Howl of the Dragonwolves

by Elphaba818

9 years ago, the Mad Queen and the Queenslayer died and left their bastard twins grow up in the cold shadows of House Stark. Torrhen and Lyaella Snow know their parents never got the happy ending they deserved. Now they have the chance to change things. They'll ensure their parents win the game of thrones. Or they'll die trying. TIME TRAVEL AU! Co-Author: Longclaw 1-6 as of 2-22-21

8. Not Everything Can Be Changed

Last month on Leap Day, I posted chapter seven. The new coronavirus was spreading somewhat throughout Europe, but everything was still okay in America. Now, one month later, America is suffering from the pandemic and everyone is social isolating or in quarantine. I'm among the social isolaters. I'm just glad I planned ahead when I realized how bad the outbreak was getting overseas and managed to talk my mom into buying extra supplies in advance. My family's all stocked up to ride out this thing, and we're taking extra precautions to ensure none of us get sick. I hope all of you are staying healthy, too. Make sure to wash your hands! No one wants to get sick!

Also, I'm sure you've all heard by now that the Game of Thrones stars Kristopher Hivju and Indira Varma are among those who have unfortunately caught the virus. Please keep these two great actors in yours prayers! Get well soon, Tormund and Ellaria! We're all rooting for you!

In other news, I'm sorry it took me another full month to post this chapter, but considering I was helping my family prepare for everything what with the virus, I was very distracted this past month, especially since my anxiety levels have been off the chart with everything going on. Plus, I also need to focus on getting an online art portfolio posted online to promote myself as a freelancer. This story is my baby, hands down, but I can't focus on it 24/7 while social-isolating. I need to put my animation skills to good use and find a job in the animation field! However, I will also be doing Camp Nanowrimo this April to force myself to write more even when focusing on my artwork, so rest assured that I'll still be writing this story in my downtime.

Now, onto the usual review count since the last chapter! I'm pleased to report that we beat the review goal this time! 127 reviews! Thank you, dear reviewers! Thank you so much! You've made me so happy! Virtual hugs to you all! I know we're all supposed to be social isolating right now, but virtual hugs aren't the same as real hugs, so I that's fine to do, lol! *HUGS! HUGS! HUGS!* As for the new review goal for this chapter... how about we try to reach 150 this time? That's only 23 reviews all together, not too much! Come on, readers! You know you can do it! Let's shoot for 150!

Thank you all for your continued support! I hope you all enjoy this next chapter! Just please review when you're done to let me know what you think of it! :D

Happy Reading!

- Elphaba818

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Chapter Eight: Not Everything Can Be Changed

His voice was hoarse and parched. His fingers ached from constant use. His whole body was hot and sticky with sweat, and he was pretty sure those bright splotches of red coating his arms were the beginnings of nasty sunburns. But none of that mattered.

All that mattered was keeping a smile on his face as he sang and played his lute. He had to. If he let his smile fall or mistimed a note, his audience would leave. This was the largest crowd he'd had all day, and their tips were the only way he and Shadow would avoid scavenging through trash for food tonight.

To call Torrhen's life on the streets of Meereen a struggle would be an understatement. That one measly loaf of bread that jackass Daario Naharis gave him he'd been forced to split up into three separate meals for himself and his direwolf. Even then, it was the only bit of food either of them had for those three days. But that had been weeks ago, now. Since then, he'd been trying relentlessly to get back into the Great Pyramid and finally meet Daenerys Targaryen. Unfortunately, luck was never on his side. At first, the arrogant sellswords had been his problem. By order of their damn captain, they refused to let him join the long queue of citizens waiting to meet the queen each day. That was the annoying enough on its own, but then the Unsullied took over guard duty again and barred entry into the pyramid to everyone in the city. His mother had closed her open court sessions to the common people — temporarily, the guards assured the citizens. It was only for a short time so she could prioritize her efforts in stopping the Sons of the Harpy attacks. That didn't stop her soldiers from providing assistance to those who desperately needed help. Extra provisions were passed out first thing in the morning by the sellswords, and anyone who needed temporary housing was escorted to makeshift shelters for room and board until new permanent housing was built.

Sadly, extra food rations were only helpful to those who weren't on the sellswords shit lists. Torrhen went to where the Second Sons passed out food first thing every morning to literally beg for leftovers, but the sellswords refused to give him any more after his third appearance asking for scraps.

"There's only a limited amount of food to go around, boy," one told him. "The queen gave us orders to provide for everyone. Can't keep passing it out to those who've gotten handouts before."

"She'd want to see the homeless orphans in the city fed!" he'd retorted.

It hadn't mattered, though. They refused to provide him with food, and they watched him like a hawk whenever they saw him, so he couldn't even sneak a bit away. It pissed him off, but he couldn't do anything about it. It was better to save his energy for arguing with the Unsullied guarding the pyramid entrance, anyway. Unlike the Second Sons who would either laugh or strike him if he refused to leave immediately, the Unsullied were unaffected by his desperate pleas to see the queen. Shadow even growled threateningly at them once before Torrhen ordered him to stand down, but even then the Unsullied showed no fear of the direwolf. They just droned the same thing every time: Queen Daenerys wasn't holding court now. Come back another time.

Hence was why he had to resort to street performing every day just to survive. Singing and playing his lute was the only way he could earn money. Without money, he couldn't buy food, and without food, he and Shadow would have died as soon as the Second Sons started denying them food rations. Even then, it was only on really good days he made enough to afford decent meals for himself and Shadow. The people of Meereen were keeping their coin purses drawn tight because of the earthquake, and not everyone who stopped to listen to his songs knew the Common Tongue, so they had no idea what he was singing. After spending a considerable amount of time in Meereen, Torrhen had come to the conclusion that most of the former masters did in fact know the Common Tongue judging by how they sometimes stopped to listen to his songs. However, they hardly ever spared any coins for him, and when they did, they left only a coin or two. The freedmen were a bit more generous, as they could see he was alone and orphaned on the streets, but they couldn't afford to give him much. A handful of coins and nothing more, and that was only from former slaves fortunate enough to have extra money to spare.

Thus was his life as a street urchin. Until he could get into the pyramid and meet his future mother, he had no choice but to repeat this cycle every day just to keep himself and Shadow alive.

He twanged the last few strings of his lute as his song ended, and he hopped down from the barrel he'd been sitting on to take a bow. Thank goodness his ankle had fully healed a few days back. He'd come to realize that people tended to tip better when he stood up and bowed whenever he finished a song. His audience clapped and cheered, but only a few of his listeners fished through their pockets for their money pouches.

Not a lot of earnings thins time around, but money was money. He made sure to spread out the scrunched-up wrinkles and folds in his cloak on the ground for people to deposit their donations on. One by one, a slight handful of Gold Honors trickled onto the fabric.

"Thank you, thank you very much!" he said earnestly. "Shadow and I appreciate your generosity!"

The black wolf had been sitting in the shade of an awning next to them and thumping his tail in tempo with his song. At the mention of his name, Shadow stood and trotted over to the crowd-goers. Pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, he let people pet him to their hearts content. So long as he appeared sweet and lovable to others, that could also bring in a few more coins occasionally.

Sure enough, a couple more Gold Honors were tossed into the pile. But it was only four more, totaling nine coins all together.

Seeing the small pile made Torrhen want to weep. That was barely enough for a crust of bread and maybe a Myrish orange depending on the vendor. What he needed was at least one good merchant or former master to tip him. They could afford to loosen their pockets if they wanted too. Stingy asses.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" he said with a forced smile. "But there's plenty more to… to go around…"

His smile died as the crowd dispersed. They were tired of his songs apparently. Damn it!

Sighing at his eternal bad luck, the boy gathered up his earnings, depositing them into the small money pouch he'd found in the wreckage the other day when scavenging for supplies. "Well, at least we'll be able to eat tonight, Shadow. But it'll probably just be more bread again. Sorry, bud…"

Shadow whined, nuzzling up against his side.

"I know, I know. I'm tired of bread, too. But what else can we do, boy? It's all we can afford."

Panting heavily, his direwolf blinked sadly at him before plopping back down in his little shadowy spot. Torrhen wished he had the luxury of doing the same. He was a Northerner born and raised all his life in the longest, coldest winter ever known in the future. He wasn't used to the scorching sun of Meereen, and the blasted heat made him so much more crankier and irritable than usual. And his fire flickered out twice since he'd been thrown out of the Great Pyramid, one time during the middle of a performance. Thank goodness Shadow stopped the audience from walking off with all their earnings on his cloak until he bounced back that time. Torrhen had no idea why his fire flickers were steadily increasing from only one or two every once in a while to a couple every week, let alone why he'd had those weird visions during the middle of one the other day, but he had bigger problems to worry about right now. He had to get inside the Great Pyramid and meet the queen before he and Shadow died from either malnutrition or were killed by the Sons of the Harpy. So far, he was pretty sure they weren't interested in him or Shadow, but he argued with the Second Sons and the Unsullied on a daily basis. If that terrorist group somehow found out why he was so desperate to meet the queen… that was a scenario he didn't want to imagine. The only upside to all these troubles was that it wasn't Summer. The Essos heat was unbearable enough now in Autumn. He didn't even want to imagine how hot it must get on this continent during Summer.

"Maybe you should start howling along in tempo with my songs, Shadow. I know we haven't quite perfected your howling while I play my lute, but it might attract a bigger crowd," he suggested. "At the very least, we might get a few more coins for the effort. What do you say?"

Shadow whined, completely laying down and staring up at him with his head resting on his paws.

Torrhen scowled, plopping himself back down on the barrel and positioning his lute back on his lap. "Fine, don't help. But don't pout later when we're eating bread instead of meat tonight…"

With no crowd to leave money, there was no point in singing. Better to save his voice for when he could be tipped generously. He just strummed his lute for awhile, hoping people might stop to listen. Sadly, there didn't appear anyone in the nearby vicinity interested in his music. Citizens went about their day without even glancing in his direction. Annoying. Very annoying. Seems like he needed a better spot to attract a crowd.

Sighing again, he slid back off the barrel. "Come on, bud," he mumbled, collecting his cloak and shaking out the dust and dirt. "Let's find a better place to play."

Shadow let out a low, half-hearted growl to show his displeasure.

He scowled at his wolf. "Knock it off! We need money, and we're not gonna make any around here. We'll head over to the market. People are always around there. Maybe a vendor will spare us some fruit, if we're lucky. We've just gotta—"

"—shame what happened. Such a shame… What do you think she'll do with him?"

"Is that even a real question?"

"Of course is it!"

"Well, I should think the answer's obvious. She's going to kill him. Just like she plans to do to the rest of us."

"Do you really think that's her plan?"

"Why else do you suppose she's still here?! She left every other city right away, but she's still here in ours? The Dragon Queen isn't here to liberate the slaves. She's here to conquer and destroy all of Slaver's Bay!"

Torrhen whipped around. Two former masters were chatting as they strolled down the street. They didn't even look twice at him or Shadow. He was just a filthy street orphan with an unusual pet, after all.

"She's been generous to us nobles since the earthquake happened, though," said the younger of the two. "I'll admit she's a bit more generous to the freedmen than us, but she's shown she cares about us nobles. Maybe she'll act fairly to that prisoner."

His companion snorted. "You're a fool. He was arrested because he's part of the Sons of the Harpy. That foreign whore won't show mercy to him! She's gonna execute him without a trial, mark my words!"

"She cares about justice, though. Justice cannot be carried out without there first being a fair trial."

"Did she give fair trials to all the nobles she crucified when she conquered Meereen?! No! Your brother! My father and uncle! A hundred sixty-three men in our city! Dead! She killed them without batting an eye! She's a madwoman like they say her father was and she's gonna—!"

Torrhen didn't hear any more than that. They had passed him and were now too far away for him to overhear. But it didn't matter. He'd heard all he needed to.

He felt numb, heavy. His mouth was dry, but swallowing took a great deal of effort. What he'd just heard…

"The… The noblemen crucifixions…" he whispered, his head reeling. "That… That really happened?"

No… No, that couldn't be true. His mother couldn't have actually done that. That story was something his stupid Stark relatives in the original timeline had spun along with whatever surviving former masters in Essos to further portray Daenerys Targaryen as the Mad Queen. It wasn't true! She couldn't have done that! She couldn't have… right?

"Bite me, Shadow." Red eyes snapped to him, surprised. Torrhen was only vaguely aware of it. He was focused solely on the retreating forms of the two former masters as they continued down the street. "Bite me. Please. I… I need to know I'm not dreaming."

With great reluctance, his wolf trotted up to him and half-heartedly nipped his hand. The twinge of pain was enough to snap the boy out of his shock, but his mind still felt disconnected from the rest of his body as he scratched Shadow appreciatively behind the ears.

Torrhen remembered his history lessons. Maester Marlon always loved gloating over this particular event during his mother's reign as the Mad Queen to him and Lyaella. He still remembered how horrified and sickened he'd been when the two of them first learned about this when they were seven, he'd never forget how Lyaella clung to him while sobbing. Marlon had looked so smug as he total them all the terrible details about the crucifixions, claiming their mother had always been cruel and insane long before she sailed to Westeros. It'd been a terrible shock for them, learning all this. Following that awful history lesson, Torrhen had dragged his sister down to the crypts to talk about it. To his relief, Lyaella agreed with him about the story: it couldn't be true. It was a lie spun by adults to further discredit their mother. It was the only thing that made sense considering Queen Yara always told them to never listen to all the bad things people said about her. Even Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion claimed she wasn't always the monster people liked to automatically portray her as. But still… this particular story had ruffled them in a way that other stories about Daenerys Targaryen hadn't. Crucifying nobles in a city that had already surrendered wasn't the same thing as burning down King's Landing for a throne. King's Landing was partially for the throne, but it was also because the Stark's plotting made their mother snap. The crucifixions, though? None of those nobles had been plotting against then, and the Sons of the Harpy hadn't been established yet. Those were slow, torturous deaths solely for the sake of torture.

