woman to continue.
"There is great power in this creature," Lady Melisandre said, stroking Ghost's ears for a moment before reaching out to take Jon's hand in hers. She turned it until his wrist was bared, tracing his vein with a fingertip. "It lurks inside you as well. You may deny it to me and others, but my Lord cannot be lied to. Your blood holds great power. With just a few drops of it, I could do so much... for Lady Shireen and many others."
Jon didn't miss the way the last part of the sentence seemed tacked on, and not truly sincere. He pulled his wrist back. "Sorry, I've shed enough blood that I'm not interested in giving up anymore willingly."
Lady Melisandre just gave him a serious look, one that was contradicted by the small, patronizing smile playing on her lips. "Deny me all you wish, Jon Whitewolf. But I foresaw your arrival in my flames. The Lord of Light has plans for you. Fate cannot be escaped, I'm sure you know that better than most."
"What do you—"
"Something far worse than the scabbles of men is coming. The Great Other stirs, and my visions tell me that you have a role in stopping him. The question, Jon Whitewolf, is if you will run from your duty to the world, or will you attempt to resist it?
.
.
.
'Enough of this shit!' Jon snarled, baring his teeth like he was a direwolf —or a dragon— himself. "Lady Melisandre, I am not sure what you presume to know about who I am or what I have done. Yet, no matter what you claim to see in your flames, my future is my own. So, you listen here, I have done my duty to the world many times over and I have never run from a fight that mattered. However, I refuse to be manipulated by any forces, be they mortal or otherwise. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be elsewhere."
He spun on his heel to leave, whistling for Ghost to follow him, when Lady Melisandre spoke up again.
"Ah, yes... the council meeting. It is just about time for that, I suppose."
Against his better judgment, Jon looked over his shoulder back at the woman.
"I will be in attendance as well. I used to advise the late Lord and Lady Baratheon, a duty I took so seriously that I feel the need to stay and continue to give aid to their daughter." Melisandre held out her hand. "This castle can be quite difficult to navigate. I can guide you to the Chamber of the Painted Table if you wish."
As Jon stared out the outstretched hand —pale and uncovered, with long, delicate fingers— and vaguely recalled a warning he'd once heard from a weathered, somewhat mad, sailor about never taking food or favors from beings with magic. He claimed that, once you did, those beings would have a hold on you—potentially forever. Jon hadn't given much consideration to the sailor's drunken, superstitious rambling, aside from the brief thought that the concept sounded like a terrifying, twisted version of Guest Right.
Yet now, with every animalistic survival instinct inside him still screaming at Jon to attack this silk-clad threat in front of him, it was all he could think about.
"...No, I think I'll find my own way," he said eventually.
Lady Melisandre just gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders. "If that is what you wish then so be it, Jon Whitewolf. Everyone finds their way eventually. That or they perish."
As the young Dragonborn finally left the courtyard, a nasty feeling in his gut told him that this would not be the last meeting he had with the unnerving Lady Melisandre. No, he would bet his entire fortune that the presence of the Red Woman would hang over him like a shadow in the times to come.
"First thing's first, we need to establish who will be staying on Dragonstone for the time being, and who will be returning to their own lands."
Surprisingly, it was Ser Davos Seaworth who spoke up first, breaking the uneasy, uncomfortable silence that filled the room once everyone had gathered. The former smuggler stood at the right hand of Shire—Lady Baratheon's chair, a protective and reassuring presence for his charge and ladyship.
'Then again, perhaps it isn't surprising,' Jon thought. He'd seen how protective Seaworth was of the girl firsthand. 'He clearly loves her dearly. It is easy to imagine that he'd want to do his best to protect her.'
"My family will be returning to High Garden as soon as possible," Mace Tyrell said immediately. "Once my poor Margaery is well enough to travel, we will turn home to prepare our forces."
"Oh, Father, please don't tailor your plans to suit my needs."
