Longclaw 1-6:
Sorry for the long wait. We've both been busy.
Now begins season 6 and we're gonna do our best to charge forward towards the BotB and other season highlights.
Enjoy, and be sure to check out our other five.
Elphaba818:
OMG! It's inexcusable how long it took to get this online, but sadly life got in the way and we were busy. In fact, this chapter was posted online weeks ago on Ao3 by Longclaw, but it's taken me ages for me to find the time to even sit down and write this author's note prior to this chapter for you all to read and get it posted on here, too! If any of you follow this story on Ao3 and were wondering why this chapter was only ever posted on there and not on here too, it's because I couldn't make the time until now to even log onto here to get this online! The Disney College Program is a lot of fun, don't get me wrong… it's just very taxing on how many hours I have to work to stay in the program! There's just too much to do and not enough hours in the day to write! We still have yet to brainstorm the next chapter, too! I'm so, so sorry, dear readers! Truly I am! Rest assured though that the story has NOT been abandoned! It's just hard to make time these days to work on it! But it will be continued soon! I promise!
Chapter Twenty-Three: Reality is No Story
"Ser Davos, you came!" Lyaella giggled, hugging the older man. "We missed your stories!"
The lone member of the Small Council that would visit Winterfell without official escort gave a chuckle, ruffling Lyaella's hair. "My sons are all grown. Where would I get my fill of a child's innocence than here?"
Lyaella shared a quick look with Torrhen, the two of them knowing that their innocence was lost quite long ago… but they wouldn't tell Davos that. Perhaps he knew, but referring to it would spoil their happiness at his visit. It was for official business of their uncle the King in the South, but a treat for the twins nevertheless.
Davos continued as if he saw nothing. "Your father… he was like a son to me. So the two of you are like my grandchildren."
Torrhen, proud and fierce to the rest of the world, hugged Davos close. "You're more family to us than our aunts and uncle."
"Don't say that, young Prince. Your family loves you."
"Lies," she heard her brother spit. "And don't call us Prince and Princess… we're Snows. Snows of a bastard and a killer."
His eyes finding Lyaella, she sighed. Tears in her eyes. "T-That's all they s-say about our father… and our m-mother." The last was a whisper. Queen Sansa wasn't vicious as some of the others around Winterfell were, but even she slapped Lyaella for mentioning Daenerys Targaryen at a formal dinner several moons ago when Lady Karstark arrived with her retinue.
Davos shook his head, eyes closed. "I can see why they would think that, though it is unfair to burden the two of you with the weight of the dead." Lyaella could tell there was so much on his shoulders, so much that he carried. Each time he came found Davos ever frailer, ever weaker in body though not in mind. "But they are wrong."
"How… How are they?" While Torrhen brooded, Lyaella grasped Davos' hand, pleading. "P-Please tell us, Ser Davos."
He hesitated for a moment before wavering. "Much is too horrid or complex for children as young as yourselves, but there is one bit you should know." Davos looked around, rising from his seat before latching the door shut. Even so, his voice was a whisper. "Your father… he was many things but he was not a bastard."
Both twins blinked… followed by wide eyes as Davos narrated the truth…
Dismissed from her father's — the Lord Commander's — solar, Lyaella bit her lip as she was reminded again of that night. The last time she had seen Lord Davos Seaworth alive until Kinvara's miracle sent her back. Sometimes it feels like a curse…
She shook her head. Now was not the time to falter. I have to be brave. Brave like my father… like Yerrah at Hardhome… A deep breath steadied Lyaella as she remembered everything Davos said.
"Your father could prove he was a Targaryen. There was a book at the Citadel, a record of one of the High Septons… the one holding the office at the time of Robert's Rebellion. His diary was very detailed, and he noted offering an annulment to Prince Rhaegar — your grandfather — and his then wife Elia Martell, so he could marry your grandmother, Lyanna Stark."
"W-Where… Where is it now?"
"Aye! Where is it?!"
"I don't know."
Torrhen had later speculated that Queen Sansa had it burned… or if not her then King Bran. Maybe Lady Arya had worn someone's face to sneak into the Citadel to burn it secretly. Lyaella didn't speculate, but the fact their father died a bastard and was remembered as a bastard stuck with her. A prince, the highest of royalty… left in the gutter by those raised his siblings, who used such information to destroy him and the woman he loved. And his children, on top of it.
But it wasn't too late. Hearing her father describe the Citadel and his plan to send Sam there, Lyaella's mind was filled with fear but also a stroke of genius… or as much intelligence as she was willing to record herself. Planning ahead had never been a strong point of hers, but for once it seemed like she was starting to truly be as smart as people often told her she was. I have to ensure that book is found… yet not read by Sam. Of the fates she had changed, this one seemed to actually bear fruit if she would truly save her parents.
It was eerily quiet that evening at Castle Black, though Lyaella rather appreciated it. Things had been a hectic maze since the thousands of Free Folk were let south and in addition, she didn't want to be bothered as she set upon her task. Reaching Sam's quarters, swallowing, she knocked as brusquely as she could. Hoping that it wasn't the portly acolyte answering the door…
"Oh, Lyaella." Thankfully, it was Gilly and her homespun Wildling accent. Most educated as Lyaella was found it grating, but she didn't mind. Now, it was a godsend. "What're ye' doin' here?"
Shuffling her feet, Lyaella struggled to find the right words. "Can I… talk to you?"
Gilly nodded, bidding her entry. "Sam's not 'ere, gettin' supplies ready to go south. Been packin' Little Sam's things." The babe was fast asleep in his crib, a no-frills thing but likely better than anything they would've had at Craster's Keep. "Whatcha need?"
Fiddling with her dragon necklace and the music box key, she took a deep breath. Moment of truth. "I… I-I-I need a favor… for when you get to Oldtown."
"Really?" Gilly didn't look skeptical, but it did seem odd to her. "Ever been there?"
She shook her head. "No, but I know someone who did. They studied at the Citadel." Grand Maester Sam of her world. She'd only ever met him once, but she was a Northerner. She remembered him. "There's something… There's something he found there that I… I need you to burn for me."
Gilly blinked. "Burn?"
"Y-Yes! Please, when you find it, throw it into the first fireplace you see! You — You have to destroy it!"
The Wildling woman stared, confused beyond belief. Swallowing thickly she slowly lowered herself onto the bed, attention still rooted on the little girl. "You're confusin' me, Lyaella. Why d'yeh want me to burn yeh somethin'? And what is is yeh want burnt?"
"A book… a diary of a High Septon named Maynard. He'd be the High Septon about twenty years ago."
"They'd keep that?" Gilly was surprised.