They hadn't wanted to believe this tale, but they did reluctantly agree on one thing regarding it: if it was true, then it most likely was one of earliest signs that Daenerys Targaryen really was mad all along.

Well, apparently it was true, and that meant he had to make contact with his future mother now more than ever. The longer it took him to finally meet her, the greater the chance her Targaryen coin flip would land on madness again rather than greatness.

Stomach churning at that horrible thought, he jerked his chin at his friend. "C'mon, Shadow. We've gotta—"

"Oy! Gather 'round, all of you!"

"We're here on behalf of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen!"

"The queen has an important announcement, so gather 'round!"

Torrhen and Shadow turned. Three of the Second Sons were marching down the road, yelling far and wide to gather everyones attention as they approached the biggest pile of rubble that had yet to be cleared away. Even after they climbed onto the wreckage, they kept their hands cupped around their mouths and continued yelling for people to come over. Considering how his previous encounters with the Second Sons had gone thus far, Torrhen was tempted to ignore them, but they'd said they were here on Queen Daenerys' behalf for an important announcement. Any news from his future mother was a welcome one at this point. Nodding to his direwolf so he'd follow, the boy sped off to the gathering crowd.

"Everyone around listening?" asked the first sellsword. "Yes? Good. The queen has ordered us to spread the word. She'll be leaving the Great Pyramid later this afternoon."

"She has an important announcement for everyone in Meereen," said the second. "She wants everyone to know she enforces justice above all else, and that everyone is expected to obey the law, former masters and freedmen alike."

"This afternoon in the city square!" the last one called out. "Be sure to come!"

The crowd tittered curiously, but Torrhen didn't hear them. Hope was swelling up inside him. The city square. His future mother was going to make an appearance this afternoon in the city square. This was his chance to finally meet her! Maybe his only chance…

With a smile so big it threatened to split his face, he bent down and excitedly ran his hands through the black fur of Shadow's head and neck. "You hear that, boy? The queen's gonna be in the square later! We'll finally have a chance to meet her! What do you think?"

Yipping a bit, Shadow wagged his tail excitedly and pressed himself up against his boys' legs. Torrhen laughed.

"All right, then! Let's go!"

Keeping one hand firmly on his lute and the other grasping Shadow's fur so they wouldn't get separated, Torrhen turned and raced away down the dirt path.

---

She stared at the door. It was old, the wood chipped and rotting away, but still sturdy with a thick latch lock near the top. Ordinarily she'd be too tiny to reach that lock, but the small stool in the corner let her reach it easily. It wasn't locked now, though. It was the middle of the day, and since she was sharing this chamber with her newly discovered distant uncle, the door had to stay unlocked so he and everyone else in Castle Black could visit the resident maester's private workroom if they needed to. Now that Lyaella had been assured no one would be trying to kill her because of her Targaryen heritage, it was safe to venture beyond it and explore Castle Black as much as she wanted.

But… was it really safe? So long as she stayed in this room, no one could hurt her. Not while Sōnar stayed in here with her. Perhaps it was better to stay here. The fire in the hearth was so warm and comforting compared to the bitter cold outside. It was cramped in this small room, but still very cozy.

Then again, staying cooped up in here like a prisoner when she wasn't one was how Queen Sansa had treated her and Torrhen their whole lives while growing up in Winterfell. Never allowed to go anywhere without at least twenty bannermen for escorts, and the furthest away from the castle they'd ever gone was when horseback riding through the Wolfswood. She and Torrhen had always dreamed of one day leaving that terrible castle and the selfish Starks they had for relatives. Sure, there were those in both the Night's Watch and Baratheon army that wanted her dead, but she was still someplace other than the hellhole that was Winterfell. She was surrounded by people other than her horrible relatives, the cruel servants, and judgmental smallfolk residing in the castle and Wintertown. At last she was free from that old life. Shouldn't she be willing to explore this new environment? More importantly, the father she and Torrhen had always longed for was just beyond this door. The only way to get know him was to go outside.

So why was it so hard to go out now that the courtyard was busy and occupied?

"Is there something fascinating about the door to my solar?"

Lyaella squeaked and spun around. Maester Aemon was settled in a chair near the fireplace, his milky white eyes staring at her as he smiled kindly. Sōnar had made a nice little nest for herself with various blankets in an empty corner, and the sudden break in the silence made her lift her head and snort grumpily.

Gulping nervously, Lyaella darted over to her dragon sister and knelt down to her level, laying her scaly head in her lap. "N-No, no, no, not at all, M-Maester Aemon!" she insisted, cheeks tinting pink with embarrassment. "I… I w-was only… well…" she stopped, suddenly realizing what he asked. "Wait, how did y-you know I was standing by the door? Y-You're… oh, well… I-I-I mean no disrespect, but—"

He chuckled. "Because I'm blind?" Lyaella whimpered, worried she'd offended him. He chuckled again with a small shake of his head. "No need to fret, little one. I know you meant no offense. I've been asked that question many times before. I could hear you breathing over by the entrance. When I lost the use of my eyes, I had to learn how to rely on my other senses to go about my life."

"To… To s-see without seeing," she surmised, reminded of the stories Lady Arya had told her and Torrhen about her time training with the Faceless Men assassins. "You adapted to life despite that."

His smile deepened. "Yes, precisely. But you never answered my question, Lyaella. What were you doing over there by the door? If you wish to go out and look around, go right ahead."

She bit her lip, fiddling with her necklace with one hand, and petting Sōnar a bit faster with the other. "I… well, I-I-I… I don't know. Part of me wants t-to stay in here… Get to know you better, Maester Aemon. I'm s-sure you must feel the same way towards me."

He chuckled. "You're a very thoughtful young girl, thinking about my feelings. And you're right, there's quite a bit that I wish to ask you, Lyaella, as well as teach you."

She blinked. "T-Teach me?"

"Yes. Aside from my niece across the Narrow Sea and your missing brother, you are the last of a nearly extinct bloodline, my dear. I am the only Targaryen left in Westeros, and I have felt alone for so long. You cannot imagine how I have wished to help my last living family, but I am an old man. It pains me that I'll most likely never meet Daenerys or Torrhen before my time is up, but I can still pass on my wisdom to you. Instruct you on what it means to even be a Targaryen."

It pained Lyaella to hear Maester Aemon speak like this. She wished she could divulge her true identity, then he could know the truth about Jon. He hadn't been alone since he'd first met her future father, and she wouldn't even exist were it not for him. She knew what he meant by feeling alone. While she and Torrhen always had each other and never were truly alone while growing up, it was always just them, Sōnar, and Shadow. With their parents gone and their only living relatives being the cold-hearted Starks, they were alone all the time. It was the worst thing ever.

She pushed away those thoughts. Dwelling on them would make her sad all over again. "How can y-you do that?"

"I have my ways, don't worry. But it will take some time to make sure all the books I brought with me from King's Landing are still in good condition for you to read through, or else I might have to contact the Citadel for replacements to be sent. And there are numerous old letters I've saved over the years that I'd love to share with you, but I'll admit that my brain isn't quite as sharp as it used to be. I've been struggling to remember where I stored them."

"W-Would you like me to help you find them? It's… It's n-no trouble."

"Thank you, Lyaella, but I'll have Sam help me look for them. For now, go out and play. Enjoy your childhood. With winter nearly here, it'll be over far too soon, and death comes with it."

The hairs rose on the back of her neck. What did that mean? Was he talking about how people generally didn't survive the harsh Northern Winters in general, or were the stories in the future true about the Long Night? Did the army of the dead really exist? Was the Night King real, like her Stark relatives claimed he was?

She shook her head, thankful that Maester Aemon couldn't see her. No, impossible. Even if the Night King and the white walkers did exist, the whole War for the Dawn had been dramatically emphasized. The Starks made themselves the heroes and made her parents look like fools and bloodthirsty monsters. Torrhen might be silly enough to believe there were over a hundred thousand dead men marching on Westeros, but she knew better. Nonsense.

"Very well, Maester Aemon. I'll b-be looking forward to your… your lessons, then."

He smiled. "And I look forward to teaching you, Lyaella. Now, go play, all right?"

"'Kay. C'mon, Sōnar."

As her dragon got up and stretched with a low rumble, Lyaella also stood. Waiting until Sōnar was ready before facing the door, she took a deep breath before finally pulling it open.

The courtyard was relatively busy today, with men of the Watch carrying out their duties across Castle Black or training with weaponry. Some sparring, some practicing with training dummies. Aside from a handful of Stormlands soldiers here and there, the Baratheon army appeared mostly absent today. They all had to be hanging about their campgrounds just outside the fortress now that Stannis would be staying for an extended time. Everything seemed normal, though… until Sōnar warbled at her as she shut the door.

Everyone stopped all at once and turned to stare. Lyaella trembled, her face reddening as every set of eyes locked onto her and Sōnar. Their expressions were all so different, too. Some still looked at her with wide-eyed shock. Others glanced frantically between her and her dragon with obvious fear. Quite a few though just straight out glared hatefully at them. Too anxious and shy to do anything, Lyaella simply bent her head and motioned Sōnar to follow her as she descended down the walkway steps. She just had to ignore them. So long as she pretended they weren't staring at her as though she was a monster, she would be fine. Don't look over. Don't think about it. She was fine. She. Was. Fine.

But… what was she supposed to do out here? Maester Aemon told her to go outside and play, but with everyone hustling and bustling throughout the courtyard, she couldn't play make-believe the way she wanted to with Sōnar without causing problems. There wasn't enough snow on the ground to build snow-dragons or snow-wolves like she and Torrhen liked to do when they were little. Perhaps she should run back into Maester Aemon's workroom for a minute to go get her lyre? At least then she could sit on a barrel and do her own thing without getting in anyone's way.

Clashing steel a short ways off made her jump and turn. To her surprise, she saw her future father sparring with a dark-haired boy only a few years older than her. The boy was obviously a beginner, as he was struggling to block off Jon's attacks, but Jon was more than skilled enough to adapt his swordplay so the boy could follow along. Many fellow fresh recruits to the brotherhood watched as they waited their turn to train.

As Jon murmured a tip of some sort to the younger boy, Lyaella's eyes lit up excitedly. She and Torrhen had always heard stories about what an amazing swordsman their father had been. The greatest swordsman the North had seen in generations, better even than his deceased 'half-brother,' Robb Stark. If he was training that boy over there, perhaps he could train her, too? That would be wonderful! Torrhen tried to sneak in training time with her whenever he could, but those times were so sparse and short it was hard for her to improve. Not to mention how bad her footwork was. Maybe the reason she'd arrived in the past and met Jon right away was so he could teach her to fight properly, and this was a great way she could bond with him. She wanted to get to know her future father, and she wanted him to like her, too.

Smiling happily at the thought, she glanced up at her dragon sister. "What do you think, Sōnar? Should I try talking to him?"

Sōnar warbled, air puffing from her nostrils as she gently butted her head against Lyaella's shoulder.

Lyaella giggled. "All right, I'll go find a sword. Why don't you don't lay down by that empty cart over there? And remember, no roaring or spitting fire if I get hurt, 'kay? Training's meant to be rough."

Sōnar rumbled to show she understood. Patting her white and blue scales one last time, Lyaella set off towards the forge as her dragon headed over to a cart a few yards away. Any soldiers or watchmen lingering nearby bolted away as she lied down. Sōnar ignored them, more interested in watching her little mistress sifting through barrels until she found what looked like a piece of heavily dented, rusty chest plate armor roughly her size, if only slightly big.

A few people watched curiously as she attempted to secure the chest plate around herself, but no one really cared what she was doing until she accidentally knocked over a barrel while trying to tug out one of the extremely heavy swords. Everyone stopped and stared at her, but she avoided looking around at anyone. Should she give them the chance, they might take away the equipment and stop her from training. Tugging one sword out of the pile and leaving it off to the side, she propped the barrel back upright and grunted as she struggled to lift the others back inside.

"You're gonna kill yourself if you keep messing around with those claymores. What're you doing?"

Lyaella squeaked and glanced back over her shoulder. Jon was behind her, giving her a quizzical frown.

She smiled, all worries and tension fading away. She carefully put down the heavy sword and turned to face him. "I d-don't know what… what a claymore is, but I'm looking for a s-sword."

"A sword? You can't play with a sword if you're bored," he said, reaching over and putting the rest of the scattered swords back in the barrel. "How about you go play with your dragon for awhile instead of playing soldier, okay?"

"I wasn't… wasn't t-trying to play," she insisted, frowning. "I wanted to join in."

He blinked. "Join… Join in? What?"

"I was hoping you c-could teach me to fight, too."

There was a lengthy pause. People either stared at her, flabbergasted, or exchanged curious whispers to one another as they snickered. But Jon did neither. He was definitely surprised, but aside from that he only bit his lip, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I'm training the new recruits for Night's Watch right now. I can't teach you the basics in everything from the ground up."

"I already k-know the… the basics," she replied, waving away the objection. "I know the proper s-stances. I just need to get better at… at f-footwork and swinging the blade."

He stared at her with furrowed brows for several moments, expression unreadable. Lyaella didn't know why he seemed so reluctant considering he'd been training that other boy. Had she made him uncomfortable by how she'd been clinging to him the other day? To her relief, he slowly shrugged.

"Fine, but only for a few minutes. Training the Night's Watch still comes first."

She beamed. "'Kay. Thank you."

Sifting through some other barrels off to the side, he found a somewhat smaller sword and a rather large shield and passed it to her. Dumping the claymore she'd found back into its barrel, he motioned her to follow him back to where the other recruits were waiting. She eagerly skipped along and took up her position right across from him, keeping her sword at the ready. The shield was slightly heavy, but nothing she couldn't handle, and this sword was easier for her to handle than the other one she'd initially grabbed. Heavier than she liked, but still usable.

