Disclaimer: I don't own GOT or ASOIAF in any way or form.
AN-1: Winterfell Arc begins with this chapter, and it is going to span quite a lot of chapters, with several major events happening in the lives of everyone.
AN-2: The NEXT SIX CHAPTERS are available on my P*T*R*N right now, and you can read them by following the link on my profile!
AN-3: A very big thanks to LordLexx, GladiusX and Hades for being such awesome editors and another one to GladiusX for being my beta (Lexx does that for everyone by now).
"Was it ever serious between us?" Dacey asked in a lifeless voice, sitting on the chair her mother had vacated a few hours ago. Her posture was a far cry from the confident woman she always was, with her face in her hands as she sat bent over in the seat, "Or was it nothing but a physical relationship for you?"
"Ow," I groaned in response, pressing a hand to my nose to stop the flow of blood—I had forgotten how strong Dacey actually was, having been so long since I caught a full-powered punch from her. Pinching the bridge of the broken cartilage, I winced as I pushed in place with a sickening crack and whole world of stinging, eye-watering hurt, "Fuckin-Fuck!"
"Fuck," I sighed, wiping the blood on the back of my hand before I looked at the woman in front of me, "Look Dacey, at one time I definitely thought of bedding you just for fun once I actually grew up enough to do so…but over time, as I came to know you properly? Those thoughts changed. I don't know if I love you, but it is certainly not a matter of lust for me, Dacey. I never told you the truth of our birth, of our dragons…and even how Visenya and I began to view each other over the last year—but I am not sorry for it. Not in the least. However, now that you know about all this, it is up to you what happens to the relationship we had."
"I need time to think about this Jo-Daeron," she muttered, still not looking me in the eye, "I know that you couldn't have told me about the reality of you and Visenya, or at least not without being assured that I won't tell it to anybody else. By the Gods, even I am not sure whether I would have gone and sent ravens to Lord Stark or not regarding this—but I need some time. While I realize that you are the same person I had come to cherish in my life, and Visenya is still the same girl…you both being what you are changes things. Up until a week ago, I had been bedding and laughing with a boy who was going to a Master of Arms at Winterfell at the best, or sent to the Wall at the worst. Now you are the son of the two people who started the rebellion, with three dragons, magic, and you will claim back the Iron Throne."
"It sounds a lot when you put it like that," I said, my voice muffled and slightly warbly as I pressed my fingers on my nose, stemming the blood slightly, "So…anything else you want to talk about right now? Like, apologize for breaking my fucking nose?"
"Be glad I didn't punch you in your balls," she laughed wetly, wiping her eyes and giving me a glare. "Now where is your sister, I need to have a word with her too."
"What are you going to do?" Maege asked me as we loaded the Ironborn prisoners into the cells on their own ships. Trying my best to ignore the urge to punch the struggling reaver in his already broken face, I kicked him inside and turned around as she continued, "What reason would you have for keeping them alive, especially since you bandaged their wounds on Harlaw, and had Willas look at them here. I don't believe for a second that you are going to get them imprisoned in Winterfell, not when no one values their life and you have Rodrik and his sister in your grasp."
"They are going be executed," I nodded, and the five Iromborn began to struggle against their bounds with a renewed fervor, their eyes wild and panicked, muffled grunts and screams coming from their gagged mouths, "More specifically, it will be after all the Northern Lords have assembled in Winterfell…each and every one of them."
"Is this a plan to gain their support for the war?" She asked, her face blank, but her tone conveyed all the disgust and disappointment she felt with me, "To make them see you as the proper Heir to the North instead of your cousin?"
"If they decide to help me, then why not?" I shrugged, drawing the cloak tighter around myself, "However no, I have no desire of taking Winterfell from Robb, or either of my cousins. This is just to…gain their respect and admiration. After all, if they won't support me, I can at least settle for neutrality."
"Daeron!" Visenya shouted as she came down to the stairs, pausing for a moment as she saw us both, "We are all on the ships and ready to sail. Dacey and Alysane are both on the other ships."
"Well, let's get to Deepwood Motte first now," I sighed and walked up to the deck, Maege following behind me quietly as I grabbed Visenya's hand, "Raise the anchors and hoist House Mormonts flag, and drop the sails while the winds are fast. I don't want to waste a single moment more than necessary!"