She nodded. Maester Marlon was always cruel, but the man never threw anything out. "Please… Please, I need you to find that book and burn it. Please!"
"Why, though? What's so important about—?"
"I-I-I… I can't tell you."
"Lyaella—"
"I'm sorry, but I just can't! That book… it contains important information. Stuff that… that people could use to hurt me and my brother." A half-truth. If that book wasn't destroyed and the proof inside regarding her grandparents secret marriage wasn't forever lost to the people of this world, she and Torrhen would be hurt by that information. Albeit indirectly since it'd hurt their future parents more. "Please, I need you to find that book and burn it! Don't read it if you do find it, just burn it!"
Gilly did, either because she trusted Lya or was trustworthy in general — both made her feel horrible but it was for her parents. She was a dragon, and dragons didn't answer to men or gods. Stay strong, Lya. "I kin find it for ya… though I may need Sam's help—"
"No!" Blushing from her abrupt cry, Lyaella composed herself. "Sorry, but… but you can't. You can't tell Sam. You — You have to keep this a secret!"
"Why?" Gilly raised a brow.
Lyaella bit her lip — should she disclose something she knew she shouldn't? It would get Gilly off her back. But then again, certain half-truths shouldn't even be said as half-truths because of how information traveled. What was she supposed to say…?
That's when it hit her. The perfect half-truth to ensure Gilly's cooperation without giving away anything that could potentially be used against herself, Jon, or House Targaryen. Not unless more facts were discovered about who Jon really was. "Um… the passage in there… it's proof of how Torrhen and I are both Northerners and Targargyens from… from two generations. That can't become common knowledge. It mustn't!"
Though born a product of incest in a hovel north of the wall, Gilly wasn't in fact completely simple. Immediately she understood, eyes widening. "Ah… I see. Well, I'll keep it a secret then." She looked at Lyaella. "Sure you don't want me to find the book and then send it to ya?"
Shaking her head, Lyaella was hopeful this would work. "Just burn it, please. That'll be enough time since I don't want to distract Lord Snow from his duties here."
"I understand." Both ladies shared a smile.
Suddenly, there was a loud rap on the door. "Princess." Lyaella stiffened. It was Thorne. "I saw you enter Tarly's quarters. Come out." The voice wasn't angry but it was firm. One not to be disobeyed.
Sparing a meek glance to Gilly, Lyaella whispered a quick apology before slipping outside. Thorne was waiting expectantly for her. His stance one of respect and deference. Ugh… not this again… "Y-Yes, Ser Alliser?" She asked, hoping that he'd just get whatever display of loyalty over with so she could head back to her chambers.
Thorne's posture became even firmer. "You're a stubborn girl, your Grace, though given your circumstances I cannot blame you."
Her eyes narrowed, annoyed. "Please… I've t-told you before. Don't call me, 'y-your grace.'" Frankly, she had enough of it.
But Thorne didn't budge. "You may be a bastard, but you are the blood of the dragon all the same. My oath was to your family before it was to the Night's Watch. I would betray my honor if I didn't see my oath through… and for that reason I have a gift for you."
A gift? Lyaella didn't like how he said it. There was something really off about Thorne, how smug his grin was. Like how Shadow was whenever he killed a squirrel or rabbit and brought it back to Torrhen, prancing about all… triumphantly. But the difference was she liked Shadow. She hesitated, not wanting to go with him but curious all the same.
"Come, Princess," he insisted. "Think of it as the beginning of the restoration… the first of the traitors to meet their end at your hands." On his cloak… there was a tiny speck of blood. Fresh blood.
Blood turning to ice at his words, Lyaella peeked around Thorne to notice a commotion in the courtyard. Some torches… a grunt of pain… and a muffled "For the Watch." Heart pounding, she rushed towards it, past Thorne. Heavy footsteps found him hot on her heels, but Lyaella didn't care. Only wanting to see what was going on.
Scrambling down the steps, it finally came to focus. Her eyes widened, skidding to a stop and her face paling. "Jon…?" There he was, her father. Fallen to his knees clutching a ripped, bleeding stomach. "Jon!" she screamed, trying to run to him. No! Father, no!
An iron grip affixed itself to her shoulder. "Look at him, Princess," Thorne whispered triumphantly in her ear. "The son of the Usurper's dog, the one who betrayed both the Watch and House Targaryen."
Never before did Lyaella feel as angry as she did at that moment, fueled by terror and helplessness. "I'm not a princess! Let me go!" She did her best to escape his grasp, kicking and writhing. "Don't hurt him!"
Bowen Marsh snarled. "He's a fookin' traitor!"
"Hush, fool!" Thorne spat, glaring at him. Assured the man would stay silent, he turned to address Lyaella again, his voice sounding almost… gentle. "Consider this a token of my eternal devotion to House Targaryen." Lyaella said nothing, instead still trying to break free and kick at him. "Finish it, boy," the First Ranger ordered someone else before looking back at her. "And make sure her grace sees it."
"Ollie…" At her father's voice, Lya's eyes turned painfully to see his squire walk to him. Ollie, the boy that usually looked up at him with the same adoration and hero-worship that Lyaella was too fearful to do until the Free Folk came, such looks hardening. For a moment, the boy hesitated. Please don't… please...
"Lya." Her head whipped to her father, Jon smiling at her with… she thought it was love. It made her heart break in both joy and agony. Her father, staring at her so kindly — oh how she'd prayed and dreamed of such, only for this to be the answer. "It's gonna be alright."
A snort. "Not for you." Thorne looked smug. "Do it!"
Lyaella gasped as Ollie plunged the dagger into her father, eyes alight with hate. "For the Watch."
No! No! No! Feeling Thorne release her, Lyaella raced for Jon as soon as her feet touched the snow. She didn't hear the men laughing around her, just focusing on Jon, on her father. The father she never knew growing up and who didn't know how connected they truly were. He'll never know. "Jon!" Lyaella clung desperately to his black cloak, hugging him as she wailed. "No, no, no… I can't lose you too!" She shook him, urging him to live. "Not like my parents! Not like Wisp! I can't! I can't…!"
A hand… it moved to caress her face. Lyaella looked down to see a faint smile on his lips. A sparkle in his gray eyes, one saved only for her. "L… Lya…"
He then breathed his last, eyes dilating as death came upon him. Her father was dead. Lyaella just held him, sobbing uncontrollably.
She failed… she truly and completely failed.
He was in the forests again. The forests in the North. As comforting as it was to be somewhere familiar, Torrhen couldn't help but scowl. He was getting tired of this — being fully conscious and aware in the real world one second then suddenly somewhere else in the next. Fucking greensight.