"You ready?" he asked. She nodded. "All right. Come at me, then."

She nodded. Gripping her sword and shield tightly, she ran towards him as fast as she could in her dress. She swung her sword, but Jon blocked easily and thrust his blade forward. She shakily raised her shield and was forced back a few steps as he advanced on her. Right when he tried to hit her again, she scrambled to lift up her sword in time, parrying the attack.

Those watching lost their initial skepticism and amusement. She hadn't been lying about knowing the basics in swordplay. They leaned in closer with interest.

It took everything Lyaella had to keep a firm grip on her sword and shield. The weight of the sword still didn't bother her that much, but now the shield seemed way too heavy. Not to mention Jon was a real instructor practicing with her instead of Torrhen partially training, partially playing with her when they trained. Whereas Torrhen made their sword fights a friendly competition while occasionally yelling out pointers, Jon was silent as he studied how she fought. It was very different, not to mention exhausting.

She panted, lungs heaving. Barely managing to raise her shield to block another blow, Lyaella noticed Jon wasn't phased and was preparing a second fast swing. Knowing she wouldn't be able to raise her shield again fast enough, she let her arm droop and tried sidestepping to the side. Big mistake, as she accidentally stepped on the hem of her dress. Unable to overcome the mis-step fast enough to stay focused, Jon's attack whacked into her armor. She shrieked and toppled over, her shield dragging her down.

Those watching laughed at her clumsiness. She was very red as she got back up, too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye.

Jon didn't, though. He stayed focused in his teaching mindset. "You'll keep tripping like that if you fight in a dress. You need proper britches."

"But I only h-have this… this dress to wear."

"Well, if you want to train properly, talk to Gilly later. She might be willing to make you a pair if you ask."

"O-Okay."

"Aside from that, you do seem to know the basics, and you're bad for a beginner. But you forgot one of the most things near the end."

"What?"

He pointedly tapped the tip of his sword against her shield. "Keep your shield up, or I'll ring your head like a bell."

She blinked, then hesitantly nodded.

"Good. Again."

They clashed their swords again, but Lyaella's arm still felt tired and heavy thanks to her shield. Not to mention her chest felt slightly tight thanks to the strict training session. It made her quite uncomfortable, pushing herself when her lungs weren't intaking air as well as they should, but she kept at it. She wasn't going to let her training session with Jon be spoiled just because her lungs sucked at being lungs. Still, it distracted her from keeping her shield up like he told her. As soon as her arm gave way again, Jon had his blunted blade pointed at her chest.

He frowned, obviously displeased. "Get your shield up!"

"It's… It's heavy," she insisted, inhaling slowly through her nose.

"If it wasn't heavy, it wouldn't stop a sword. Keep it up."

She nodded. She planned to take one last deep breath before trying again, but this time Jon charged forward first, leaving her no choice but to jump right in immediately. With her lungs acting up, the few attacks she made Jon easily deflected, and he launched his own array of strikes against her shield. Lyaella didn't dare lower her shield this time as he swung his blade, but it was becoming too much for her lungs. She needed a second to rest. Still holding up her shield, she tried stepping backwards to get out of his range, but he easily advanced on her with every sword thrust. Lyaella was soon overwhelmed, and one particularly strong attack knocked her flat on her back, trapping her underneath the heavy shield. She started coughing hard.

Jon lowered his sword. "Not bad, but don't let yourself get overpowered like that when your foe pushes you." Ignoring her coughs, he walked up to her and offered his hand to help her up. "Try again. Drive at me like you were before, but keep your shield up."

But Lyaella didn't answer or accept his outstretched hand. She was too busy trying to shove the shield off and sit up despite how hard she was coughing.

Jon's brows furrowed. "Are you okay, Lyaella?"

She weakly nodded. "I… I'm fi—" she cut herself off, strong coughs overtaking her. When they pandered off, she glanced back at him tried to speak again, but her coughs returned the moment she opened her mouth. Tasting phlegm in the back of her throat, she bent her head and covered her mouth with her palm.

Jon blinked, as did those watching. Dropping his own sword and shield, he knelt down and moved the shield off her so he could help her sit up. Even when she did, she didn't stop coughing right away, nor did she try standing. She just stayed there on the ground and tried breathing slowly and deeply whenever she got a moments reprieve from all her coughing.

It took almost a full minute until her coughs fully subsided. "I… I'm okay. I c-can stand, now," she insisted, wiping coughed out snot on her thigh before moving her hand to her chest, inhaling slowly and carefully.

Jon silently helped her up, eying her carefully. Lyaella wanted to blush from his scrutiny, but she felt too tight chested and short of breath to care. Luckily, her breathing problems weren't making her get all wheezy. Thank goodness for that.

That didn't stop Jon from worrying, though. "Are you sure you're all right? I can send Olly to fetch Maester Aemon, if you want." The boy in question nodded.

Lyaella forced a weak chuckle and shook her head. "N-No, I'm… I'm fine, really. I just need t-to… to rest a bit…"

He still looked worried, but he eventually nodded. "All right. Why don't you go sit over there with your dragon for now? And if you change your mind or get worse, just let someone know. We'll get Maester Aemon straight away."

"O… O-Okay…"

Smiling tiredly, she walked slowly over to Sōnar. She had to go slowly. Should her smile die or if another weak cough escaped her, Jon would fetch Maester Aemon. She liked her distant uncle, but she didn't want anyone to find out about her lung problems, especially not Jon. Her future father was amazing. Kind, brave, strong… he'd be the perfect King of the North once he finally left the Night's Watch. He didn't need to worry about her stupid breathing problems. Like she told him in her half-truth before, she did feel better now compared to a few minutes ago. Her attacks were a bit more frequent these days, but she was okay. She didn't need everyone worrying about her by telling them about her weak lungs. If she did, they'd drag her to Maester Aemon and he brew a disgusting tonic of owl's blood and watered down Dornish red wine. The day she willingly drank that nauseating potion would be the day she gave up all hope on finding Torrhen and changing history for their future parents.

Her dragon warbled as she approached. Lyaella made sure to greet her with a smile, but she felt too breathy and tired to do any more than that. Plopping down on the back of the cart, she focused on controlling her breathing to a slow, even pace. So long as she could regain control over her breathing, she'd be fine without treatment. She just had to be careful about overexerting herself when it came to training from now on. She didn't want a repeat of this embarrassing end to her swordplay lesson the next time she asked Jon to train her.

Sōnar could sense she wasn't feeling well. Hooting to get her attention, she spread her wings and fluttered up onto the wagon with her. The wood creaked from their combined weight, but it still supported them. Lyaella nearly started coughing again as she giggled.

"C-Careful, girl… you're gonna b-be… too big t-to do that soon…"

Sōnar rumbled, curling up around Lyaella so she'd stay warm. Lyaella smiled, stroking her head. Trust Sōnar to know how to make her feel better. Such good companions dragons were, just like direwolves. Speaking of which, where was her father's direwolf? Where was Ghost? Were she not feeling so sick right now, she'd poke around for him. She'd have to remember to search for the white wolf later when she felt better and there weren't as many people around.

Scratching lightly at that one spot under Sōnar's neck that she loved, she focused back on Jon and the other recruits. With her out of the way, her father was training another fresh recruit to the Watch. Unlike her and that boy Olly, this recruit was obviously an experienced fighter. Jon was sparring seriously with this man rather than training them, and the sheer intensity of the duel had Lyaella's full and undivided attention. She watched, amazed, as Jon slowly drove back his opponent rather than just deflecting his attacks. People might call him a Northern Fool and a Queenslayer in her timeline, but there was no doubt he really was the greatest swordsman the North had ever seen. Torrhen would definitely follow in his footsteps as a strong fighter so long as he kept up with his training, wherever he was in the current era. Her, though? She'd be lucky to get her swordsmanship to an adequate level. Still, it looked like she had the perfect teacher. Jon could help her become strong like him. She knew he could.

Soon enough, Jon found an opening in his opponents defenses and quickly pointed the tip of his sword at his throat. The loser grumbled, but moved off to the sidelines with only minimal grumbles. Jon murmured some pointers to him for future reference, but he stopped and spun around as Lyaella began clapping. She smiled and waved, but sadly, he didn't return the sentiment. He just gaped in bewilderment before awkwardly nodding and turning back to the others. She couldn't help but be puzzled. Why didn't her future father like her? She was being kind and friendly, and based on the few things she'd seen of him so far, he seemed like a nice person. So what was she doing wrong?

Whatever the reason, she couldn't find out now, because Stannis Baratheon's red priestess was approaching the circle of recruits to speak to Jon. He was definitely startled by her sudden appearance, but nodded politely.

"The king wants a word," she told him.

Jon looked confused as to what Stannis would want with him, but he nodded. Waving over another veteran of the Watch to take over the training session, he headed back over to the forge to put away the training gear he'd been using. Resisting the urge to sigh and disrupt her now steady breathing, Lyaella couldn't help but feel disappointed. Couldn't Lady Melisandre come over after one more spar? It was thrilling watching her father go all out. Why did she have to come over now?

The thought had scarcely left her mind when Lady Melisandre suddenly looked her way. Lyaella stiffened. That intense look in the priestess' eyes unnerved her. to Lyaella's dismay, the priestess glided straight towards her. Sōnar seemed to sense her distress. Her pupils narrowed into thin slits as she grew tense under her mistress's touch, ready to protect the little girl at a moment's notice.

But there was no need for alarm. Lady Melisandre only nodded politely upon her arrival. "Lady Snow," she said, ruby lips turned up in a subtle smile. "I'm pleased to see you out and about again."

Lyaella just stiffly nodded. Perhaps if she kept her responses short and to the point, the priestess would leave her be. Lady Kinvara had been one thing. She'd given her and Torrhen no reason not to trust her, but Lady Melisandre was another matter entirely. She had killed so many people in the name of the Lord of Light, including Shireen. If she remembered her history lessons correctly, some of those people had been killed just because they had 'kings blood' running through their veins. It was a good thing no one knew the truth about her father's Targaryen heritage. If Lady Melisandre had known, she suspected he would've been offered up as a sacrifice to the fire god to further Stannis' goals. But now that she was in this timeline… would Lady Melisandre try convincing Stannis to do that to her? Perhaps she should start sleeping with a knife under her pillow.

"I'm glad to see you," she went on, jolting Lyaella out of her thoughts. "I was hoping we would get the chance to talk."

Lyaella swallowed. "O-Oh?"

"The king is very curious about you, Lady Snow. You and your dragon," she explained. "He's hoping you'll be willing to speak with him at a later time regarding a few things."

She trembled, her thoughts scattered. "N-Now? Today?"

"No, not today. There are a few matters that require his attention first. But I hope that we can talk after I escort Lord Snow to him."

"What…?"

"The Lord has shown me many things in the flames about you, Lyaella Snow. You said you know of another red priestess, so surely you must be aware of what some of these visions I've seen mean. Even if you don't, it's vital you tell me who this other priestess you've met is."

Lyaella promptly shook her head, eyes as wide as saucers. "N-No. No way."

"Lady Snow—"

"No… I can't. S-She told me and Tory not to… not to talk about c-certain things to anyone."

"Please, child. I'm sure the priestess you met had good reason for telling you this, but as a follower of R'hollor myself and the one priestess doing everything possible to help the Prince that was Promised, it is imperative you tell me what you know."

She shook her head, clinging tightly to Sōnar despite how her breathing acted up again. "No. I… I can't. Now, p-please excuse us."

With shaky legs, she hopped down from the cart, curtsied politely, and whistled at Sōnar to follow as she walked away. Rumbling warningly at the priestess so she wouldn't follow, Sōnar leapt down and hurried after her. Lyaella honestly didn't know where she was going. She just wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and Lady Melisandre. Whatever reason the Lord of Light had for having her and Torrhen go back in time to change history, she was grateful to him even if she didn't believe in him. But until she had reason to believe Lady Melisandre was a good person and trustworthy, she wouldn't tell why her Red God was showing her whatever visions she was seeing in the flames. Better to be wary for now rather than too trusting and get sacrificed to her Lord so Stannis could continue his conquest for the Iron Throne.

"Oh, hello there, Lyaella. I didn't know you were out and about. How are you?"

Lyaella blinked and turned. Princess Shireen had apparently left her private solar in Castle Black and was standing near Sam and Gilly with her baby. She waved merrily.

Lyaella was still a little confused on why the Baratheon girl was acting so friendly towards her, but she nonetheless waved back, albeit slowly since she still felt tight chested. "Hello…"

Shireen smiled, skipping forward. "I was starting to think you and Sōnar were going to hide away again. I'm glad you're out. We never got the chance to finish talking the other day."

Lyaella weakly smiled back. "N-No, we didn't."

"I was just asking Lord Sam and Lady Gilly if they could show me where the library is here at Castle Black," she explained. "You and Sōnar should join us."

Lyaella's lips parted slightly, surprised by the invitation. "You… You want us to come with you?"

"Of course. You seem nice, Lyaella. I was hoping we could get to know each other better. And I never thought I'd see a real live dragon! I've read so many books about House Targaryen and their dragons, so seeing one for real is amazing! I'd love it if you'd let me spend time with Sōnar while my father's here."

Lyaella slowly smiled. Perhaps she'd been wrong to be wary of the Baratheon princess. Shireen seemed very nice. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd met someone close to her age aside from Torrhen who treated her so nicely.

"Well, okay. If y-you're sure Sōnar and I are… are really welcome."

Shireen beamed. "Of course you both are. Right, Lord Sam, Lady Gilly?" she asked, glancing back at the adults in question.

Sam and Gilly were silent as they nervously looked at Sōnar. Lyaella couldn't help but sigh, a small cough escaping her again. She knew that look they were giving her dragon. It was the same fearful look everyone gave her or Sōnar if they didn't automatically hate them.