The men did so immediately, even though I could see the hesitation on some of their faces, the way they looked to Maege for confirmation and assurance. However, that was something I had anticipated. Despite what I had done for them, Maege was still their Lady—and while they swore to follow me, their loyalty laid with her, first and foremost.
Understandable, but it didn't mean I had to like it. Sensing my irritation and a slight bit of displeasure, the dragons roared out from within the forest behind us, and the men immediately went to work. I just grinned, feeling the salty wind blow over my head and sending my appreciation as well as satisfaction across the bond to them. Of course, that was accompanied by the…scolding?...yes, the scolding Visenya managed to somehow deliver to them.
They went silent the next second, abandoning me to face the imperious eyebrow raise she was giving me. Groaning and rolling my eyes, I turned towards the sea as the ship began to sail forwards, the Bear of House Mormont flying high as the sails were dropped…and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vhyraxes, Gaelithox and Caraxes fly by us, swooping down to disappear under the deep blue waters.
Sighing slightly, I walked over to the front of the deck, feeling Visenya stop beside me after a few moments. I looked at the azure water ahead of us, so reminiscent of our situation as the winds churned and rolled it over, waves slowly starting to form and cracking the sheets of ice that were floating in the sea. Just like the events of last week had shattered any semblance and chance of peace in our life. And now, after the revelations and events of the past week, every action was going to decide only one thing. Whether we were to survive in the Game of Thrones or not.
And I had no intention of letting us lose.
"Bugger me bunghole," Galbart whispered as he exited the gates of the Deepwood, his brother right behind him along with twelve soldiers. "What in fucking frozen hell is happening?!"
"Lord Glover, Heir Glover," I nodded, taking a step forward and dragging the prisoner in my hands forwards, while all of them looked at the Ironborn, Rodrik—and hundreds of women—behind me with shock and bewilderment, "we are in a bit of a hurry, but can I use the ravens you have here? I need to send a letter to the whole North and Kings Landing."
"Let him do it Galbart," Maege said tiredly, walking forwards to stand between me and the baffled-looking Lord, "Let someone take him and Alysanne to your Rookery, while I fill you in on all that has happened."
"No no no," he shook his head rapidly, his eyes blown wide as he pointed at me and then the people behind us, "you don't come to my home and demand to use my Rookery without giving an explanation for whatever the fuck this is! How and why in the name of the Old Gods do you have Rodrik Harlaw in chains, along with his sisters and these cunts? And someone fucking get some cloaks for the women, they are freezing their tits off in this snow!"
A few minutes and several more creative curses from the Glover brothers later, I was standing in the Rookery, writing the message that was being copied by several people around me. Meanwhile, Maege was downstairs in the Hall, narrating the events that had led to all this—Dragons, Targaryens, and my one-man attack on Harlaw removed obviously. The women from the Westerlands and the Reach were also there, sitting with thick woolen cloaks and blankets to ward off the northern cold that they were experiencing for the first time. Galbart had spared no expense even with the surprise visit, and as I took a sip of the aged ale in my hand, I completed the letter to the Last Hearth.
"Well, now that this is done, I am a bit confused regarding what we send to the Capital," I said, looking at the parchment on the table, "I don't think using words like…cunts and dickless worms will go over well with the Hand and the others."
"Well then don't call them that and just write that the Ironborn attacked Bear Island, and we rescued hundreds of women from Harlaw after killing the reavers, and capturing Lord Harlaw," Alysane said, rolling her eyes as she started to tie to scroll to the ravens, and Visenya and I copied her actions, "Why do you even want to call him here? To ask for his throne in return for the service you did?"
"That would completely work," Visenya drily remarked, earning a laugh from both of us, "But no. This one has a plan of earning a reward from the King for these actions, as well as using the High Septon and Tywin Lannister to bolster his reputation. Of course, the fact that this is a very big thing and thus needs the King to be present may also be important."