Ignoring the world in the vision, Torrhen's hand immediately flew to his hip. His hatred of this gift aside, he had no time for this. His future mother needed him to be present in the real world right now, not watching whatever was going on here be it in either the past, present, or seven above the future.
Less than a second ago he'd been trudging through the blistering heat next to the queen as a Dothraki bloodrider yelled at them in his foreign tongue from on top of his horse. Now he was here again. Completely alone. Fuck his luck. Sure, he'd been in the middle of nowhere and had been pissed, hot, and grumbling about his and Daenerys' current circumstances, but at least he'd still been with her and was in the middle of the Dothraki… horde? Legion? Cavalcade? What did Dothraki screamers call themselves when they were all moving as a whole unit, anyway? Whatever, not important.
Point was, he'd been lost in the wilderness of Essos, but at least he'd been with his future mother and the Dothraki. Now? He could be anywhere in the North. Past, present, or future. Maybe if he pricked himself with his sword, he could snap out of this on his own and get back to reality.
But there was nothing at his hip where his sword's hilt should be. He only felt air.
Torrhen jerked, his eyes flying down. Sure enough, his sword was gone, the scabbard empty. What the hell? He always kept his sword on him! Where was—?!
Fuck. That's right. The Dothraki took it. When they were tying him and Daenerys up. Damn it!
"Oof! Argh, you hit hard!"
"Hey, you wanted to train, remember? I'm giving it my all."
"I know, I know. Let's go again!"
Torrhen blinked and stepped forward a few paces to peer around a tree. He was back in the clearing where he'd talked to Rickon before. His ill-fated uncle was there again, as was Shaggydog. But they weren't alone this time. With them was the same boy he'd seen the first time he'd accidentally used the Sight to see his uncle. He and Rickon were full out sparring with each other with wooden swords, their cloaks discarded on the large boulder nearby.
They'd apparently been training for awhile now, as they were both caked in dirt and sweaty from exertion, but the other boy was clearly getting the upper hand on Rickon. Torrhen had never seen his future uncle fight before and had no idea if he was a good aspiring swordsman or not, but one glance confirmed he was definitely not going to win this match. He was panting heavily, his attacks and blocks far too slow. Sure enough, a few more parries later, the other boy easily dodged a shaky swing and disarmed him, knocking him to the ground. "Ha! I win, Rickon!"
Rickon stayed panting in the dirt for several moments, head bent as he climbed up onto all fours as he tried to regain his breath… but then he finally glanced up at the other boy, smirking wolfishly. "Don't celebrate too soon, Ned!"
He leapt forward, sweeping out his leg and knocking Ned down, too. Ned's training sword went flying as Rickon leapt on top of him, drawing his dagger from his waist and promptly pointing the tip at his throat.
Ned blinked repeatedly, then sighed and shook his head. "Cheater…" he grumbled.
Rickon laughed. "Hey, I'm only following Osha's training advice! She told us to always look for a way to win, remember?"
"Aye, you're right… just wish I could've won for once."
They stared at each other for a moment, then promptly burst out laughing. Torrhen couldn't help but snicker himself at the mock fight, and he clapped approvingly as Rickon helped Ned back to his feet.
Immediately, Rickon's eyes swiveled in his direction, bulging rapidly upon spotting him. Swallowing thickly, he calmed himself before focusing back on his companion. "I think that's enough practice for one day. You've got lessons back in the keep anyway, right?"
"Hmm? Oh, aye. Almost forgot!"
"We can spar again later. I think I'll stay out here a bit longer with Shaggydog."
"All right… but hurry back. My father and Osha get worried when you're out here alone."
Waving goodbye to his friend as he disappeared through the trees, Rickon waited a few moments before slowly sheathing his dagger and turning to face him. "Hello, again. It's been awhile, huh?"
Torrhen shrugged. "Aye, I guess. Not sure why I'm here again. I just am."
"Hmm." Rickon stared at him, his body tense and eyes wary. He didn't seem scared of him anymore… but his body language definitely showed he wasn't comfortable around him either.
Torrhen couldn't help but grit his teeth. Incredible. Another one of his father's siblings automatically hated him… yet unlike Sansa, Arya, and Bran, Rickon didn't even know of their blood relations through Jon nor his Targaryen heritage like other Northerners did. He just hated him for no good reason. He huffed and folded his arms. "Stop that!"
Rickon blinked, cocking his head. "Stop what?"
"That! Pretending like you don't hate me! You don't even know me, but you already hate me! If you don't want me here, just say so! I don't know how to stop this stupid greensight shit, but say the word and I'll go wander around elsewhere until it stops!"
His future uncle immediately shook his head. "No, no! I… I don't hate you. I just — I-I-I don't know what to think when it comes to you. You show up out of nowhere all the time and then disappear without warning. You — You even said before you're all the way across the Narrow Sea! I don't know what to think…"
Torrhen's anger abated. "All right, fair enough." Looking at it like that, he couldn't fault Rickon for his behavior. Not when he was just as confused as to why he kept greenseeing him.
An awkward silence spread in the clearing, neither boy knowing entirely what to say. Luckily, the tension faded when Shaggydog suddenly trotted forward and started sniffing Torrhen without warning.
Rickon snickered. "Shaggydog, enough! Don't annoy him!"
Torrhen laughed, waving away his words. "It's fine. He reminds me of Shadow. He's always getting up close like this. So long as he doesn't slobber all over my mouth, I don't care."
The other boy just chuckled harder. Clearing his throat, he wordlessly gestured to the boulder with his cloak on top. Several sheets of parchment and some more of those strange black writing tools were right next to it. Torrhen shrugged and moved to sit down, Rickon sweeping his things a little ways off to the side and doing the same.
"So… you're a greenseer, huh?" His uncle asked, curious. "You have the Sight? That's why you keep popping up around me?"
Torrhen scowled. "Aye. Apparently…"
"What?"
"What d'you mean, 'what?' Shouldn't it be obvious by now that I hate having it?"
"You… You hate your gift?"
"'Course I do! You think I like blacking out all the time and showing up randomly in different places without warning?! And I don't want to be like my emotionless uncle!"
"Uncle?"
"Aye, fucking asshole, he is. He's got the Sight, too, and he used it for his own personal gain. Used it to get my parents out of the way so he could get power. I hate him. Him and my aunts."
Rickon stared at him, but Torrhen didn't meet his gaze. He didn't care if his future uncle judged him for his hatred. It was the truth. King Bran did use his gifts in his timeline for personal gain, and he was too emotionless and cruel to be remorseful for what he'd done. Just like Queen Sansa and Lady Arya. Monsters. All of them.
"Huh… Guess that explains why you keep greenseeing me, then."