"I-It's okay, Shireen. I know you're… you're trying t-to be nice, but I don't think Lord Sam and L-Lady Gilly want me or Sōnar around," she murmured. "W-We don't… We don't want to cause any problems… We'll just go. Thank you, anyway…"

Forcing a smile and quick curtsy, Lyaella turned and walked away, keeping one hand on her dragon and one on her chest as her breathing quickened again. She was so stupid. She shouldn't have gotten her hopes up.

"No, no! Wait, please!"

Frantic footsteps followed. A hand grabbed onto her arm, stopping her. Lyaella turned. Gilly was behind her, smiling apologetically.

"Lady Gilly?"

"I'm… I'm no lady, Lyaella. Just call me Gilly," she said. "And Sam and I are sorry if we made yeh think that. We didn't mean too. Yer more than welcome to come with us. Yeh and yer dragon."

"Are y-you… Are you sure?"

Sam nodded, bouncing Little Sam up and down in his arms. "So long as your dragon doesn't attempt to hurt any of us or burn down the library, it should be fine, I think."

"Sōnar won't do that. I promise."

"All right. Come this way, then."

Passing the baby back to his mother, Sam led the way across the snowy courtyard. Shireen eagerly trailed behind him and Gilly at first, but upon noticing how slowly and self-consciously Lyaella was moving with Sōnar, she slowed her pace to walk side-by-side with the silver-haired girl.

"I'm glad you're joining us, Lyaella. You and Sōnar. This is gonna be fun!"

Lyaella giggled, ignoring the slight cough that happened from doing so. She glanced over at her dragon sister to see what she thought, but then she noticed something else going on in the courtyard across the way. Something she hadn't even taken note of until now.

"What are those… those soldiers doing over there?" she asked, nodding towards the main gate. Numerous Stormlands soldiers were bringing in timber from outside the fortress, and a few more were piling it all together. "Why are they b-building a pyre?"

Shireen's smile quickly fell. "My father and Lady Melisandre must be planning a ritual for the Lord of Light tonight."

A chill ran down Lyaella's spine. There was going to be a fire ritual tonight? What kind? She wanted to know… but she also didn't. Sometimes, it was better to not know things.

Biting her lip, Lyaella let the matter drop as she nodded, then motioned Sōnar to hurry as she and Shireen followed Gilly and Sam through a small doorway.

---

Torrhen groaned as someone's elbow whacked him in the jaw. He would've snapped at the one responsible, but Shadow yelped in pain as someone else knocked into his furry body. Whoever did it at least yelled out something in the unusual language for the mishap and possibly apologized before disappearing into the vast sea of bodies, but he had no idea what it was they said. Either way, it didn't matter. Not when he and Shadow were dab smack in the middle of this insane crowd and were poked, prodded, and stepped on every other second by everyone there.

The square was packed with every citizen in Meereen. Young and old, freedmen and former masters alike. People gathered around the main platform where the queen would soon make her announcement, and more citizens were squishing together in the surrounding streets. Torrhen was so small though that people either didn't see him until after accidentally banging into him or Shadow, or deliberately shoved him aside so as to get further into the crowd faster. It was a miracle that neither he nor Shadow had been seriously injured and he hadn't lost his money pouch or damaged his lute. But if he and Shadow were to have any chance at all in meeting his mother after this assembly without looking completely black and blue, they needed a better way to navigate through this crowd to get closer to the platform.

"What do you think, bud? See any way for us to squeeze through?"

Shadow whined. Sidling behind his master, he pushed Torrhen off to the sidelines near a decorative low wall. Torrhen didn't know what Shadow was thinking by sending him this way, but he knew his direwolf never did anything without a reason. If nothing else, they had a better chance catching their breath and planning their next move from there than they did stuck in the middle of this crowd.

He soon realized why Shadow wanted him to go to the wall as they got closer — the crowd was sparser around the wall, at least to the point where people weren't on top of each other with every other step. And the wall happened to run quite close to the platform where Queen Daenerys would be making her speech.

Grinning ear-to-ear, Torrhen ran his hands through Shadow's black fur. "Good boy, Shadow. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

His tail swayed back and forth, delighted. Torrhen grinned, motioning his friend to stay close as he pressed up against the wall. He had to. The crowd wasn't so dense around it over here, but closer to the stage people were jam packed against it. The only way they could keep going was if they moved flat against the wall itself and stuck together.

They just started sidling along the wall when cheers suddenly erupted from all the freedmen. They screamed out their praises, repeatedly yelling the same foreign word of 'mhysa' while reaching out to something on the platform. Or rather, reaching out to someone.

A jolt ran through Torrhen. He didn't know what 'mhysa' meant, but the reaction of the former slaves… Could it be…? He jumped up and down, desperate to see the stage over everyone's heads. Unfortunately, he was just too small compared to all the towering adults. He scowled. What now? Wracking his brains for a moment, he then remembered the wall.

"Oy, Shadow! Give me a boost, boy!"

Shadowed yipped. Torrhen smiled, patting his head. Setting down his lute for a moment, he got a good grip on the top of the low wall. Shadow nudged him with the top of his head for an extra push, and Torrhen heaved himself up. Swiping his lute, Torrhen carefully found his footing and stood up along the wall edge, carefully maintaining his balance. Once stable, he looked out across the sea of heads to the main platform.

His heart stopped. His lungs crumbled away like the desert sand, breath leaving him completely. Everything else in the world just fell away. Being escorted to the stage by numerous Unsullied guards was a young woman and few others. The soldiers and the others being led to the platform meant nothing, though. The woman in the long white dress was the only one who mattered to Torrhen.

Because even though he was too far away to get a good look at her, he could see she had silver hair. Lyaella's hair.

"Daenerys Targaryen…" he murmured, filled with wonder. "Mother…"

Tears sprang to his eyes. His mother. The mother that almost everyone in the future said was a madwoman. But they were wrong. None of those people had been in this crowd today. None of them saw how the former slaves were so happy and excited to their queen. At the end of the day, none of them had ever truly known Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains.

Smiling happily, he waved Shadow to follow him from the ground as he hurriedly walked along the top of the wall. Daenerys was just a short way off. Today he would finally meet her. He just had to reach that platform before she finished her important speech.

He wasn't close enough to make out her expression, but he saw her raise a hand for silence. The noise gradually dwindled down per her request. Torrhen himself stopped moving, curious as to what was about to happen.

Pausing only a moment longer, the queen raised her chin and began to speak.

---

"Oh! Look at this, Lyaella! This book's all about Daeron Targaryen!"

"D-Daeron Targaryen? Wasn't… Wasn't he known as the Dragonknight?"

"No, Daeron Targaryen later became king. The Dragonknight was Aemon Targaryen."

"What? N-No, no. You're mistaken, Shireen. Aemon… Aemon Targaryen is here at the W-Wall right now. He's the maester of Castle Black."

"Two different Aemon's, Lyaella. My history books say that Maester Aemon here at Castle Black was named in honor of Aemon the Dragonknight, and believe it or not, he's the grandson of Daeron Targaryen!"

"Wow…"

Lyaella hadn't known what to expect when she agreed to go to the library with Shireen, Sam, and Gilly, but she was now glad she did. Shireen hadn't been lying when she said she'd read all about House Targaryen. The little doe actually knew more than she did about the history of her House. And now that she'd just clarified her own misunderstanding, Lyaella realized some of the things she did know may not even be fully correct. She'd apparently mixed up her facts from the few rare lessons she and Torrhen had learned from stuffy old Maester Marlon regarding their true birth House, or maybe they'd been intentionally given the wrong facts during their lessons.

Then again, it didn't matter. If Torrhen were here too, it'd be easy to admit she was having more fun reading about their Targaryen family history now with Shireen than when initially learning these things from Maester Marlon. If only he could be here too, then everything would be perfect.

As they flipped through the books at their small table, Sōnar stayed curled up in a ball in front of the fireplace, rumbling softly as she snoozed away. Gilly sat in a chair across from them with Little Sam on her lap, her eyes flicking worriedly at the dragon every few moments before returning to the two girls.

"Yer… Yer dragon is tame, right?" she asked, hugging her baby protectively. "It won't hurt us if it gets startled, will it?"

Lyaella shook her head. "Sōnar knows her manners, Lady Gilly, don't worry. She's not gonna hurt anyone so long as you don't try to hurt me, her, my brother and Shadow if they're found, or those I trust. Unless I tell her to attack, she won't. I promise."

Her shoulders fell in relief. "All right, but don't worry about callin' me a lady. Just Gilly is fine."

Lyaella beamed. "Okay then… Just Gilly."

Gilly laughed. "It's nice to see yeh smilin' and laughin'," she noted. "Yeh were so scared the other day. I was worried."

Shireen nodded. "I was, too. I was surprised when you suddenly started screaming and running off with Sōnar when everyone entered the courtyard. I wanted to say something, but my mother dragged me off."

Lyaella shyly smiled, averting her eyes back to the book page and fiddling idly with her dragon pendant. "It's okay. N-None of that was your fault."

"Why were you so scared, anyway?" Shireen asked. "I could see you were nervous around me when we were chatting before, but you were terrified when everyone ran out. Why?"

Her smile fell. "W-Well… I didn't know what to expect from everyone right then. I was worried what m-might happen."

Gilly nodded, understanding. "I was worried when I came to Castle Black, too. I feared they'd throw me and Little Sam back beyond the Wall. Some in the Night's Watch still think they should, especially Ser Alliser."

"Because you're a Wildling?" Shireen guessed. Gilly nodded.

"Aye. He hates us Free Folk."

"W-Why do call yourself 'Free Folk?'" Lyaella asked. "That other Wildling Tormund k-kept saying that, too… Why do you keep saying that?"

Gilly blinked, considering the question briefly. "I… I'm not sure I'm the best person to explain that, Lyaella. Yeh'd get a better answer if yeh ask Mance or Tormund."

Lyaella frowned, puzzled. "Why?"

She turned away, bouncing Little Sam up and down with sad eyes. "Because even though I was born on the other side of the Wall, I never was free. Not until I met Sam…"

Lyaella and Shireen exchanged puzzled looks. Neither girl knew what they'd done to make Gilly sad, but they understood enough to know they shouldn't push the matter.

"O-Okay. I… I apologize if I upset you, Gilly," Lyaella said earnestly.

Gilly nodded appreciatively. "It's all right. I know yeh didn't, Lyaella. I wasn't offended."

Lyaella smiled. Despite having only met Gilly once in her timeline, Lyaella remembered the former-Wildling woman had been very kind to her and Torrhen, and never discriminated against them for their Targaryen heritage or for having their direwolf and dragon. Even now Gilly was being nice to her even after she unintentionally upset her for reasons unknown. She still treated her kindly and like any other child. That was more than she generally saw from most adults.

Footsteps resounded from behind a shelf. Sam appeared, arms ladled with three heavy books. "Sorry I was gone so long. Took me awhile to find something."

"That's all right. It's no trouble," Shireen said sweetly. "Were you able to find any more history books on House Targaryen?"

He nodded, passing her the book at the top of the stack. "I'll look around more thoroughly later, but I did find this."

"What about those… those other t-two books?" Lyaella piped as Shireen perused through the first few pages. "A-Aren't those also on House Targaryen?"

Sam jumped, startled. He hurriedly set the books down and shook his head. "N-No, no," he stammered, eyes darting wildly towards the still sleeping Sōnar in the corner. "These are… are things I found for my own research. Nothing about H-House Targaryen at all…"

"What are t-they about, then?"

"Just… trying to read up on the mysteries and l-legends about the Long Night."

Lyaella froze. "The… The Long Night?"

He paused, peeking over at the sleeping dragon again before answering. "Yes. I'm… I'm t-trying to learn as much about the the white walkers that I can."

Lyaella didn't reply to that. Her mind was whirling back to her thoughts from earlier, when Maester Aemon had ominously mentioned the coming Winter. The second War for the Dawn… How much of those old stories had been true? She tried thinking up someway to play Truth or Half-Truth to ask more, but Sōnar sleepily raised her head and warbled.

"Ah!" Sam jumped, accidentally knocking into the table. "What is it?! W-W-What did I do?!"

Ignoring the slight hurt she felt at his behavior, Lyaella hopped off her chair. "Nothing, y-you're fine." She crossed the room, kneeling down to stroke her dragons' neck. "Sōnar j-just woke up and wanted some attention."

Sam let out a deep breath of relief, slowly sitting down beside Gilly. "Oh, all right. That's good…"

Lyaella forced a smile, still giving Sōnar cuddles and pats. Sam seemed nice enough, but between his behavior around Sōnar now and how he'd acted around her and Torrhen the one time they'd ever met him… she didn't know what to think about him. The Sam she'd known had been the Grand Maester to the puppet-like Brandon Stark. He came to Winterfell with King Bran's royal procession for the Long Night memorial service with Lady Gilly, Little Sam, and their other son Little Jon — named in memory of her father. His best friend. That being said… the Grand Maester had been an enigma to her and Torrhen.

Upon meeting his sons, she and Torrhen tried playing with them. It was rare they met children who weren't Northerners and automatically discriminative towards them because of their parents mistakes, so they wanted to get to know them. Lady Gilly hadn't minded and even encouraged the playtime. Grand Maester Sam however put an end to the fun. Upon seeing the four them playing together with Sōnar and Shadow, he'd gotten all anxious and promptly called his sons away. Hers and Torrhen's feelings had been hurt, but since he hadn't been deliberately cruel, they hadn't cared that much in the long run. They'd endured far worse from others parents, screaming obscenities for daring to play with their sons or parents even went so far as to smack her or Torrhen if they either snapped back or begged to play just a little longer. Since the Grand Maester did neither, they nearly forgot about it… until they saw him later during the annual feast after the memorial service.