Jon had been surprised to see Lady Margaery at the council meeting. Though he'd heard from Valerica that she was planning to start weaning the young woman off of the sleeping drafts so she could awaken on her own time, Jon still hadn't expected to see Lady Margaery on her feet so soon. Clearly, the young lady was hiding a will of steel under her silk dresses and sly smiles. Additionally, Jon would also admit to being surprised that a woman who did not hold power in her own right like Shireen was there. While Jon personally had no problem with it, he knew such a thing was considered odd in Westeros.
Lady Tyrell was there to accompany her husband, which while not strictly speaking needed, was not uncommon, or considered improper. Serana, Valerica, and Adelaisa were exceptions due to being outsiders, for better or for worse. And Lady Olenna was... something else. While Jon couldn't testify as to the exact dynamics of the Tyrell family, it was clear to him and everyone else that she was the one who held all the power in the family.
Then there was Lady Melisandre, who'd yet to say anything. Instead she hung back, seeming to disguise herself by blending into the roaring fireplace she stood beside. Even then, Jon kept one eye on her at all times.
'They must hold their daughter and granddaughter in high regard,' he thought. 'That or they hope to use her injury to either garner sympathy or remind people of what Cersei did.'
As if in answer to Jon's thoughts, Lady Margaery spoke up again.
"This is our battle too, Father. It is true that I wish to return home so I can recover in a familiar place; however, I also believe it is our duty to send aid in the effort against Cersei."
As she spoke, Lady Margaery rose to her feet so the entire room could hear —and see— her clearly. A flurry of mutters broke out across the room, half agreements to the young lady's words and half whispered comments about her appearance.
While Jon had not been there to see the state Margaery Tyrell had been in when she and her family had been brought to the Bell Singer, he'd been told it was a gruesome sight. Even now, after having spent weeks under Valerica and Recilia Magione's expert care, the wound still stood out as a dark, ugly mark on an otherwise fair and delicate face. The rose-themed eyepatch hid the worst of the damage, yet a fresh red scar still cut across her face, reminding Jon of a cracked porcelain mask.
'For a famed beauty, being scared in such a way might be considered a fate worse than death. I hope Lady Margaery is stronger than that.'
Then Loras Tyrell spoke up, a surprise in and of itself.
"What about Renly?" he asked quietly. "What will happen to Lord Renly?"
Valerica cleared her throat. "As I said last night, he is still in a coma with no change to his condition that I have observed. His treatment will continue, but in my opinion, keeping him in one place will be beneficial to his healing."
The young knight flinched at the news, silently folding his arms and sinking down in his chair. Jon's heart ached for Loras. Seeing the ones you loved in pain and not being able to be there, let alone help them, was a special kind of torture.
"With Un—Lord Renly currently incapacitated, that leaves the problem of Storm's End," Lady Shireen said. With Myrcella Baratheon currently... unavailable, the responsibility of ruling the Stormlands falls on me. However, doing so over such a long distance during trouble times will be difficult. My current plans is to get in contact with whomever my uncle left in charge while he was away—"
"Ser Cortnay Penrose, the castellan," Loras interrupted.
Lady Shireen nodded, "I hope to get in contact with Ser Cortnay. Gods' being willing, he will cooperate and not attempt to seize full control for himself."
She turned to address Loras directly. "Can you comment on the man's character, Ser Loras?"
The young knight scratched his chin. "He's a good man and a good soldier, stubborn, and not the friendliest, yet trustworthy and dutiful. He is the kind of man we'll want on our side."
"Do you believe he'll side against Cersei Lannister?" Uncle Ned said, speaking up for the first time.
"Absolutely," Loras nodded. "He is friends of the late King Robert and Lord Renly, and he never liked nor trusted the Queen. I can't imagine he'll take Cersei's actions against them well."
"Good."
Ser Davos spoke up again. "If I may, working with Penrose will only be a temporary solution. While I'm sure we all hope Lord Renly will awaken and be able to resume his lordship, we need to prepare for the possibility that he won't."
"Meaning we need to start thinking of other potential heirs," Jon finished, realizing the man was leading the conversation. When others turned to look at him, he simply shrugged. "I cannot be the only one who has thought about it. We are all aware of King Robert's children, Lord Renly has no heirs, the late Lord Stannis only had—"
"Me—" Shireen cut in. "Unfortunately, the Baratheon branch is not as fruitful as it should have been."