"You sure the King will not simply order you killed, or rather, the Lannister?" the Mormont asked, and I almost lost control of my anger as my mind conjured the image of how Aegon and Rhaenys—or maybe, the children who had posed as them had been murdered. Thankfully, the Dragons were still all the way to the shore, otherwise, my anger would have very well made them roar and shoot fire in a blind fury. It took Visenya's hand on my shoulder to bring me back to my senses, and even then, I could almost feel a part of me screaming at me to let go of everything. To ride to King's Landing and burn those liars and murderers. To freeze their limbs and break them off like icicles.
Was this what Maegor and Theon warned me about?
"He won't," Visenya answered as I turned away from Alysanne, looking down to see how I had scorched the table slightly from the fingers of my left hand. Thankfully, the remaining letters were untouched and safe, and while they both talked among themselves, I felt the world fall away as I concentrated on writing the letter to King's Landing. Each polite word felt like a punch to my gut, and each time I referred to Robert and Jon Arryn as My King and My Lord Hand, I felt the urge to tear the parchment apart and scream for the world to hear my anger.
Gods, if writing the letter was this tough…how was I ever going to face them and talk like a normal…normally insane person. Fucking Hell, this Targaryen madness was really something else.
"My Lord!" Pycelle shouted in his horrible, weak, croaky voice as he hobbled into the Small Council chamber, "We have a letter for you and the King!"
"This is what you called me for Grand Maester?" Jon Arryn, a man of seventy-nine namedays and possessing the sharp features of the purest of Andals raised an eyebrow as he took in the wild, panicked expression on the aged Maester's face, "A letter? Couldn't it have been brought up in tomorrow's meeting? I am barely able to get enough sleep as it is."
"It has come from the North Milord," Pycelle said, hobbling over to the table that place it in front of him, "It has come from Deepwoode Motte, but it was sent by Jon Snow."
"Ned's son?" he mumbled, picking up the unsealed letter, "What does it say Pycelle, that has you in such fits? Is he demanding a legitimization or something else from the crown?"
"Much worse," he wrung his hands together nervously, and Jon noticed the tremble in the Maester's hands as Pycelle took a seat at the table, "I am not sure how it has happ-it is better if you just read it, Lord Hand."
"Mhm," Jon nodded skeptically, but he was also curious regarding what the boy named after him had written to the crown, especially from the seat of House Glover instead of Winterfell or the Bear Islands. Looking at the flagon of wine on the table, he sighed and turned towards the door, spotting his regular guard standing outside with his sword unsheathed, "Bobby, get some wine, and don't you dare smuggle a cup for yourself once again!"
Chuckling internally at the young man's habit of drinking wine instead of water, Jon sighed as he remembered the days Robert used to do much the same back in Vale. Not that anything had changed in that regard. Only, now he drank even more, fucked even more, and his hammer was just a showpiece in his chambers. He sighed heavily, deciding to think about the deteriorating realm and Roberts's worsening state later. Unfolding the parchment, Jon blinked as something fell onto the table, followed a moment later by two other things. He gasped as his eyes first landed on the finger, dried and rotted, but certainly no more than a fortnight old. And then his eyes turned towards the other two things…a ring, and a seal press.
The letter forgotten in his left hand, Jon picked up the seal press, turning it face up to look at the House it belonged to. A sickle greeted him as the light hit the metal surface, House Harlaws symbol gleaming upon the surface. Dropping it back on the table, he picked up the ring next, the sapphire laid into it also possessing the same symbol carved into it. Dear Mother…what the fuck had Ned's son done?!
"Read the letter, Milord, it is not what you think…though it is certainly not better."
Grasping the parchment tightly in his shaking hands, Jon somehow managed to straighten the letter despite the mounting panic within his heart. The letters were clean and well written, indicating a thorough practice in quillsmanship, and even from a single glance, Jon could tell that Snow was writing without hesitation.
For the Lord Hand, Jon Arryn, from Vale of the Arryn.
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and maybe a good time of the day too. Since you know that I am the bastard son of your once ward Eddard Stark, I think you will treat my words with the impression that I am speaking nothing but the truth. However, considering how improbable and absurd this situation sounds to even my ears, I have sent the proof of my claims and statements with three ravens that were sent alongside this one. A finger from one of the Ironborn, the seal press of Lord Rodrik Harlaw, and his personal signet ring.