The way he acted during that conversation… it was so bizarre. He hadn't been cruel, but when they asked him to tell them what he remembered about their father, he kept his answers vague and only told them general facts they already knew — he became the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch before being released from his vows, and he had led the mission to Hardhome to save the lives of the Wildlings. He didn't say anything about who their father wasas a person, and he didn't try to get to know them like Ser Davos or Queen Yara. If anything, he'd been more like Lord Tyrion, overly polite and cordial, but not enough to let down whatever reservations he had towards them. Or rather, whatever reservations he had to Lyaella herself. When addressing Torrhen, Sam looked happy and sad at the same time and would force a smile. Her, though? He'd start to frown before realizing he was, then would turn away until he could force a weak smile at her. At the first chance he had to excuse himself, he left without another word.

But then again, he'd been one of the rare few that knew their father was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and he must've known Jon was in love with their mother. Not that he cared. In the end, he chose himself over his friendship with Jon when Jon needed his support. Yes, her mother had killed Sam's father and brother during her conquest for the throne, but that had been because of the war. It hadn't been personal. Whatever the reason was that the Sam she had met in the future had acted so oddly, Lyaella didn't know. All she and Torrhen knew was that the mystery deepened when he and his family left Winterfell the day after the memorial prior to King Bran's own departure. Everyone claimed that it was because urgent business from the Citadel required his attention, but Lyaella and Torrhen knew that was a lie — he'd obviously left because of them.

Seeing him act far ruder towards her and Sōnar now was hard for her to swallow, even if it was only because he was scared of her dragon. Was he only polite to her and Torrhen in the future because he knew they were Jon's children? If he hadn't known that, would he have treated them the same way he was now? Like she and Sōnar were monsters? They weren't. That he believed they were hurt. But despite that, he seemed nice enough. Unlikely to be one of the people here at Castle Black she really needed to stay on guard around, at the very least. She just didn't know whether to think of Samwell Tarly as a friend or foe. Harmless and innocent in his role of her parents deaths, or just as bloodstained and guilty as the Starks?

She was pulled out of her thoughts by Shireen suddenly hurrying around the table. "Look at this, Gilly! This chapter's all about Aegon the Conquerer! See, here? It's all about how he and his sister-wives conquered Westeros!"

She smiled brightly as she pointed to somewhere on the page, but Gilly suddenly stiffened. Instead of looking down at the page, she half-heartedly smiled at the Baratheon princess, shaking shook her head.

"I'm sure it's a wonderful tale, Princess Shireen, but yer showin' this to the wrong person."

Shireen tilted her head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Lyaella was equally confused. Planting one last kiss on Sōnar's snout, she got back up and slowly approached the table again.

Gilly's eyes wandered over to Sam for a moment before flicking back to Shireen. Finally, she sighed. "I can't read. Everythin' in yer book just looks like pictures and shapes to me."

Shireen blinked, but Lyaella did a double take. "What?"

Gilly only shrugged, her half-hearted smile looking twice as sad. "I'm one of the Free Folk. We don't have yer books, quills, and ink. Yet can't learn somethin' if yeh don't even know about it."

"I've been trying to go over the basic alphabet with her," Sam added. "But we're going slowly. It's not easy, teaching someone to read."

Shireen smiled kindly. "I could help, if you'd like. I taught the Onion Knight how to read."

The former-Wildling and man of the Night's Watch both blinked. Lyaella furrowed her brows, confused. "Onion Knight?"

"Ser Davos, my father's hand. He's only been literate for the past two years, and only because I insisted on teaching him. Before that, he didn't know how to read or write at all."

Lyaella was astounded. Ser Davos never told her or Torrhen that. When they were little and learning how to read, he stayed behind one year after the yearly memorial service instead of returning to King's Landing straight away. She and Torrhen were… four, maybe? Yes, four. It was the year before they'd discovered how rotten their Stark relatives were, so they must've been four. Ser Davos stayed to teach them the basics of the alphabet before he was forced to leave a week later. He would've stayed longer, but between receiving ravens from King Bran urging him to hurry back and Queen Yara also extending her visit in Winterfell that year to visit them, he knew it was all right to go. Queen Yara assured him she'd make sure they would be able to write and send a ravenscroll to him before she left, and she did. She stayed two weeks longer until they were literate enough to write to Ser Davos before she too had to leave for the Iron Islands. She sent them letters almost every week after so they would keep up with their reading, as did Ser Davos after he officially returned to King's Landing.

It had been nice for her and Torrhen, getting letters from their parents most trusted allies. Despite how Queen Yara had been insulted and stopped coming to the North a year later, she kept writing them. Ser Davos only stopped writing them a few months prior to their ninth nameday, claiming he'd have some sort of 'surprise' for them when he came to Winterfell with the king. Whatever it had been would forever remain a mystery though, considering he passed away. To hear he'd been taught how to read by a girl close to her age was quite surprising.

"You wish to help me?" Gilly repeated.

Shireen nodded. "If you're going to be part of the Seven Kingdoms, you should read up on the history of Westeros, but you can't if you don't know how. You should learn!"

Lyaella smiled. Shireen really was nice. If her last name was Targaryen, she'd easily think she was a wonderful crown princess. Unlike herself, Lyaella Snow. "I-I-I'll help, too," she offered, "if… if you want…"

Gilly blinked, then her smile became genuine. "Thank yeh, both. I'd like that."

"We'll start right away, then! Lord Sam, is there any spare parchment around? And an ink pot and—"

Heavy footfalls resounded from the stone stairway entrance. "Princess Shireen? Are you in here?" Two Stormlands soldiers descended from the steps, accompanied by Maester Aemon. When they saw her, they quickly bowed.

Shireen smiled, waving politely. "Good afternoon, sers, Maester Aemon."

"Your father sent us to find you, princess. We're to escort you to the courtyard," said the first soldier.

"Immediately," added the other. "Come along, now."

Lyaella glanced over curiously at Shireen, but Shireen only blinked repeatedly at the guards. The little doe looked just as confused as she was.

"For what reason?" she asked. "Does my father wish to speak with me?"

"No, my princess. Your father has summoned you because as his daughter, your presence is required before the ritual can take place."

Quick as a flash, Shireen's expression fell. Whatever this so-called ritual was, the Baratheon princess definitely didn't like it.

"Is something the matter?" asked Sam, glancing between the maester and soldiers.

Maester Aemon turned in the direction of his voice, his usual smile replaced with a distinct frown. "I must ask that you come along as well, Tarly. As we're both part of the Night's Watch, we've been invited to attend the… demonstration."

Sam furrowed his brows. "Demonstration?"

"We'll be there shortly, Maester Aemon," said Gilly, readjusting her grip around her son as she stood up. "I just need to put Little Sam down for his nap and—"

"No, no, Gilly. That's not necessary," he politely interrupted. "You, your child, and Lyaella can all stay down here for now. This… This doesn't concern any of you as you're not part of the Baratheon army or the Night's Watch."

Lyaella tilted her head a bit. She could see how Gilly and Sam were looking at one another as he slowly followed Shireen to the stairs. But she was still lost. "What's going on?"

"Never you mind about that, young one. Please, keep reading. Enjoy yourself."

Lyaella ignored him. She wasn't stupid. Whatever the reason was that Maester Aemon wanted her to stay here rather than join everyone out in the courtyard, she could tell it was bad, and that put her on high alert. She was worried. Had someone in the Baratheon army found Torrhen and Shadow and brought them back to Castle Black for Stannis to deal with? Her twin and their direwolf brother weren't under the protection of the Night's Watch like she was. Then a worse idea occurred to her head… what if someone had discovered her father's secret lineage? She needed to see what was happening. Immediately.

"Sōnar, c-come along," she called, hurrying after the others. "We're going, now." Rumbling lightly, the white and blue dragon yawned and trotted along behind her.

The two soldiers were instantly on high alert and hurried to shield Shireen behind them. Sam stumbled over his own feet, watching every step Sōnar made with wide eyes. Maester Aemon forced a sad smile.

"Very well, then. Stay close to me, Lyaella."

Lyaella nodded, waving Sōnar to stay close as she trailed behind him up the stairs. A moment later, Gilly followed, Little Sam sleeping into her shoulder. Maester Aemon didn't comment on her coming along, so that meant he'd only been trying to stop her from joining them. Why? What was going on out there?

Outside, the courtyard was bustling with activity. Brothers of the Night's Watch, the captured Wildling prisoners, all the Stormlands soldiers stationed inside Castle Black… they were all gathered around the large pyre she'd seen the Baratheon officers building earlier. Standing beside the timber pile was the stoic-faced Stannis Baratheon, the mysterious Lady Melisandre, and a rather reluctant-looking Ser Davos. Numerous soldiers near them were holding up torches. Lit torches.

Lyaella froze, mouth going dry.

"Er, Lyaella? Why don't you and… and S-Sōnar go back downstairs, hm?" Sam urged as her dragon joined them all from the stairwell. "Go on, now."

"Aye, come with me," said Gilly, eying the pyre nervously while trying to reach for Lyaella's hand. "Keep me and Little Sam company."

Lyaella numbly shook her head as she stepped out of reach, moving closer to her dragon so no one would attempt to drag her away again. They obviously understood what was happening. Truth be told, she had a sinking feeling she knew too, but no one had confirmed it yet. A flash out of the corner of her eye made her turn. The Stormlands soldiers were quietly ushering Shireen away from her and the others.

"Shireen, w-what's… what g-going on?" she asked, her voice trembling more than usual. "Why is your f-father by that… that pyre? Why is there a pyre a-at all?"

Shireen grimaced, glancing back to Lyaella as the guards led her towards the wooden walkways. Her mother was waiting for her on the upper levels. "For the ritual. My father's going to sacrifice the Wildling king to the Lord of Light if he doesn't bend the knee."

But that didn't make any of this right. Someone had to stop this. Turning away from Shireen as the soldiers dragged her off, the silver-haired girl whistled for her dragon to follow and darted into the crowd. Sam, Gilly, and Maester Aemon all frantically whispered her to come back, but Lyaella ignored them. She had to find Jon. If he really was as compassionate towards Wildlings as she'd always heard he was, then he'd agree with her. Perhaps with his help, she could make her first step in changing history for the better.

Shoving her way past the startled men of the Watch and confused Stormlands soldiers, she found him in the front row, standing beside Olly and another man of the Watch she'd seen him with before. Edd, if she remembered right.

He wasn't the only one there to whip around in surprise as she ran up to him. "Lyaella?"

"Jon!" she gasped, panting lightly as Gilly hurried a few steps behind her. Sam desperately looked like he wanted to be there too and shield her and Little Sam from Sōnar, but he was following at a much slower pace. Maester Aemon needed to be escorted to follow her, too. None of that mattered to Lyaella, though. Her attention was focused solely on Jon. "Jon, is it true? Are they really going to—"

She was cut off by the creaking of a door on one of the upper levels. Her head snapped up. Two more Stormlands soldiers were exiting a room, and walking solemnly between them was Mance Rayder, with his wrists bound in chains.

---

"Ao opened aōha remȳti naejot nyke kesrio syt nyke promised ao freedom se justice. Mēre daor exist mijegon se tolie."

Torrhen frowned. His mother was speaking the same strange language everyone in Meereen used. Fuck, he hadn't expected this. He thought she'd address the crowd in the Common Tongue. What was she saying?

"Mēre daor exist mijegon se tolie."

She turned and nodded to a few guards off to the side of the platform. Bowing politely to their queen, they turned and hurried down the steps, calling out to other Unsullied soldiers further down the road.

Still baffled as to what was happening, the Northern boy tore his gaze away from the queen and glanced around at the freedmen surrounding him. "Does anyone know the Common Tongue? I don't know what she's saying."

Almost everyone started shushing him without daring to look away from their queen, or snapped at him in the same foreign tongue which Torrhen only assumed meant to shut up. He was both annoyed by how they all brushed him off and also at a loss. Why was it so hard to find any sort of decent help in this city?

"Please, I just want someone to translate for me! I don't know the local language!"

A few more unknown words were thrown his way, but a lone freedman shuffled towards him through the crowd. "You are Westerosi? You only know the Common Tongue?"

Torrhen nodded, relieved. "Aye! Aye, I am!"

"I help you."

"Thank you! Thank you so much! Please, can you tell me what she just said? I don't even know what language she's speaking."

The former slave smiled proudly. "Mhysa knows Meereen's mother tongue. She speaks High Valyrian. She say to all of us, 'you opened your gates to me because I promised you freedom and justice. One cannot exist without the other.'"

Torrhen nodded, but he couldn't help the way his brows furrowed. "What does she mean by 'freedom and justice?'"

"She Queen Daenerys, Breaker of Chains. She free us slaves, punish the masters. She is mhysa."

"I mean about right now. What does she mean by freedom and justice right now? And what does 'mhysa' mean?"

The former slave was about to reply, but sudden cries from further up in the crowd made them both turn. The Unsullied guards and a couple of Second Sons were dragging a young man bound in chains up to the platform, forcing their way through a cluster of Meereenese nobles to do so. The nobles snapped at the queen's men for knocking into them, but the common people started yelling a new word when they saw the prisoner. Torrhen was too far back to see who the unfortunate soul was until he was dragged up on the stage. He jerked back in disbelief when he finally saw man, nearly tumbling off the wall.

The young man was dressed in the same lightweight gray clothes as the rest of the former slaves. He was a freedman.

"Lēkia! Lēkia!" cried Torrhen's interpretor, just as confused and anguished as the other former slaves. "Brother!"

A bead of sweat ran down his temple, but Torrhen didn't dare set down his lute or cloak to wipe it away. His stomach churned uneasily as he watched the Unsullied and the Second Sons force the man to his knees before the crowd. Something was tickling in the back of his mind. This all seemed… familiar, somehow. But why? He'd never set foot outside the North prior to being sent back in time, and he'd never met his future mother or that freedman prisoner either. So why did all this both alarm him, and still feel like… like deja-vu?