The words were so unexpected and sudden that Torrhen jumped. He snapped his head around, incredulous. "What?"
Rickon was the one avoiding his gaze this time, but unlike himself, he didn't do so out of anger or spite. Instead, he looked out at the forest with furrowed brows, his expression pensive. "Aye, it makes sense…" he murmured, nodding more to himself than at his companion. "Makes total sense, come to think of it…"
"What? What makes sense?"
"You. Greenseeing me," he said. "We're the same, that's why you keep showing up here with me. I get it now."
"Well, I don't! How're we the same?!"
"Because you have the Sight, and you hate it. I think I have it, too… and I hate it."
Torrhen froze. "You… What? Say again?"
Rickon sighed, folding his arms sullenly as he glanced up lazily at the gray sky. "I'm not nearly as good as my brother Bran, but I think I have a few greensight abilities like him… and I hate them."
He blinked repeatedly. No one had ever told him or Lyaella that their deceased uncle had been gifted with the Sight like King Bran. No one talked about Rickon at all aside from when referring to his death at the future Battle of the Bastards. Why? Why had no one ever told them about this? Had no one in the future even known? Queen Sansa and Lady Arya never saw nor spoke to him again after they left Winterfell as children, so that was somewhat possible… But King Bran? They'd escaped Winterfell together after Queen Yara's brother Theon sacked the place… Creepy though he was, King Bran knew everything as the Three-Eyed Raven. Why didn't he ever tell people about Rickon's greensight abilities?
Still, if Rickon knew how to use the Sight then maybe… "Tell me how to stop using it."
Rickon jerked, turning to him in confusion. "Huh?"
"You heard me," Torrhen stated, stone-faced. "If you're right and you have the Sight but don't use it, then you know how to stop yourself from falling into visions. That's why I'm here. I can't control when my visions happen. And no offense, but I don't want to keep having visions. So tell me how to stop greenseeing!"
His uncle looked bewildered. "I… I don't know."
"Don't fuck with me."
"I'm not! Seriously, I'm not!" He protested. "Jojen only gave me a few vague explanations on how this works since he was always more interested in helping my brother Bran." He paused, scoffing as he scraped his heel against the boulder. "I've had to figure out how to use my gifts all on my own. And even then, it's extremely hard since I don't see stuff all that often…"
"Jojen?"
"Jojen Reed. Son and heir to Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. Him and his sister Meera found us after we escaped Winterfell. They helped us… then talked Bran into going beyond the Wall to find some raven."
Torrhen couldn't help but raise a brow. Rickon's tone was a little too nonchalant considering his words, and he was staring down a bush a few feet in front of their boulder with an unwavering gaze. He might be trying to hide it, but Torrhen easily understood his body language — he did the exact same things on a daily basis, after all. And for the same reasons, too. Incredible. Simply incredible. "You hate him."
Rickon tensed. "Wh… What?"
"Your brother. Bran. You hate him."
It wasn't a question. And both boys knew it.
His future uncle thickly swallowed, gray eyes darting about nervously. "I… Well… I just…"
Torrhen scoffed, hopping off the boulder and bending down to pet Shaggydog. "Please don't lie. I might not know you very well yet, Rickon Stark, but I know how to spot a lie." He stated, utterly unfazed as his fingers tousled through the wolf's dark fur. "I don't wanna start hating you just because you wanna lie and deny that fact."
A sharp shove against his side startled him, and Torrhen's head snapped up. Rickon stood over him, scowling hatefully. "Shut up! You don't know what in seven hells you're talking about!"
Torrhen stood and folded his arms, annoyed himself. "Don't I? I've lived with liars all my life. My aunts and uncle? They got my parents killed and seized power for themselves by playing games and lying to people. My sister Lyaella and I are only bastards because of them. I can tell when people are telling the truth or not, and how you were talking about your brother before was your honest opinion. It was only after I called you out on it that you started acting like you would if you were going to lie and deny it. So no bullshit, okay? Do me a favor and just be honest. Northerner's are supposed to be blunt and honest, after all."
Rickon didn't say anything at first. He just stood there silently for several moments, lips pressed tight and fists shaking at his sides in suppressed fury. An eternity seemed to pass before he heavily sighed and looked away. "What do you want me to say? I — I don't deny I'm angry at Bran. He abandoned me here to go off on his own, after all… but he's still my brother. I don't wanna hate him."
At that, Torrhen's fury lessened a bit. He could understand that, but still… "I get it. Family's supposed to be supportive of each other, no matter what… But not every family follows that principle."
"That's not true!"
"No? You just said your brother abandoned you to go off on his own. Family's not supposed to do that," he countered. "Am I wrong?"
That drew Rickon up short. He bit his lip, running his hand through his hair for a moment as he thought it over. "I… I don't know. Aside from Bran, it's getting harder and harder for me to remember stuff."
Torrhen blinked. "Remember what?"
"About the rest of my family," he muttered. Kicking his boot at a lone pebble, Rickon huffed and swiped up his parchment and the strange writing tool to plop down and lean back against the boulder. Bringing his knees to his chest for a solid surface, he spread the loose sheet flat against them and began running the tool across the page. "I know I'm a Northerner and I'm supposed to always remember stuff, but I was really young when my family got split up. Certain things are just… fading away."
"Like what?"
"Like… how my brother Robb looked like he'd tousle my hair, or my mother's smile when she hugged me… What my sister's sounded like when bickering… I know for a fact I've forgotten what my father's smile looked like, and my half-brother, Jon? I know his hair is black and curly, but… but the details of how it looked are slipping away… Were it not for Lord Umber letting me use this charcoal, I'd probably forgotten what they all looked like by now."
Torrhen cocked his head, puzzled. Sensing his confusion, Rickon kept swiping the charcoal swiftly across the page, his eyes riveted to his work. It took him a few minutes, but finally he finished and waved Torrhen closer to come see. Torrhen's brows rose in pleasant surprise as he peered over Rickon's shoulder. Apparently Rickon was a good artist, for scattered across the page were various charcoal sketches of the once proud family House Stark. The older faces of a middle-aged man and woman alone with the face of a curly haired boy with a slightly arrogant grin were one's he'd never seen before, but common sense told him that they had to be the late Lord and Lady Stark and his deceased Uncle Robb. The next three faces were one's he did know despite them looking very young, but Torrhen could easily see the resemblance in these younger renditions to the King Bran, Queen Sansa, and Lady Arya he'd known growing up. As for the final face… it was drawn a lot sloppier compared to the others primarily with how the curls had been sketched out, but Torrhen's eyes were fixated on that face. The boy in the picture had no scars on his face compared to the statue of him in the Winterfell crypts he'd seen while growing up and was frowning hard compared to the smiling faces in the other portraits, but there was no doubt in Torrhen's mind as to who he was…
"Let me guess… those two are your parents… That one there is Robb," he said thickly, pointing to each portrait in question. "That's Sansa… Arya… your brother Bran… and this one is…"
"Aye, that's Jon. I may not remember his hair that well, but that brooding look of his is unforgettable. It's easy to pick him out in a crowd, what with that frown of his."