Another silence settled over the room, this one broken by Tyrion Lannister. "Robert had bastards, plenty of them. All over Westeros."
"Plenty of which are dead," Enzo growled. "If you are suggesting that we put one of the few we managed to save in the line of fire..."
"Nothing of the sort," Tyrion said quickly. "Though I would like to point out that at least one of those bastards are plenty old enough to choose for themselves. Potential legitimacy and lordship could seem like a dream come true to some of them."
"Not once they learn what that dream caused their half-siblings," Enzo shot back.
Discomforted mutters started from the crowd, growing louder and more agitated with each moment.
'Never did I think I'd long for the days of Skyrim's Annual Grand Council. At least all of them are far too practical for all of the Cloak 'n' Dagger of King's Landing,' Jon thought. 'Damn, we've got to get this under control. Last thing we need is a fist fight breaking out, and petty grudges dividing us.
'The Great Houses of Westeros have historically never been good at working together, even for a common goal. We can't risk a repeat of alliances failures of the past.'
He stood up, "Enough!"
That quieted everyone, letting him continue. "Lady Baratheon is right, we need to think of who can rule Storm's End in the event Lord Renly never recovers. For now though, we should just focus on getting Penrose on our side. More than anyone else, he knows the ins and out of the castle, and has the trust of its people. And he'll be vital to rallying the other Houses of the Stormlands to our side. Agreed?"
No one sounded happy about it, but eventually, grumbled and cursed agreements were dragged out of everyone present. Privately, Jon had to admit that he understood where Tyrion was coming from. If they could find a bastard son of Robert's who looked like the man, and had a half-decent head on his shoulders, then they had a half-palatable heir they could present to the people and, more importantly, other nobility. Especially if they agreed to act as a figurehead while someone like Penrose did the actual ruling. Still, he could understand Enzo's protective of Robert's bastards, even the ones he'd never met. Jon felt similarly protective of both Gendry and Myrcella, neither of whom were present.
Uncle Ned cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. "Getting back to the earlier topic, I will be sending my daughters back to Winterfell as soon as a ship is available. There are a few more things I need to attend to, but I hope to be joining them as well. As soon as I return home, I will immediately set to work gathering and organizing the Northern forces."
Shireen nodded again. "That is understandable, Lord Stark. Your seat is furthest away out of all of us, I understand you feeling the need to return. It would not be easy to direct armies at such a distance, and your daughters are vulnerable."
With that, the two major houses present were taken care of. The other assorted minor houses all announced their attentions quickly enough, with Jon making the silent decision to send little Barra and Dustun over to Skyrim with their mothers the moment it became possible. It seemed safest that way.
Then it was time to move onto the next order of business.
"We need to discuss who else, aside from those in this room, will ally with us," Uncle Ned. "Discounting the Lannisters, there are four Major Houses we need to consider: the Arryns, the Greyjoys, the Martells, and the Tullys. My family has connections to the Tullys and the Arryns through marriage and fostering, so I feel confident in saying that they will support us. I have already instructed my wife to write to her father and sister so they understand the situation."
"The Greyjoy heir... he is your hostage as well, isn't he?" Lady Olenna asked.
Jon saw his uncle flinch. It was an action he almost mirrored, he didn't like where this was going.
"Theon has been in my care since the Greyjoy Rebellion, yes."
"Well, there you have it," Mace Tyrell said, earning a sharp scowl from Uncle Ned. "We have the leverage we need to force old Balon Greyjoy into providing aid. I wouldn't trust a squid with cleaning out a stable, but ships are always good to have during war time."
"How can we be sure he'll even care? Theon hasn't even seen the Iron Islands since he was a child. And nothing I've heard about Balon tells me he is a caring or sentimental father," Jon pointed out.
"We shouldn't count on the Greyjoys for any aid, maybe not even neutrality," Tyrion said. "Some of you may know that the Ironborn have been suspiciously quiet for these past two years. While that may sound good, there have been some unnerving rumors about what is going on there."
"As have I," Ser Davos agreed. "Some... old associates of mine have told me of whole ships disappearing, red seas, and dark shadows under the waves. Now, sailors are a naturally superstitious lot, but still..."