The young man murmured some sort of quiet plead to the queen, but aside from giving him a quiet glance, she ignored him. Instead, she focused back on her audience. "Iā citizen hen Mīrīn iksin awaiting iderenne se bisa vala ossēntan zirȳla."

A bad taste gathered in Torrhen's mouth. Whatever his future mother just said, she'd declared it with such firmness and authority it startled him. Queen Sansa was strict and authoritative, but this regal authority was something else entirely. He frantically glanced back to the wide-eyed freedman.

"W-What did she say?" he begged, his heart pounding. "Please… what did she say?!"

The former slave didn't answer, nor did he look up at him. He kept his eyes locked solely on the platform.

"Don't just stand there! Tell me what she said! Please!"

The man still didn't answer. He just swallowed anxiously, waiting for the queen to continue.

Torrhen didn't have time for his interpreter's shock. His gut was screaming something very bad was about to happen. He needed to know what. Swallowing in regret, he nodded to Shadow for help. Shadow promptly nipped the man's hand.

The freedman yelped. "Argh! Why do that, boy?!"

"I'm sorry! Really, I am! But you weren't answering me! What did she say?!"

"She… She say man up there murderer."

"A murderer? What?"

His translator nodded, slowly glancing back to the platform. "He… He kill someone else going to be put on trial."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know. She not say why yet, so—"

"Hae naenie hen ao gīmigon," they both piped down, listening anxiously, "iā arlie group brōztagon se Trēsi hen Jazdanī ēza arisen isse se oktion."

Torrhen glanced over expectantly. The freedman gulped. "'As… As many know,'" he translated, "'new group called Sons of Harpy has risen in city.'"

"Pōnta attacked se dovaogēdy patrolling se geralbri iā helping lēda rebuild."

"'They attack Unsullied patrolling streets or helping rebuild.'"

"Se prisoner bona iksin ossēntan iksin suspected hen issare mēre hen zirȳ. Iā litse iderenne iksin issare planned naejot determine lo īles guilty…"

"'Prisoner killed suspected one. Trial was being planned to determine if he was guilty…'"

"Yn bona kostagon dōrī massigon sir kesrio syt bisa vala gūrotan zȳhon ābrar, se bona ābrar iksin daor zȳhon naejot gūrogon."

The translator trembled, his face paling. "'B-But… But no happen now because this man took life… a-and life not his to take.'"

"Se qilōnarion iksis morghon."

Cries of horror and desperation rang out all at once from the people. Torrhen gaped, but Shadow growled, moving closer to the wall where he was when several freedmen shoved their way through the mob a little too close to where they were. Torrhen turned to his interpretor for clarification, but the freedman had seemingly forgotten about him.

"Daor, mhysa! Kostilus, daor!"

"What'd she say?!" Torrhen yelled, grabbing the man's shoulder so he wouldn't ignore him. "What in seven hells is going on?!"

The man shrugged off his hand. "She say, 'punishment is death.' Mhysa's publicly executing him!"

He went on yelling with the rest of the crowd for the queen to show mercy rather than paying attention to Torrhen, but the boy didn't care. Torrhen just stood there for a few seconds, frozen in horror. No… No, no, no! Now he understood what was happening. Today was the day his mother executed her freedman representative councilor. The name of the councilor escaped him at the moment, but that was irrelevant. No, what was relevant was what was happening… and what he remembered from his history book had happened in Meereen following this execution.

He didn't know when he started moving. One moment he was standing and staring blankly up at the vague form of the silver-haired woman on the platform, too shocked to move. The next, he was whistling to his wolf to stay close and scrambling as fast as he could along the top of the wall, clutching his lute and cloak tightly.

He had to get to that platform. He had to stop the queen from executing this man. He had to stop his future mother from making a terrible mistake.

---

All was silent in the courtyard aside from the crackling flames of the torches and the jingling of chains as Mance shuffled down the walkway steps. No one spoke. Aside Sam leading Maester Aemon to stand behind Lyaella before moving next to Gilly, no one did anything except watch with baited breath. Even the wind was dead.

In the back of her mind, Lyaella was vaguely aware Sōnar was gently nudging her shoulder with her snout, but she was too on edge to acknowledge her dragon. She just pressed closer to Jon, ignoring how he stiffened as he glanced back and forth between her, Sōnar, and the scene unfolding before them.

Finally, the King Beyond the Wall reached the stag king claimant to the Iron Throne.

"Mance Rayder, you've been called the King Beyond the Wall. Westeros only has one king," Stannis declared, his words quite strong. He wasn't the type to waste time on pleasantries or eloquent words. He just got straight to the point. "I know you and your people value the idea of choice. I offer you one, now. Bend the knee to me. Swear your people will fight in my army, and I promise you mercy. Kneel and live, or refuse and burn."

There was a long pause. Mance's eyes flicked over to where that one Wildling with the bushy-bearded red hair was standing with the other prisoners — Tormund, if she remembered right. Jon mentioned him by name in passing the other day. Mance's eyes then darted over to Jon. She heard Jon inhale slightly at the attention, but that was his only reaction. Lyaella on the other hand trembled, swallowing thickly. This wasn't really a choice at all. It was so obvious what should be done, and yet… Mance just sighed, letting his eyes wander curiously across the courtyard.

"I lived here for many years…" he said. "I ate my meals in the main lodge. I slept in the bunks in that room over there. I trained with the people here, and they called me their brother… but I never saw them as family. I never saw this place as my home…" he shook his head lightly, then focused back on Stannis with a neutral smile. "I wish yeh good fortune in the wars to come."

Lyaella wrung her hands. She'd already known Mance was going to refuse Stannis' deal, but it didn't make witnessing this any less tense for her than it did for everyone else. Across the courtyard, she could see Tormund was balling his hands into fists while glaring spitefully at Stannis, and the other Wildlings were either sighing sadly or murmuring hateful insults at Stannis under their breath. Jon's eyes fluttered shut as he let out a quiet, disappointed sigh. Lyaella didn't know how close her future-father was to the Wildling king, but he'd obviously been the only man in the Night's Watch hoping Mance would choose to live.

Stannis regarded him coolly for a time, then firmly nodded. "Very well, then. I wish the same for you, wherever you end up next."

He nodded to the men who had escorted Mance outside. Without a word, his soldiers seized Mance's arms and dragged him roughly onto the pyre. Mance stumbled as he was forced onto it, his fear cracking through his nonchalant facade for a moment, but he managed to force it back somewhat as they tied his wrists to the stake. Still, his brave mask wasn't nearly as convincing now as it had been before.

Lady Melisandre waited for them to climb down before stepping forward. "Life is made up of choices," she declared to the crowd, "and through them, we choose who we wish to be. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same. We choose to walk in the light, or to step into the darkness. We choose to be good, or we choose to be evil. We choose to follow the true god, or the false."

She glided over to a soldier on the sidelines, taking the offered torch. She swept back in front of the pyre without a word, but Lyaella noticed how Mance's eyes were fixated on the torch flames. Fear seeped through his face despite how he tried suppressing it.

"Free Folk," she went on, "there is only one true king. One promised prince destined to become Azor Ahai and save us all through the Long Night. His name is Stannis Baratheon. Here stands your chosen leader, the King of Lies. Behold the fate of those who choose to defy the one true god. Those who choose the darkness."

Nodding neutrally to the Wildlings, Lady Melisandre glanced over to Stannis one last time. Seeing him nod, she approached the pyre.

Lyaella felt dazed. Shaking her head mutely, she glanced around at everyone else. Tormund and the other Wildling prisoners looked both angry and sad, but they said nothing. Even in the Night's Watch, people watched with weakly hidden uncertainty regarding King Stannis' method of choice for execution, but they too did nothing to stop this. She couldn't understand their mindsets. Yes, she had a dragon, and yes, if someone tried to hurt her, she wouldn't hesitate ordering Sōnar to burn them alive, but that was the extent of it. Sōnar was her sister and friend, not a weapon. She would never use her dragon to kill people like this. Fire was a wonderful thing, but it was dangerous too, and the way it was being used in this supposed-demonstration to the Wildlings horrified her.

She frantically tugged on Jon's cloak. "W-Why…? Why must this h-happen?!"

"Shh, quiet!" he hissed, reluctantly turning away from the spectacle to try pushing her closer to Maester Aemon, Sam, and Gilly. "Just — Just stay quiet and don't—"

"But this is wrong!"

She was so loud, a new sort of silence fell over everyone. Lady Melisandre's torch froze a few inches above the wood, Lyaella's words halting her. Slowly, all eyes turned to the silver-haired little girl standing beside Jon. Even Stannis looked over, his brows raised curiously.

Jon didn't seem to know how to react to her little outburst. He swallowed thickly before addressing her. "It's Stannis' choice to make," he said finally. "Mance is his prisoner."

Lyaella frowned, slightly angry now. "It's s-still wrong, though. You know it is… And she's not even c-correct about… about the one promised prince…"

Jon had no reply to that. He just blinked. Thankfully, he was spared from trying to think up a response by Maester Aemon gently tugging her closer to himself and Gilly.

"There, there, it's all right," he murmured, patting her back lightly as Gilly passed her son to Sam so she could cradle Lyaella to her chest. "It's going to be all right."

Gilly nodded, purposefully turning her body so that Lyaella couldn't get a clear view of the pyre. "There's nothin' we can do," she whispered somberly. "Just stay right here, okay?"

Lyaella quietly hugged her, trying to will herself not to cry, but a heavy hand clapped down on her shoulder. She numbly looked up. Jon may not be the best at words, but he did offer a soft smile as he squeezed her shoulder. Lyaella weakly smiled back, too upset to do anything further.

With the interruption over, all eyes slowly returned to Stannis and Lady Melisandre. Stannis didn't give the priestess the go-ahead to light the pyre again, though. No, instead he kept his gaze fixated on Lyaella for a few moments, tilting his head a bit as he studied her. It was a mystery as to what he thought about Lyaella's interruption, but he had no time to muse on her any further. Sōnar distinctly warbled as she stepped closer to Lyaella from beside Maester Aemon. Jon unintentionally squeezed Lyaella's shoulder harder in surprise and Gilly tensed, edging closer to Sam, but the dragon paid them no attention. No, Sōnar kept her narrowed eyes locked on Stannis as she snorted into Lyaella's hair. Lyaella cared little what Sōnar did right then. She appreciated her comfort. More importantly, she was issuing her own warning to everyone else to not hurt her, her human companion. So long as Sōnar only glared and didn't hurt anyone, that was fine.

Stannis seemed to get the message, though. He turned back to the pyre, but his unnaturally stiff posture betrayed his uneasiness. Regardless, he nodded to Lady Melisandre. This time, it was the priestess who held up the proceedings. She too was focused on Lyaella, but not just her. Her eyes traveled repeatedly from her, to Sōnar, and then to Jon before returning to Lyaella again, the same mysterious smile adorning her face like usual. She soon lowered the torch to the wood pile, but she didn't look at the pyre as she did. No, she continued staring at Lyaella, Sōnar, and Jon the entire time.

---

Reaching the end of the wall, Torren leapt down, nearly dropping his lute and cloak upon landing. Luckily he didn't, so with a quick whistle to Shadow to stay close, he dashed right into the frenzied throng. The main stage was still some ways off, but he was close enough to it now to be okay with braving the horde.

That's exactly what this crowd was — a horde. Everyone was still screaming 'mhysa' as they pleaded the queen to show mercy. No one looked twice at Torrhen and his direwolf as they squeezed through every little gap they could find. Slipping between bodies, dodging flailing arms, crawling under legs… anything that let Torrhen get closer to the stage, he did. He still couldn't make out his future mother's facial expressions. Until he got up there, there was no way she would be able to hear him over all this noise.

Shoving his way past a freedman, Torrhen caught a rare, clear view of the stage between the sea of bobbing heads. The prisoner murmured another desperate plea to Daenerys. Unlike before, the queen hesitated briefly as she glanced at him. Torrhen kept running, but a small flicker of hope ignited within him. Perhaps his mother changed her mind after all. Maybe he didn't need to be so worried about her making the same mistake as she did in the original timeline. So long as he reached that stage before she left the city square, everything would be fine.

Sadly, this was just wishful thinking. She took a deep breath to steel her resolve, and broke her gaze with the prisoner. Whatever second thoughts the queen might have had, they were gone now. Straightening her back, she glanced to two men standing further back on the platform — one looked like a Meereenese nobleman in expensive green garments, while the other seemed to be one of the Second Sons sellswords. Without a word, she nodded to the sellsword. Wait… was that just a random sellsword? He squinted his eyes, trying to discern the man's face as he approached the prisoner while unsheathing a blade. It took him a second, but then his eyes widened. That was Daario Naharis, the same fucker responsible for barring his admittance into the Great Pyramid to meet the queen and even in the original timeline abandoned the city to its fate after his mother died.

Torrhen clenched his teeth, forcing himself to go faster. He'd been so stupid to trust him when they'd met. Had he only used his brain instead of acting like a fool, he would've remembered what Lady Kinvara told him and Lyaella about Daario. When he finally introduced himself to the queen, he'd tell her how that asshole prevented their meeting until now. Hell, he'd advise her to immediately dismiss all the Second Sons judging by how they treated people like him throughout the city. If she needed sellswords, she could find others, like the Golden Company. They were at least honorable as far as sellswords go. Food for thought for later, anyway. Right now, he just needed to get up there!

The screams became twice as frantic as Daario held the edge of a curved blade against the freedman's throat. Not to mention everyone became twice as frenzied jostling against each other. Torrhen yelped as someone's elbow slammed into his stomach, and Shadow whined as someone else mistakenly stepped on his paw. Rubbing his middle, he tried to turn to check on his direwolf brother, but a wailing woman fell on him when someone crashed into her. Even then, she didn't stop screaming. She barely looked at him at all as she scrambled up and kept crying for mercy.