Torrhen said nothing. He just kept staring at the rough sketch of his future father with misty eyes, his chest clenching painfully. That statue in the Winterfell crypts had nothing in common with this picture. The carvers didn't capture the look of sad brooding that this image could…
"Oy, you all right?"
"Huh? Oh, aye. Aye, I'm fine," he muttered, coming back to himself. "Just… lost in thought, I guess."
Rickon furrowed his brows, concerned. "You sure?"
"Aye, really. Never mind that. You're a good artist," he commented, desperately trying to change the subject. "Wish I could draw like you."
His future uncle still seemed a bit worried, but luckily he dropped the matter. "I could teach you, if you want. It's not that hard."
"Nah, it's fine. I'm more into music, anyway. I like writing it."
"You write music? Truly?"
"Aye, but just the music itself. I'm no bloody poet. You wanna hear any lyrics? Ask my sister, Lyaella. She's the lyricist between us. I'm just the composer."
"Huh… so you and your sister Lyaella are a team, then? Can she greensee, too? I wouldn't mind meeting her."
Torrhen shrugged. "I don't know where Lyaella is right now. We got separated by accident, but I think she's still somewhere here in the North. I just don't know where exactly. Still, I don't think she—"
He cut himself off, eyes bulging wide as a jolt went through his whole body.
"Torrhen?" Rickon exclaimed, standing quickly upon noticing the look on his companions' face. "What's wrong?"
He swallowed, a hand moving to his chest as he tried to regain his bearings. "I — I don't know… I'm fine now, tho—"
There it was again! Another sudden shock! It was like someone invisible was trying to shake him! But who? And why?
"Are you okay? What's happening?"
"I… I don't—"
Another unexpected jerk happened, and before Torrhen could blink the world suddenly disappeared in a flash of white.
Her legs were numb, her dress soaked with blood, but Lyaella didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. Jon Snow was dead. Dead. Her beloved father was a bleeding out corpse in the snow of the far North. Everything she had been told of him was true and more — how brave he was. How skilled and kind… Lyaella loved him. Even though he hadn't known of their connection and often pushed her away, she loved him. Yearned to be the daughter he could be proud of.
But now he was dead and she was completely alone in the world. She didn't even have Torrhen here as she did during their worst moments before. All she could do was bawl her heart out, trembling from both the cold and the pain in her heart.
"J-Jon…" she whimpered, burying her face in his chest. "Jon!"
A hand fell on her shoulder. "Don't cry, Princess. I know that was rough to see, but it was for the best."
That voice… That voice. That voice daring to sound apathetic…! Swallowing back another sob, she looked up to see Thorne. "Y-You… You killed him…" she whimpered, shaking her head in disbelief. "You killed him!"
Thorne didn't even frown or look away guiltily. He simply nodded. "Aye. We did."
"But… But why?!"
"His family betrayed yours, broke their oaths. He broke his oath to fight the Wildlings. It was justice."
Lyaella could only stare, her complexion pale and eyes impossibly wide. He organized this just because of that? Just because he disagreed with Jon's choice to save the Free Folk? They murdered her future father just because of that?!
As for Ollie, a mix of emotions were crossing over his face. It seemed… surreal for him. Sadness at the death of his mentor, shock that he was the one to kill him, guilt for that fact… but his wet eyes and sad frown were soon replaced with gritted teeth and narrowed brows. Contempt. Pride. Anger. His hands clenched into shaking fists, an ugly growl escaping his throat. "That's what you get!" he snarled, kicking Jon's corpse. "Fucking Wildling lover!" Another kick, abusing the body. "You die a traitor's death for betraying us!" With that he spit on Jon.
Watching it all, wincing at every kick Ollie delivered upon her father — it felt to Lyaella just like all the abuse she'd ever suffered. All the friends she'd lost or the taunts she'd endured… the torture the maester gave her or the coldness and lies she received from her aunts and uncle. And now, in the depths of her greatest despair at the loss of the only family she had left, the pain and sorrow began to morph, to change.
Where once was the meekest form of sadness, now there was anger. Now there was rage. Now there was fire and blood.
Snarling something akin to a beast, Lyaella's movements were so unexpected that she managed to slip from Thorne's grasp. Still shrieking as Sonar would when attacking, she leapt on top of Ollie, knocking him to the ground. "Murderer!" She screeched, her fist slamming into his jaw. Ollie yelped, but Lyaella didn't hear it. She struck him again before yanking at his hair. "You monster! Traitor!" Spending time with Munda had rubbed off on her.
"G-Get off!" Ollie weakly begged, but he was too busy trying to defend himself to forcibly shove her off. Blindsided as he was, the efforts were half-hearted and unable to beat back Lyaella's ferocity.
"How dare you! How dare you!" she screamed, hailing him with punches and scratches. Clawing down his face with her nails. A word bubbling from something as yet unexpressed deep in her soul. "Burn! Burn! BURN!"
The dragon had awoken.
Strong hands suddenly grabbed her arms, dragging her off of Ollie. Thorne. "That's fucking enough!" He bellowed. "Have you gone mad, Princess?" The others were simply gaping at her… or at the body of their former Lord Commander. Seemed that only Thorne and Ollie truly felt content with what they had done.
But Lyaella refused to heel. She kept thrashing and snapping her jaws at anyone that looked at her, and Thorne was forced to keep her elevated a few inches off the ground just to ensure his firm grasp on her. "Mad?! He's the mad one! Turning against the one person that gave meaning to his life! That showed him kindness!"
"Shut up!" Ollie sneered back, nursing his wounds — her fists had bruised his cheek and blackened his right eye, and her nails left deep, bloody lines across his face. "You know nothing of betrayal and treason!"
"Know nothing?!" Fire filled her eyes, her rage shooting through the roof. "You're a fool! I know everything!"
"Not so loud, Princess," Thorne hissed, mindful of how the girl's screams were echoing across the grounds. Someone would clearly see…
Lyaella lashed out, kicking back into Thorne's shin and making him grunt in pain. His grip slackened enough to force him to put her down again, but Lyaella hardly noticed. Her attention was fixated on Ollie. "You're a liar! A naive liar! I've dealt with that all my life! I've dealt with an aunt with no soul! Who butchered four dozen people in one night and felt nothing but pride! You're just like her, a monster with no soul! And know what?! She killed in cold vengeance for the first time when she was ten-and-three! Only a year younger than you!"