Roughly one week ago, Harras Harlaw, the late Heir of Rodrik Harlaw led a group of hundred Ironborn to Bear Island. His aim was once again, to capture the girls and women of the North, and rape them under the pretense of Iron Price and whatnot. However, his main motive was to capture my sister, Lyanna Snow…who admittedly is well-known beauty in the North. They wounded us, and killed many of us too, but we were able to defeat them before they could set fire to anything like they always do. But, they were able to take my sister, and eighteen other women with them.
In response, I and a few others chased after them, and started a rescue mission for our sisters and wives. Thankfully, it seemed that a bulk of Harlaw Island's strength was on Old Wyk for some festival, and thus, we faced minimal resistance in taking over the Island. We rescued my sister and the other women who were taken, but sadly, three of them had chosen to throw themselves off the deck into the sea rather than subject themselves to the cruelty of Ironborn. We are currently on our way back to Winterfell with the five Ironborn I decided to keep alive for execution in front of the Northern Nobles, and Rodrik Harlaw as well as his sisters are currently our captives.
However, that is not all. After killing the Ironborn that tried to prevent us from rescuing our women…we found about two hundred women on that island. Women that were decidedly not from the Iron Islands. Currently, these Westerlander and Reachwomen are traveling with me to your foster son's keep of Winterfell. All of them are very pleased to be free from the inhumane torture they were being subjected to, and are clearly glad to be back on the mainland. They are hoping to be reunited with their families, sons, fathers, and husbands.
As a recompense for Harras' acts, Lord Harlaw has decided to give House Stark and House Mormont monetary compensation as well as personal property of his. However, since the King is the Ruler of the Realm and Protector of First Men as well as the Andals, I wish to know what to do with the two hundred women we rescued.
Awaiting your orders, Jon Snow, baseborn son of the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark.
"Fuck," he mumbled, the letter dropping from his hands to his lap as he stared at the table. What in the name of the Seven was happening up there?! Harras Harlaw hadn't been an example of civility and chivalry despite his knighthood…but to blatantly break the King's peace, and that too after suffering a defeat in recent memory? And that didn't even cover what Ned's son, his namesake, had done. Gone on a rescue mission and killed every Ironborn in his way, along with rescuing the women they had left behind all those years ago. "Pycelle, tell someone to wake Robert. And if he doesn't do so immediately, tell him it is a letter from Ned."
"Milord, are you sure it is wise-"
"I said now!" he snarled, almost banging his fist on the table as he glared at the cowering Maester, feeling another headache from behind his eyes as he mentally ran through the letter again, "Go and do it now before we see if I can wrap that beard around your neck or not!"
Pycelle nodded rapidly and left the Small Council chambers, and Jon sighed with relief as he saw Bobby come back with a full flagon of wine along with a cup. Waving the knight away with a hand, Jon left the cup in its place and pulled a long sip directly from the flagon. Slamming it down on the table, he looked at the letter and the items in front of him, almost wishing that this was all a dream and he was still in his chambers with his wife and son.
Rubbing his tired eyes as he heard the shouts of Robert echo through the walls of the Red Keep, Jon for once wished that he had passed on the duties of the Hand to another. At least it would have saved him from the shitshow that was about to happen over the next few months. The Greyjoy hostage was going to die. No questions about it. And then, Balon would launch an attack on the mainland once again.
But he somehow had to make Ned keep the boy alive until the visit to the North was done. Because after this letter…there was no way Robert was going to stay in the capital. Not when he could run North and meet Eddard—and wallow over the tomb of that savage, Lyanna Stark, he thought with distaste.
"Jon!" the boisterous voice of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and for all intents and purposes, his son rang through the chamber as Robert thundered into the room. Jon sighed heavily as he immediately smelt the wine in his breath, as well as the wench that was thrown over his shoulder. Was it too much to ask for some dignity and self-respect from him? However, before he could reprimand him, the large, clearly drunk man sat down on his chair and pushed the whore down to her knees, sighing with pleasure the next moment as the sounds of slurping and sucking filled the room. Idly, Jon noticed that both of Robert's hands were busy holding his hanging gut, and once more, the aged Lord despaired at how the once Warrior personified had let himself waste away. Thankfully, Robert provided a distraction to his dark and depressing thoughts…though, the question wasn't certainly much of an improvement, "So, what is this I hear about my brother sending me a letter from that freezing wasteland?"