This was getting dangerous. The closer he got to the stage, the more panicked and out of control the crowd seemed to get. If he wanted to reach his future mother while still more or less in one piece, he needed to get her attention. He had to be at least in hearing range by now. That was better than nothing.

"Q-Queen Daernerys! Queen Daenerys!" he shouted, jumping up and down while waving his arms. With everyone yelling in High Valyrian, perhaps hearing someone shouting in the Common Tongue might get her attention. "Please, over here! Over here!"

Sadly, she didn't glance his way. There were so many people, and he was only one voice in a sea of thousands. But he couldn't give up! He had to keep trying!

"Your grace! Please, don't do this!" he cried, draping his cloak over his arm to grab onto Shadow. They couldn't afford to get separated, not in this crowd. "Mercy, mhysa! Mercy!"

Not even yelling out the same unknown word in High Valyrian could catch her attention. What more could he do? What more could he keep screaming to make her notice him?

"Mhysa, stop! Please! Mother!"

Torrhen slapped his hand over his mouth. Curse his idiocy! Man, he was lucky he only said that during a mob as loud and as panicked as this one. There was no way someone could discern what he said from what the person next to him was shouting. What were the odds that she of all people had heard—

Daenerys Targaryen suddenly jolted, startled. Daario raised his strange blade high, but she paid no mind to it. Her gaze snapped directly to him in middle of the crowd—

---

Tears streamed down Lyaella's cheeks as the flames spread across the pyre. She couldn't help it. The true horror of his predicament finally made Mance drop his mask of indifference. He stared with bulging eyes at the rapidly rising flames, terrified. He wasn't screaming yet, but Lyaella knew it was only a matter of time before he started. She wanted to scream, and she wasn't even the one dying right now. She whimpered, clinging tightly to Gilly. The former-Wilding softly stroked her hair and Maester Aemon gently patted her back, both of them offering what little comfort they could.

Unwilling to watch further, Lyaella glanced around at everyone else. Despite comforting her, Gilly looked just as horrified as she was, her eyes wet and teary. Sam was trembling, eyes closed while trying to keep Little Sam's face tucked into his chest. Baby or not, the little one didn't need to see this. For once, Maester Aemon was lucky to be blind. He alone was the only person who didn't have to witness this. But being blind didn't mean he didn't have an opinion on what was happening. With sightless eyes, he stared solemnly ahead, but straight ahead for him was not directly at the pyre. It was the bottom of the Wall directly across the courtyard, a clear show of defiance to not dignify this horrible spectacle with any semblance of respect.

Elsewhere throughout the courtyard, others expressed their own opinions.

Some of the Night's Watch watched with equal horror, others with indifference, and some even grinned as their former brother of the Watch burned. Ser Alliser appeared to be somewhere between both indifferent and pleased by all this, but the bald man next to him — was it Ser Jallas or Ser Janos? — was openly grinning.

The Wildlings were overcomed with grief, a few silently crying. Tormund's was still glaring, but the way his shoulders shook revealed that he was also mourning.

The Stormlands soldiers were used to this by now, though. They just stood stock still and watched with pressed lips or focused their eyes elsewhere. Ser Davos followed their example. Unlike the smiling Lady Melisandre next to Stannis Baratheon, Ser Davos kept his eyes closed and head bent the entire time. Shireen didn't watch either. Ignoring her mother Selyse's fanatical smile, she turned away from the sight, wiping away a few tears. By sheer coincidence, her eyes happened to lock onto Lyaella's, and the two girls nodded to one another in a mutual horror.

Everyone was either disgusted, pleased, or indifferent on what was happening, yet no one was doing anything to stop it. Lyaella couldn't understand that. Why was all this necessary? Why couldn't Stannis have demanded an execution by beheading or hanging? Queen Sansa occasionally ordered those in the past. Granted, she and Torrhen had never attended any due to being so young, but they knew about them. The royal executioner for whenever Lady Arya wasn't in Winterfell often bragged about all his deaths after one too many ales. But even though her cruel aunt never listened to anyone else's opinion and never showed mercy to those she deemed traitors or dangerous, she at least chose a more humane method for her executions. Why was it necessary for Mance to be burned alive?

She sniffled, peeking up at Jon. Her future father was clenching his fists. He glared up at the spectacle, enraged by what was happening.

"Jon? Why are t-they doing this?" she whispered. She was crying too hard to speak any louder. "Why… Why m-must they kill him like… like this?"

He didn't answer or look her way, but Lyaella knew he heard her. His face wouldn't have tightened so much if he hadn't. His silence didn't deter her, though. She appreciated Gilly and Maester Aemon's comfort, but it was Jon's comfort she really wanted. She wanted him to be the one hugging her right now, whispering that things would be okay and for her to close her eyes. She just had to keep trying.

"Why isn't anyone… anyone s-stopping this? Everyone must know t-this… this is wrong. Why isn't anyone doing anything?"

Again, he didn't respond, but he at least turned to look at her. Offering her a small comforting smile, he gave her shoulder another quick squeeze before glancing over at Sam and Gilly. "Keep an eye on her."

Sam and Gilly glanced over questioningly, but he slipped past them and stormed off without another word.

Lyaella stared after him. What had she done? She hadn't meant to make him leave… Was he angry at her for asking that? Aside from herself, the only other person who really took note of his abrupt departure was Olly, but he didn't try going after him. He just brushed off the moment and focused back on the burning pyre. Unlike Jon, he didn't seem to have a problem watching Mance grunt in pain as the flames licked away at his legs. No… he had a firm expression on his face. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he looked… satisfied. She didn't understand that. What was wrong with that boy? How could he actually be happy this was happening?

Shaking her head in disbelief, she tried to break away from Gilly to chase after Jon, but Gilly only hugged her tighter.

"C-Close yer eyes, Lyaella," she whispered, burying her face into Sam's shoulder for her own comfort and covering Lyaella's ears with her palms. Mance had finally given in to the pain and was screaming in agony. "Keep them shut, yeh hear?"

Lyaella wanted more than anything to close her eyes and forget what was happening. She would've given anything to turn back the clock and go back to sitting in the library as she had been less than ten minutes ago. But she couldn't look away. Her eyes were glued to the burning pyre. Even if they weren't, it wouldn't have mattered. Gilly hands somewhat muffled Mance's screams, but not enough to drown them out completely. She could hear them well enough to understand just how much pain the Wildling king had to be in.

She just kept crying into Gilly's dress as the flames rose higher and higher—

---

—just as Daario swung the blade. The steel flashed as blood splattered across the stage as the freedman's head rolled away from its body.

Silence.

The crowd instantly hushed, former masters and freedmen alike. Neither side had any words, they were so shocked. The queen had no mercy.

Torrhen gasped, his jaw dropping. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the lifeless body of the freedman. He was dead. He'd been alive a second ago, but now he was dead. He was dead… and it was all because his mother hadn't been willing to grant him mercy.

---

—but her tears stopped when an arrow abruptly struck Mance in the heart.

Silence.

Mance stopped screaming, dead within seconds. People jumped, stunned. Who shot that arrow? Who defied the word of the Baratheon king-claimant to show mercy to the King Beyond the Wall?

Lyaella lips parted, equally confused. Pulling away from Gilly, she twisted around to see who was responsible.

Her world turned upside down when she saw Jon standing on an overhead walkway, slowly lowering a bow.

No one said anything, not even Stannis. Jon didn't seem to have anything to say either. Without a word, he marched back down the stairs and retreated into the sleeping chambers for the men of the Watch, not daring to look back.

As the flames rose higher and higher upon the pyre, Mance slowly burned, but thanks to Jon, he was spared from further agony. A few people tittered anxiously about what he'd done, but Lyaella ignored them. She just stared at the door her father had vanished through. She hadn't expected he'd be the one to make her desperate plea a reality. Had he done this in the original timeline? Torrhen would know. She wished more than ever that he was here.

A light hoot whistled near her ear. She glanced over her shoulder. Sōnar was gazing at her, blue eyes shining with worry.

Noticing how on edge Sam, Gilly, and by extension everyone in the Night's Watch aside from Maester Aemon seemed to become by her dragons' close proximity, Lyaella smiled and urged Sōnar to move a few steps off to the sidelines before daring to do anything.

"Did you see that, girl? Did you see what father did?" she whispered, scratching her favorite spot under her chin. At least on the sidelines, she could whisper whatever she wanted without fear of being overheard. "He… He shot that arrow! He gave the Wildling king a merciful death!"

Sōnar rumbled, fluttering her wings as she pressed up close. Her dragon was listening attentively, absorbing everything she said.

Kissing her snout, Lyaella leaned up against her side and idly stroked her scales. "I… I think it was b-brave of him to do that. He defied the Baratheon king by doing it. I wish… I wish I knew how to be brave like him…"

Snorting at her words, Sōnar rumbled a second time and nuzzled her cheek. Lyaella smiled. Patting her neck one last time, she glanced back at all the hubbub now starting up as people argued on what would be done about Mance Rayder's charred remains when the fire eventually gave out.

"C'mon, Sōnar, let's head back over. We can—"

An icy gust of wind suddenly blew through the yard, sending cold, dry air right in her face. Startled, Lyaella threw up her hands, trying to stop her wavy silver hair from flying everywhere. It worked for a few moments, but then a heavy cough tore past her lips, followed by another straight away.

Sōnar hooted , alarmed. It took a lot of acting on Lyaella's part to force a convincing smile.

"I… I'm okay, g-girl," she half-wheezed, patting her side. "It's just the… the wind. Nothing to worry about—" She coughed again, covering her mouth when small bits of phlegm expelled out of her. She pressed down slightly on her torso with her other hand, trying suppress the desire to cough a fourth time.

Her dragon narrowed her icy blue eyes, not believing her. Lyaella didn't have time to worry about she thought, though. Breathing a bit heavy, she waved Sōnar to follow and slowly crossed the courtyard. She had to hide in Maester Aemon's chambers at once. She doubted he'd go to his private solar immediately following this execution, so as long as she stayed in there, no one would pick up on her breathing problems. She'd hide her weak lungs forever if necessary, because she was never drinking that disgusting tonic again. End of story.

She was just having a few more breathing problems these days than normal. So long as she monitored her health carefully, she would be fine. Nothing bad was going to her so long as she took it easy for the rest of the day.

Nothing bad whatsoever.

---

Everything was surreal for Torrhen. He felt like he had stepped out of his own body and was watching everything happen in someone else's shoes. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that Daenerys' eyes whipped away from him the moment the freedman's head rolled away. She was blinking repeatedly, surprised that the man died without her watching.

What did that matter, though? Whether she'd been watching or not, the man was dead. She'd ordered him to die, and he did. He'd failed to stop his mother from doing this. Had he only been faster, that man might still be alive.

Swallowing thickly, he shook his head and hesitantly stepped forward. He couldn't let himself dwell over this. He still had to reach that platform. He still had to introduce himself to his future mother.

He only shuffled forward a few paces though when the hissing started.

Torrhen froze. All around him, the crowd was glaring and hissing furiously at the queen. Granted, it was mainly the freedmen doing as such, but even some of the nobles were disgusted by what they'd just seen. Or at least some of the kinder ones were. The crueler masters only joined in because it was the first chance they had to publicly spit on the woman who had taken away their livelihood by ending slavery.

Torrhen gulped. This was bad. This was really, really bad…

A quiet growl escaped Shadow, his hackles rising as he too sensed the shift in the crowd. Up by the edges of the stage, the Unsullied and Second Sons that had been guarding the two sets of stairs that led up to the main area immediately got on the defensive. Neither the soldiers nor the sellswords openly attacked anyone, but the Unsullied moved in fluid unison to point their spears sharply at the crowd as the Second Sons drew their blades or other weapons. Daario Naharis spun his odd curve-shaped blade around as he moved closer to the queen, and a few steps behind her, a white-haired old man wearing lightweight leather armor kept his hand on his sword pommel. Not daring to drop his guard, the old man discretely motioned to a dark-skinned Essosi woman and a Meereenese nobleman who were also on the stage with them to move closer to himself, Daario, and a lone Unsullied carrying his helmet under his arm.

With each passing second, the hissing grew louder, and soon it wasn't just hissing that could be heard. A few choice words were gradually thrown out in the queen's direction. He might not know High Valyrian, but Torrhen didn't need to be a genius to guess what people were probably calling his future mother: bitch, monster, murderer, hypocrite, madwoman…

Heart racing, Torrhen started running. He had to get to that stage. He had to reach Daenerys before—

A furious shout rang out as someone hurled a stone at the stage. Half a second passed, then a second stone was thrown. Followed by a third.

Then suddenly, thousands of enraged screams broke out across the square. The nobles and common people were shouting out obscenities and curses to the queen as they fought tooth and nail to break past her security. Other former masters and freedmen instead began fighting with each other. Both sides had always been at odds with the other, and the execution of a freedmen for killing a nobleman was just the trigger both sides needed to finally let loose the full extent of their hatred. The freedman threw whatever they could find at the former masters, and the masters did everything in their power to sink their fists in the slaves faces.

There was no denying it. A full blown riot had broken out. And Torrhen was stuck right in the middle of it.

Terrified, Torrhen did his best to wiggle his way through the mob. He had to get out of this cluster and up to the main stage. Now. Before he and Shadow were pounded to bloody pulps or his mother's guards escorted her away from all this chaos. If she left before he could reach her, that was it. He'd have no other way of finally making contact with her.

"S-Shadow, come on!" he yelled, leaping over an unfortunate slave woman who'd fallen. "H-Hurry! We've gotta—"

A particularly large, robust former master whacked into him as he fought off two former slaves, sending Torrhen crashing to the ground. Were it not for he landed on his side, his lute surely would've broke. He was okay aside from a dull ache on his left side, but he barely absorbed what happened before a flash of running feet shot past his eyes. Half a second later, pain throbbed in his chest and right arm.