Ollie moved to strike her but Thorne pushed him away. "That's enough!" He looked down at Lya, who was still glaring hatefully. "Princess, we are your humble servants. We can secure your release to Daenerys Targaryen in Essos once we defeat the Wildlings. Just give us your commands and we will obey."
Silent for a moment, Lyaella's eyes burned red hot even if her voice was low. "I command each and every one of you to go jump off the edge of the Wall." It caused Thorne to stagger back, and for an instant the little silver-haired girl felt smug.
"Ser!" Bowen Marsh was trembling, his eyes flicking about nervously as candles began to light. "We gotta go!" He and the others, even the bruised Ollie, began to run for the keep.
Thorne turned back to Lyaella before his disappointed frown hardened into a resolved glower. "If you think I'm leaving you to the tender mercies of these Usurper's dogs, then you have another thing coming." He advanced on her, and Lyaella's newfound courage wavered, backing away a few paces in fear. "Boys, give me a hand with her!"
Othel Yarwyck heard and moved to assist him, but Lyaella's instincts kicked into high gear. "No!" she screamed the way she heard her Aunt Sansa scream when beset by nightmares. In a fury, she lashed out in any way possible. Punching, kicking, clawing… even chomping her teeth down on Thorne's palm when he tried to cover her mouth. "Let me go! Help me! Someone, help me!"
Thankfully, by now there were many of the Night's Watchmen and Baratheon bannermen streaming down the steps. Roused from their beds or books or dice games by the shouts and screams. Davos among them. "What in seven hells?" He strode forth decisively. "Ser Alliser, put the girl down!"
"Fuck you, Seaworth," hissed Thorne. "This has no concern for you."
"Help me, Ser Davos!" Lyaella begged, still thrashing about. "They killed fa… Jon! They killed the Lord Commander! Help me!"
"Bloody hells… the Lord Commander's dead!" another called out, Lyaella sure it was Edd, Jon's friend. But most were too sleepy or too confused to understand what was going on.
Thorne, smartly, began to bark orders. "We're under infiltration! Secure the gates and the walls! Hurry…!"
Suddenly, out of the white snowbanks leapt Lyaella's furry savior. "Ghost!" The direwolf growled menacingly at those assaulting his master's daughter. Yarwyck, falling in the snow, managed to scramble away, while it took a lunge from Ghost to get Thorne to back off. Lyaella darted behind the direwolf, glaring hatefully at Thorne and the rangers that reflexively moved to protect him, shouting about a mad wolf.
Eddison drew his blade. "The fucks killed the Lord Commander." Others, ones that were of Jon's faction and that voted for him in the election, drew their swords and axes, which led Thorne's men to do the same.
"Ser Davos?!" It was Shireen, calling from the balcony. The little doe's cheeks were still red and puffy from all her crying, but her hair was completely flyaway and wild as she hurriedly tied the wrap of a dressing robe on over her wool nightgown. All the screaming had woken her up apparently from whatever little sleep she'd just managed to achieve whilst grieving for her parents. Rubbing her eyes to shake away her tiredness, the Baratheon princess soon went white when she finally absorbed the horrifying scene before her. Lady Melisandre was right behind her, she too wide-eyed and utterly speechless at the lifeless body of Jon Snow bleeding out in the snow banks.
"Get the Usurper!" bellowed Thorne.
"Don't fucking touch her!" Davos drew his short sword, leading the rest of the Baratheon remnant to do the same.
As everyone simply stood there, feinting and lunging on occasion but not making a proper move to attack, a shriek from the top of the Wall brought many to the reality that a dragon was present. Some broke… followed by others. Lyaella was grabbed by Davos, being dragged away with Ghost in tow. "Jon! His body…"
"We got it!" Edd called out, going to Davos. "They outnumber us."
"The Wildlings," Davos countered. "They can help."
"They better." Edd dashed for the gate as Lyaella was led to her father's solar, guarded by loyal Black Brothers and the Baratheon troops. Not to mention Ghost and Sōnar.
"Lya!" She was immediately pulled into a hug by Shireen. "Thank the gods you're alright! What's going on?!" The Princess looked fearful and confused, gazing between Davos and the rest of her father's men. "What happened to the Lord Commander?!"
"Mutiny," grumbled Davos, gripping a sword as some of the Night's Watchmen loyal to Jon carefully set his lifeless body down on the nearby table and began barring the door shut.
"They… They killed him… Jon's dead!" Lyaella gasped, collapsing into her friend's arms and continuing to weep.
If there were gods, they certainly had a sense of irony. Once, a weak girl with nothing but a name — abused by her pathetic brother desperate to uproot them from their plight — she had been here. Brutalized and left a prisoner in a Dothraki tent.
Now, here she was again. Instead of a powerless Khaleesi, Daenerys was a Queen deprived of all that could project her power. No armies. No dragons. No treasure. Effectively, she was back where she started only with the knowledge of what she almost had achieved. Quite a bitter pill for a twenty-nameday-old girl to swallow as she sat there, knees pulled against her chest.
But a faint groan proved such a despondent premise wrong. The bitter memories were not all she possessed that were different from her earlier captivity. There was something else, or rather someone else.
Gingerly, Daenerys arose from her brooding to crawl towards where Torrhen rested. Sleeping peacefully though his expression was one of stress and worry. An expression shared by Daenerys, given what she had seen. Another one of his illness moments, that one the worst yet. Granted, she had never seen his life prior to the aftermath of his saving Barristan — she felt quite guilty at that, even if she hadn't done anything wrong — but something told Dany that this was beyond what such moments of the shaking sickness normally entailed.
He has Northern blood… and they always were said to have magic beyond that of most. As one with the blood of dragons. Daenerys understood that better than anyone and wouldn't judge Torrhen for it.
They were family. They needed to stick together. He's been without me for too long.
When he started shifting a bit, a moan leaving his lips, Dany thought he was getting up. "Torrhen… are you alright?" she stroked his hair, worried for him. For the last of her family aside from his sister somewhere faraway. "Torrhen?"
Shifting some more, suddenly Torrhen groaned and his eyes began to flutter. Dany tensed at the thought of him suddenly blacking out and thrashing wildly again, but then his eyes opened. "Ugh… my head hurts…"
Smiling, relieved, Daenerys reached for her water gourd — one of the few things their captors allowed them. "Here, drink a little." Torrhen's face was scrunched up in pain, but he took a small gulp. "You had me worried, sweetling," she murmured, stroking his hair. Now that she knew he was what he said he was, the innate comforting instincts of a mother came easily to her. Likely she'd have to pull back, but Daenerys greedily took what she could get. "You collapsed again, and your shaking was quite bad this time."