'Well, that is going to be a problem in the future,' Jon thought, a shiver running down his spine.
"That leaves the Martells," Shireen said, redirecting the conversation.
At the mention of the name, a collective wince went through the crowd. The Martells were well known for their dislike and general disinterest for the rest of Westeros that, in the worst of time, bordered on outright hostility. Though, to be fair, this dislike was shared. The rest of Westeros viewed the Martells and the Dornish as the whole as strange, hedonistic, and generally 'ungodly.' Even Uncle Ned, though he'd never spoken poorly of the Martells, had also never spoken of them well in the whole of Jon's memory.
"They have a grudge against the Lannisters," Uncle Ned said. "Perhaps more so than anyone else."
"They also have a good reason to hate the rest of us too, especially her," someone replied, pointing at Shireen. "Except for maybe the Tyrells here, as they fought for the Dragons too."
Mace Tyrell grew red-faced. "We will not work with those sand-dwelling heathens! Have you forgotten what Oberyn Martell did to my family?"
Lady Olenna's lips pursed and twisted like she was sucking on a lemon, and Loras not so subtly rolled his eyes. But, once again, it was Lady Margaery who spoke up.
"Father, please, we all know what happened was an accident. Willas bears Prince Oberyn no ill-will," she said softly, touching her father's arm.
"It doesn't matter! That man crippled my son, and I refuse to forgive him."
Jon let the man's ranting go on for a moment, making a mental note to ask his uncle about the bad blood between the Martells and the Tyrells. Instead, he took a moment to admire the table in front of him. It was a truly massive thing, more than fifty feet long and roughly twenty-five feet wide at its widest point. Carved from a block of wood and expertly painted as a detailed map of Westeros, even under three-hundreds years worth of wear and vanish, it was truly magnificent!
'This is where Aegon Targaryen and his Sister-Wives planned the Conquest,' Jon thought to himself, imagining his ancestors sitting where he was now. 'And now it is where I help plan to take down Cersei Lannister and her lot. Life is funny sometimes.'
As his eyes traced the valleys, mountains, and paths of the Painted Table, going from the High Garden to Sunspear. Then an idea popped back into this mind, one Jon had been considering for a while.
"I could go treat with the Martells," he said, cutting through Mace Tyrell's blustering. "I've been hoping to meet with them for a long while now. I... My family, the Targaryen side at least, have debts that need to be paid to them. Ones I feel personally responsible for."
After a moment of stunned silence, a choir of argument and surprised exclamation broke out. Chief among them was from his Uncle Ned.
"Jon, have you truly considered what you are offering?" he asked, a look of confusion and concern on his face. It was so earnest that, for a moment, Jon felt guilty that he'd never spoken with Uncle Ned about his desire to speak with his step-mother's family. "The Martells, Prince Oberyn specifically, are not... well-known for their forgiving nature. I was hoping to make reparations through marriage myself, but that never came to pass. Not yet at least. We have no way of knowing how they will react to your presence, especially if you intend to announce…"
"That I am the son of Rhaegar Targayen and Lyanna Stark?" Jon asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Of course I do. Lying would do no one any good in the long run. No, I will go to them and be honest. I have... something I think they will want to see, something that I think might make them forgive my birth, and, maybe, provide aid."
Jon thought of the letters Elia had written to Rhaegar and Lyanna about their plans and hopes for the future. He thought of the woman's armband, and the Mountain's pendant. If nothing else, those moments deserved to be returned home.
"Besides, he wouldn't be alone," Enzo said, shooting Jon a small grin.
"Of course not," Serana agreed, speaking up for the first time.
'What did I do to deserve them?' Jon thought to himself. Hiding his grin, he turned back to his uncle. "This is something I must do. And I truly believe it was the only way we can get the Martells to side with us. If enough of the Great Houses are open in their opposition of Cersei, then her own support will dwindle, and we may end this without much bloodshed."
While he would prefer no bloodshed, such was a naive thought. At the very least, there was no way the men and women in this room would let the Queen live. Not that Jon was interested in pleading for her life.