"Argh!" Torren grunted, eyes growing moist. He couldn't tell who it was that literally ran over him. They vanished into the crowd without looking back at him.

Sucking in a breath, Torrhen tried to stand, but a random slave man's foot flew in out of nowhere, kicking him right in the jaw. Torrhen yelped, blood filling his mouth. Seven hells, did he lose a tooth? He sure hoped not.

There was furious growl followed by a blur of black fur. Someone suddenly screamed. Torrhen swayed back and forth as he sat up, dazed by all his injuries. Shadow had apparently had enough of watching him get trampled by the crowd, and had bit the slave man that kicked him. Not harsh enough to cause serious injury, but enough to draw blood. The freedman screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to shake the enraged direwolf off his leg.

"Sha'ow, no!" Torrhen yelled, words muffled from all the blood filling his mouth. He yanked his direwolf brother off the poor freedman. "He 'ic'e' me by acci'en'! I' wasn' on purpose!"

Shadow calmed at his words, but the former slave was not appeased. Despite his bloody leg, he screamed something ineligible at Torrhen and felt around on the ground for a rock. Torrhen jerked, terrified. Signaling to Shadow to stick close, the boy scrambled to his feet and took off running towards the stage again. The slave man shouted after them, but thanks to the mob, it was impossible for him to follow. Even so, Torrhen didn't stop running. He was relieved none of his injuries felt all that serious. Now, all he had to do was fight his way past this last frenzied cluster and he'd finally see—

The Unsullied gathered around their queen, keeping their spears out to keep the crowd at bay and their shields raised protectively over Daenerys' head from those on the upper levels throwing stones from overhead as they escorted her away. The Meereenese noble and the Essosi woman were right on her heels as they too were not fighters, but the old man, the lone Unsullied man that joined them on the platform, and Daario Naharis followed from behind, their weapons drawn just in case. The remaining sellswords brought up the rear, fending off attacks from citizens.

Torrhen hustled, nearly losing Shadow as he sped up.

"Your 'race!" he called, desperately trying to spit out blood. "Your 'race! Wai', please!"

Shoving his way past the last handful of people, he ran after the queen's escort with all his might, Shadow right on his heels. He had to catch up to them! They were seconds away from disappearing into the safety of a nearby building. If they got inside, they'd lock the doors and wouldn't come out until reinforcements from the rest of the Unsullied and Second Sons arrived. He was screwed if that happened. Plus, the rest of the mob was right on his tail. They too wanted to catch up to the queen — to chop off her head like she had Daario do to that freedman.

Spitting out the last bits of blood, he frantically wiped any disgusting excess dripping from his mouth, still running. "Queen Daenerys! Wait! Please, wait!"

Success! The silver-haired queen spun away from the random soldier opening the door for her and glanced back in surprise. He was still too far away to really get a good look at her, but he could tell they locked eyes.

He smiled, raising an arm to wave. "Your grace! I'm—"

He was cut off when a slave woman shoved him out of her way, screaming obscenities as she threw a rock the size of his fist at the queen. Her soldiers easily blocked it, but the moment was over. Torrhen's heart sank as the old man said something in pantomime to his mother, then promptly pulled her through the doorway. He saw her glance back curiously at him, but that was it. The rest of her escort scrambled inside behind her, then swiftly locked the doors.

Torrhen wanted to scream at his apparent bad luck, but Shadow didn't give him the chance. Clamping his jaws lightly around Torrhen's arm, he tugged the boy out of the way as a noble almost crashed into him. The boy appreciated his wolf's help. He could wallow in dismay later. Right now, they had to get out of here before the violence escalated.

"Stick close to me, boy! We gotta go!"

Yipping an affirmative, the direwolf stuck to Torrhen like glue as the boy fought through the crowd to escape. It took them ages, but at last they broke free of the main horde in the square. Even so, they kept running. Some of the angry citizens that had left the plaza like they had were still in foul moods, and quite a few were brawling randomly on the side streets.

Thankful to have not lost Shadow or his things during all the commotion, Torrhen led the way back to the alleyway they'd been sleeping in all this time. Being on the streets for so long, he knew of a good hiding spot in that alley near all the discarded rubble. So long as they got there, they'd be safe and would live long enough to see tomorrow.

Sure enough, they made it there with no problems whatsoever, and upon hiding themselves between a few large, lopsided chunks of stone debris, they hunkered down and kept silent. So long as they heard the rest of the city shouting and brawling far off in the distance, they didn't dare creep out of their hiding place. They'd stay hidden there all night if they needed to.

Luckily, that wasn't necessary. The last handful of screams pandered off completely as twilight stretched across the sky. The riot was over, it seemed. Relieved, Torrhen slowly crawled out from between the stones, motioning to Shadow to do the same.

"Well, that was an ordeal. The things we go through, right, boy?"

Shadow panted, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Torrhen smiled, running a hand messily across his furry head.

"Can't believe we got that close to mother yet couldn't see her. We were so close! So close!" he groaned. "She saw me, though. I know she saw me. Yet I couldn't talk to her… Argh! What more do I gotta do?!"

A small whine escaped Shadow, and the wolf purposefully nestled his head under Torrhen's hand to divert his attention. Torrhen snickered, scratching his buddy behind the ears.

"Sorry, Shadow. I don't mean to be a pain… I'm just frustrated. Still, I guess we're lucky to have escaped that mess without you or me getting hurt. Dealing with that sprained ankle sucked. Hate to go through that all over again for me or you." Shadow wagged happily, licking his cheek repeatedly. His boy chuckled, playfully shoving him off. "Okay, okay! I get it, you're happy. Enough, though. Keep going like that, and I won't be able to count our money from today's earnings. I don't know about you, but I'm starving!"

Ears perking at the mention of food, Shadow promptly sat down and behaved himself as Torrhen pulled out his small money pouch. Dumping its contents across the gravelly dirt, he tallied up the total. Moments later, he groaned, flopping back against a tall piece of rubble leaning behind him. Curious as to what had upset him, Shadow pawed at his leg.

"We're eating frugally tonight, Shadow. We can afford a loaf of bread and an apple. Nothing else. And we'll be sharing it again, too…"

The wolf whined, ears drooping sadly.

Torrhen sighed. "Come on, let's find a vendor. I'm sure at least one stall's gotta be open despite that mob."

Retrieving his coins and collecting his lute, the boy and his direwolf cautiously exited the alleyway, making sure the coast was clear before fully venturing out. Even when assured that no one with lingering anger following the riot was going to jump out of nowhere and attack them, Torrhen kept his free hand close to the pommel of his training sword just in case. Didn't hurt to be careful, after all.

Even so, he couldn't help but let his mind wander as he and Shadow continued down the dirt path. The only reason that riot broke out in the first place was because the queen executed that freedman. If he really had killed a former master, that execution was a suitable punishment… but what hadn't that freedman been put on trial for his crime like she'd been planning to do to the deceased nobleman? If he'd been decreed guilty at a trial, the city probably wouldn't have reacted the way it had. Why hadn't she done that?

Dread sinked into his chest as a horrible thought came to mind. Tossing his cloak over the arm carrying his lute, he ran his fingers through his mop of black curls and sighed. "Shadow, do you think it's even possible for me to change the queen's fate? I mean… you don't… you don't think my aunts and uncle were actually telling me and Lya the truth about her all this time, right? That all along she really was 'mad?'"

Shadow's stride slowed somewhat as he glanced up at him, red eyes blinking curiously.

"I mean — well — she just killed that man earlier. Dunno who he was, but he was a freedman. They all respected the queen 'til now, but she still killed him mercilessly. Do you think…?" he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Do you think that… that her doing that is a sign that she really—"

He cut himself off with an abrupt, pained yelp. Shadow growled as he removed his teeth from Torrhen's hand, having just nipped it a tad harder than he normally would. Biting his lower lip to keep his eyes from watering, Torrhen shifted his lute and cloak to his other hand as he shook away the stinging pain.

"Ow! Damn it, Shadow! That hurt! And shit, you broke the skin this time!"

Shadow gave no indication that he heard him, but he purposefully nosed his boys' flailing hand and licked the single drop of blood oozing out from his fingers.

While still annoyed by the act, Torrhen could see his direwolf was trying to atone for the deed. That was better than nothing, he supposed. "If you were trying to tell me not to finish that thought, then fine, I won't. But watch the teeth next time, you hear? Nipping's fine, but I draw the line at blood. Do that again and I'll… I'll bite you back!"

The wolf stopped licking and let his tongue loll off to the side again in a wolfish grin. Torrhen scowled, still partially annoyed, but now also partially amused. It took everything he had to keep his grin from showing — no need for Shadow to think he was willing to overlook this stunt this time.

A large black shadow suddenly passed overhead, yanking Torrhen out of his thoughts. Alarmed, he stopped and looked up, but then he saw what it was and blinked repeatedly.

The sky was quickly darkening due to the late hour, but not even the night sky could stamp out the silhouette of a great black dragon landing upon the roof of the Great Pyramid. Torrhen gasped, awed. That had to be the one dragon that hadn't been locked up beneath the pyramid following the earthquake. The one everyone in the future claimed his mother rode during her time as a dragonrider, her last surviving dragon living in the ruins of Old Valyria — Drogon.

Torrhen's mouth fell open slightly as he sucked in a breath. He was speechless. The great Drogon… He was here, on top of the Great Pyramid. Too far away for him to make out any discernible features or to take in how much bigger his mother's dragon was compared to Sōnar, but still in plain view. He and Lyaella had always wanted to see and meet their mother's last living dragon. When they talked about running away in the past, they both had lots of ideas on where they would go and what they would do, but one place they always agreed they'd visit together was the ruins of Old Valyria. It'd be a dangerous quest what with the Stone Men haunting the decimated remains, but they both agreed they'd go one day. Plus, they always knew that before going, they wouldn't go alone unless circumstances demanded it. They would've asked one of the only two people they knew to have visited Old Valyria in the past to accompany them. To find their mother's last living dragon would've been a miracle for him and his sister. With any luck, the Drogon in the future would have realized right away who they were and cared for them the same way Sōnar did. Maybe Drogon would have instinctively understood where Sōnar came from, too.

But above all else, the one thing Torrhen knew he and Lyaella had always wanted to do in their fantasy scenario was have Drogon take them to their mother's body. To find her remains and give her a proper burial… his eyes watered just from thinking about it.

For the longest time, the rest of the world just fell away from him. He stood there in the middle of the path, neck craned back as he stared in wonder at the mighty beast high above. Shadow seemed to understand how significant this moment was to him and stayed silent, only daring to press up against him to show comfort. Torrhen appreciated the gesture, but he was only vaguely aware of it. If only Lyaella and Sōnar were here. Lyaella would've been overjoyed, and Sōnar probably would've flown straight up to the Great Pyramid to meet Drogon. Why couldn't they be here now? Why…?

Suddenly, the black dragon let out an audible hoot before spreading its wings and flying away from the Great Pyramid. Torrhen nearly blinked, but he forced himself not to. To blink would mean possibly missing something. A small part of him hoped that his mother's dragon somehow sensed him down here and was coming to greet him. Maybe even carry him and Shadow up to a pyramid balcony so he could finally meet his future-mother. Unfortunately, that was just wishful thinking. No, Drogon merely squawked as he soared over the city, flying past it in the direction of some mountainous peninsulas far to the west. Torrhen watched with furrowed brows. Where was that dragon going? Why would it disappear for a time only to return for a few moments before leaving again? Very strange…

Still, Drogon's appearance had restored his hope that things would be better. Impossible things happened in this world every day. His mother had hatched three dragons out of stone eggs like he and Lyaella unintentionally did with Sōnar. They had traveled back in time to correct the mistakes of the past. It all sounded like nonsense to a practical mind, but it was the truth.

Miracles can happen every once in a while, but people can't just sit around waiting for them to happen. They had to put in the work to make them happen. And that's exactly what he had to do now. The queen might be making mistakes in how she was governing Meereen, but it wasn't too late for her to fix them. More importantly, it wasn't too late to change her fate.

Daenerys Targaryen was not going to die this time around.

She was not going to be known throughout history as 'The Mad Queen.'

His mother was going to fall in love all over again with his father and him and Lyaella. If she or his father took the Iron Throne, that'd be wonderful, but it didn't really matter in the end. All that mattered was that their family stayed together. The cruel Starks would not tear them apart or seize power for themselves this time around.

But nothing would change at all until he finally met the queen. It was time he stopped twiddling his thumbs and put in the work necessary to make a miracle happen.

Nodding firmly, Torrhen tore his eyes away from the small, fading dot that was Drogon on the horizon and set off down the road again, a new spring in his step. Shadow hurried after him, glancing up at him curiously as he trotted along.

"Change of plans, bud," he announced, turning a corner. "We're gonna have to pick through trash for food tonight."

Shadow whined, purposefully butting his head against his legs.

Torrhen frowned. "I know, I know. It's disgusting… Don't give me that look! I'm not looking forward to it either! I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow and buy a nice piece of meat if I earn enough money, but we can't buy food tonight. We can't afford both that and a rope."

Shadow blinked up at him, intrigued.

Torrhen saw his curious expression and grinned. "Aye, you heard me right. We'll buy a rope tonight, food tomorrow, and then go frugal for a few days 'til we get enough to buy a few more ropes plus a sturdy hook. We'll keep trying to ask permission to see the queen every day, but that's just for appearances sake. In truth, boy, we're done hoping we'll meet mother that way."

A cold wind suddenly blew through the air, carrying a chill throughout the city. Desert cities were so odd, hot during the day yet freezing cold at night.

His grin became twice as big as he threw his Northern cloak back over his shoulders. "Shadow, we're gonna have to bend the rules to honor a bit if we're ever going to see her. We're gonna have to be honorable thieves — we're breaking into the Great Pyramid, but we're not robbing the place or hurting anyone. We're going to meet the queen."