"Shaking?" Torrhen groaned again, slowly sitting up. Only then noticing her hands where they were. While she expected some kind of outburst or even him inching away from her, when he sighed and rested against her shoulder. Seeking comfort. Daenerys had no other choice but to grant it… they were all each other had and he was still only a boy. "No, it wasn't that. I… I had the greensight."
"Greensight? As Ser Jorah spoke of?" Torrhen nodded. "Was it something that upset you?" Her dragon dreams, they were often confusing and melancholy affairs, ones she couldn't parse or didn't wish to parse either.
But Torrhen shook his head. "No." He was subdued — almost seeming quiet and gentle. The real boy underneath all that pain. Slowly, Daenerys was beginning to see the true Torrhen and she was liking what she saw. "It was my old friend… Rickon. I've seen him in greensight before, he's in the North."
"Rickon does sound like a Northern name. Do you think it important?"
"I…" Suddenly he grew cagey again and Daenerys fought a sigh. What secrets are you keeping, Torrhen? It seemed that this little boy had many of them. "I don't know. I only know his name and what he looks like." Steadying himself, Torrhen looked around, as if he finally noticed where they were. "What is this place?" He went to his hip, only for his eyes to widen. "Where is my sword?!"
"Torrhen, calm down…" Daenerys didn't want to force him to shush, but given the situation… "We were captured by the Dothraki. They… took your sword." The sword that saved her life…
Realization dawned on him. "Oh… Oh seven hells." He plopped down, nursing his headache with his hands while scowling. "That's just perfect, both captured with nothing in the midst of a camp of savages!"
Daenerys frowned. "Torrhen, do not call them savages."
"What else do you call a horde of murderous plunderers?!"
He had her there… somewhat. "Still, they are worthy of respect…" She had grown to respect their battle prowess and loyalty while their Khaleesi, at least the loyalty of some. They follow strength. I am strong now. "We are their prisoners, so we need to be mindful of that."
Close to seething, Torrhen eventually calmed. "Alright." He kicked at the dirt floor. "This is shit. It wasn't supposed to happen… none of it was."
"Reality isn't all what you hope it to be, I'm afraid."
"Trust me, I'm well aware of that fact, your grace. I'm living proof of it, after all," he said, and the undercurrents of chronic emotional agony underneath the words made Dany want to cry.
He truly has been hurt. Even by me. While she had reasons, both good and craven, her disbelief of his blood had contributed to his anger and bitterness. He can't be better unless I do better. "Torrhen, thank you."
He looked at her. "Thank you? For what?" Torrhen actually looked confused.
"For saving my life." Daenerys blushed, embarrassed and quite upset with herself. "It was very brave, Torrhen. You acted like a true knight."
On his part, Torrhen looked away. "It was nothing. You're my queen and… family, I guess. I did what I had to do."
Ever so modest. Did he ever gain any praise as a child, for anything? In honesty it reminded Daenerys of herself, how she acted due to being consistently put down and verbally harangued by Viserys over something or other. She supposed at that moment she could relate to him better than she thought. "No, do not doubt yourself or your good deeds, Torrhen… it is I that should think lesser of myself for that incident."
Torrhen looked up at her, upset. "No, don't think that way. You're… you're a Queen worth serving. Granted, you should be a bit smarter in some of your choices, but you're a good person."
Such was more touching to her than any gift of gold or silver — criticize her decisions that he did, Torrhen… he was always loyal. Never faltering in his desire to fight for her in whatever way possible. I shouldn't have doubted him. He acted exactly as she always imagined Rhaego doing. "I don't deserve your loyalty, Torrhen. I thought for the briefest of moments… that you were going to kill me for some slight."
He was even more confused. "What? Why?" A scowl. "Did Daario convince you of that? Everyone says you're… 'very close' whatever that means."
She groaned and shook her head, not needing this right now. "No, he didn't convince me." Dany avoided his last comment. "I… I just always…" Gods, why was this so hard for her to speak. "You were right earlier, about me not wanting to get close to you until I was sure you were of Targaryen blood. But I wanted you to be, gods, I did. Just…" She hung her head — unable to tell him about Rhaego. Not yet.
"You wanted to be sure. You didn't know whom you could trust." His words were far wiser than his years — just as they said of bastards in Westeros, they grew up quickly. Exiles too, like her. Torrhen, wearing a gentle expression so unlike him, hugged her. "I'm sorry too, and I'd save you again, even if it cost me my life."
Dany hugged him back. "As your Queen, I forbid you from giving up your life, even for me." She pulled back and cupped his cheek. "We Targaryens are too important to waste our lives."
"But I'm not a Targaryen. I'm a Snow."
Hurt at that — mostly for Torrhen's sake — Dany chucked his chin. "You still have my blood, and that's all that matters." He looked away, seeming as if something were on the tip of his tongue…
Suddenly, the tent flap was thrown open. "You, bitch and boy. Get up!" The guttural shout of a Dothraki warrior was followed by rough hands yanking her up. She winced at the pain of the grip but quickly found her feet.
Within seconds, Torrhen threw himself at the bloodrider, clawing at the arm that grasped her. "You don't touch her!" A slap rang out, causing Dany to gasp.
"Torrhen!" He was on the ground, handprint on his cheek. "Don't hurt him, please. He's just a boy."
The rider stared at her with angry eyes. "He shuts up, we don't touch him. Make your son shut up if you don't want me to strike him." Son? Gods, Dany wished that were so. She'd be proud to call Torrhen her son. Thinking that, she didn't notice the other warriors approaching till they were binding her hands in front of her. "Both of you to see the Khal. Now."
Torrhen was writhing and hissing still. "Torrhen, please just do as they say." He glared, but grudgingly aceded. I don't like it either, but survival is our only goal at this point.
The light of the outside hurt her eyes, making her blink. She heard the warriors laugh as they mounted their horses — Dothraki never changed. "Are they really going to make us walk alongside their horses?" The ropes were tied to their saddles, forcing them forward after the riders.
"That's how they carry prisoners," Dany remarked. "Be lucky you're not naked."
"Ugh, they do that?"
"Aye. Once an assassin sent after me was killed that way."
Torrhen seemed to think for a moment. "He got away easy." She smiled at his change of tune, but now he looked scared. "You speak Dothraki. Are they going to kill us?"
Realizing he didn't speak Dothraki, Daenerys sighed. "They're taking us to the current Khal. The one that took over after Drogo, my former husband, died."