Uncle Ned closed his eyes, face twisted in pain and unhappiness before he finally nodded. "Alright, I give you my blessing. I just wish you'd spoke with me about this first."
"May I propose a course of actions?" Lady Margaery spoke up, drawing attention back to herself. "My eldest brother, Willas, is a friend of Prince Oberyn, despite the unpleasantness of their original meeting. If given some time to exchange the proper correspondence, we can have Willas draft a letter of introduction for Ser Jon. If nothing else, it will give Prince Oberyn, and hopefully Prince Doran, pause."
"In addition to serving as an olive branch from the Tyrells to the Martells," Lady Olenna added. After a moment of consideration, she continued. "Prince Doran is a patient and practical man. Even in the face of what the Lannisters and Baratheons had done to his sister and her child, he chose to accept peace in the face of overwhelming odds. Yet I suspect his hatred of those who killed his family has never wavered. If we stroke the flames of that rage properly, the Martells could be useful allies indeed. I approve."
Lady Alerie fussed and Lord Tyrell huffed but, in the end, both nodded as well. An action that caused a wave of agreements from everyone else.
"As much as I approve of paying one's debt, I'm afraid I can't join you," Tyrion said. "I am well-aware of the animosity between my family and the Martells. And while that will be something we'll have to deal with in the future, for now I need to find a way to contact my uncle, Kevan Lannister. If I can get to him first, I will hopefully be able to convince him to disown and disavow Cersei. Without the support of the Lannister family fortune and forces, she will have no allies, and nothing she can do. Backed into a corner, Cersei may be convinced to end this war before it even begins."
Jon gave the older man a wary look. "Wait, you said 'if I can get to him first.' What do you mean by that?"
Tyrion gave a heavy sigh. "My sister can be very convincing when she wants to be. And extremely determined to get what she wants."
Another man glared at the man. "I still don't see why we should trust anything that comes out of your mouth, imp!"
"Dwarf," Tyrion corrected. "And, if you can't trust what I'm saying, then trust that I don't want to go to war anymore than anyone else. Can you imagine me on the battlefield? No, I have no desire to die like that, nor do I want it to be the fate of the young men of my family. Or, as I've made clear, the fate that may befall the women and children. I'm sure you can relate, good ser."
The man snarled, but ducked his head and said nothing more.
"With that in mind, we must think of what everyone needs to do when they return home," Valerica said. "I suggest that you all get to work setting up supply lines, linking your lands and allies together."
The smart suggestion drew surprised looks from everyone else in the room who didn't know her, leading the ancient vampiress to shrug. "I've had the... fortune of seeing many wars. I know how the game is played."
"She's right," Jon said in agreement. "We all know the wars are won by supplies and communication, almost more than they are by forces and leadership."
Uncle Ned nodded. "Setting up supply lines is important, but we should also use the opportunity to cut Cersei Lannister off from any supplies and aid she may be receiving from outside King's Landing. Additionally, planning methods of covert and coded communications need to be a priority."
"Especially important if I cannot convince my uncle to side against Cersei," Tyrion added.
It was then Ser Davos' turn to speak. "We also need to consider water transport. King's Landing is connected to the sea, so a blockade will need to be considered."
"We'll block her in," piped up Lady Shireen.
"And starve her out if need be," Lady Olenna finished. "The Reach controls the food, and she will be seeing none of it. If we cut off the King's Road from the Westerlands, she's finished before she ever begins."
"So that is it then?" Lady Shireen said, looking around. "Does anyone have anything else to say?"
No one spoke up, at least to the group at large. "Alright then," she continued. "I suppose we've all made our decisions, and created our plans. Now we just have to carry them out."
Looking around the chamber, the blood-red sunset shining through the windows, Jon felt a growing uneasiness in his stomach, one he'd felt many times before. It never heralded anything good. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Lady Melisandre grin.
'It has begun.'
To be totally honest with you, I'm not 100% happy with this chapter but it IS the start of a new arc and beginnings have always been hard for me. Admittedly, I'm a little scared to actually pull the trigger and get started on the actual war.
Still, writing Melisandre was really fun, and I got a chance to do some of my favorite POVs.
Hope you liked it!