"Aren't you a Queen to them, then? They should respect you. Tell them to set us free, please."
She shook her head. "I don't know what happens exactly, but they won't listen to me. The Dothraki only respect strength and my dragons and armies are not here." Seeing his dejection, Dany tried to reassure him. "They are greedy if anything. Missandei, Hizdahr, and Barristan would pay a large ransom for you and I."
He was silent for a moment. "The masters would pay a large ransom as well."
Daenerys' breath hitched. She hadn't considered that, but was suddenly smacked by a whip. "Faster!" barked the rider, only to chuckle at her disgusted look and Torrhen's hateful glare.
"I'm gonna kill you!" Torrhen shouted.
"Shhh," Dany warned.
"But he…"
"Shh, I want to hear what they are saying." Now understanding her logic, Torrhen scowled but kept silent, allowing her to hear.
"Think that's her brat?"
"Nah, she can't be more than eight and ten, and he looks like ten. Probably her brother."
"Good, virgin pussy is better than one with a whelp already wrecking it." They both laughed. "Moro's gonna like the white hair, so he'll get her first. Maybe he'll let me have a turn with her." She wanted to claw his eyes out, but just gave a silent stare.
"Why would you want this one? She's an idiot."
"You don't have to be smart to get fucked in the ass… actually's better that way." More laughter. Dany was lucky Torrhen didn't understand Dothraki. She didn't know if he knew about the world of sex and similar adult matters, but if Daario drove him to the point of screaming at the top of his lungs, there was no doubt the Dothraki crudity would incite him to violence — even if he didn't fully understand the context of what was being said. She wouldn't be able to restrain him with those words.
Finally, they reached a raised tent where a thick-set man — not nearly as imposing as Drogo and clearly a wannabe — sat, eating an apple. On one side were two bloodriders and on the other were two Dothraki beauties. Dark sultry… and eyeing her with hate. "Here you are, my Khal. A beautiful woman and her brat. She speaks Dothraki, but he doesn't."
"Hmmm, a girl who speaks Dothraki? Lysene pleasure slave, perhaps? They cater to many," chuckled one of the bloodriders.
One of the women, likely the Khal's wives, hissed. "She's probably a witch. Cut her throat."
"Give the brat to the slave markets of Volantis. A brothel can have him," remarked another.
"You will not touch him," Daenerys shouted in perfect Dothraki. "Do so and you will burn."
"Insolent…"
"Enough." All stilled when Khal Moro spoke. He rose, peering at her. "I know you… you are Daenerys, wife of Drogo."
Eyes went wide. "She's the dragon he married?" One of the bloodriders snorted. "Fuck… I remember that wedding. Nabbed two wives for myself."
"I killed three men. Good times," laughed the other.
"I told you she was a witch," began one of the women.
"Silence, before I rip out your tongue." Moro approached Daenerys. "Drogo was sick, last time the Khalasar was with him from what I heard. Is he still alive?"
Daenerys took a deep breath. "No, he was killed by an actual witch. I burned his body."
"Oh… I did not know. Drogo was a strong man… he will be missed." Crocodile tears, but a strong warrior was respected. "You will be under my protection till we get back to the Eternal City… as for the brat." Moro eyed Torrhen. "He seems harmless. He'll stay with you until we decide what to finally do."
Letting out a breath she didn't know she held, Daenerys thanked the gods she didn't know if she believed existed. They had cheated death, if only for a little while.
Gesturing wildly with his hands, Davos guided two of the Baratheon men to further barricade the door. "Get that nailed in!"
"It's not gonna stop em' if they want to get through," mentioned the leader of them.
"Even so, it'll slow them down til' Tollett gets back."
"Oh, what's the fucking point?" One of the Black Brothers put his head in his hands. "Edd's probably dead right now."
Shireen, hands clasped together nervously, nevertheless was insisting to be in the center of things. "The Wildlings won't kill him."
"How do you know, girl?" he spat. "They've been killin' us for thousands of years!"
"And Jon Snow saved them!" She wasn't backing down. "They'll come to save him!"
"Jon Snow is dead!"
A fist cracked into his face. "Quiet!" Davos bellowed. "Not in front of her." Pointing to the girl alone in the old bedchamber of the Lord Commander. "Have some fucking compassion."
Catatonic, curled into herself, Lyaella was surrounded in a protective cocoon of Ghost's white fur and Sonar's white scales. Both shrouded her, a balm in any manner they could — each on some level knew what she was truly grieving and did their best to provide her some sort of love. It was to no avail, though she did seek it out. Hugging Ghost close as he was the last thing that she had of her father.
My father… Nothing could help her now. Not with her father's body laying under a shroud at the head of the chamber.
Jon's former quarters were barely big enough to hold Sonar and the Baratheon men, the remains of the mighty army Stannis sailed north were at the van, joined with the remaining loyalists of the Night's Watch — protecting Lyaella, Shireen, Gilly, Sam, and Little Sam and Lady Melisandre, the only civilians left. It was clear they would be needed to fight if Thorne attacked, for the barricade was very crude, consisting mainly of unused furniture being propped up against the splintering remains of the doorframe. It was unavoidable, Sōnar's growing form having accidentally caused minor destruction to the doorway with the sheer size of her body when trying to squeeze in, rushing after Lyaella and Jon's body in the chaotic aftermath of Jon's death.
Nothing could drag Lyaella from thinking of Jon. Of how she failed. Why did you send me, Lady Kinvara? We weren't ready, and now my father is dead. Her history book said nothing of this… did she read it wrong? No, she read it cover to cover. Even though Torrhen had been more interested in Jon's history while she was fascinated by their mother's tales, she knew she would have definitely remembered this if it had been in the chronicles. He was alive… he lived to father us… Could this have been her doing? Did she cause her own father's death?
It was she that wished to have died instead of her father.
"Lyaella?" A quick look up found Shireen, but Lyaella's stare was still far off, not budging a bit. "Eddison Tollett is going to find the Wildlings. Tormund in particular. He'll bring back help." Still Lyaella didn't say anything — it was worse with her than even with Sam, who routinely went between sobbing and just sitting quietly. Sighing, Shireen sat next to Lyaella, wrapping an arm around her. Neither Sonar nor Ghost made a move to stop her which was a relief. "Please, don't do this. Talk to me."
"What… what do you want me to say," Lyaella murmured. "I feel… like I want to die." It was worse than any attack of the wheezes.
"I know you were close to Jon, but would he want you to be like this?" She shook her head Shireen didn't know what to say and was still in grief herself, but just as she had to pull herself up Lyaella needed to as well. "No, he'd want you to be happy you were alive."
Suddenly, Lyaella snapped out of her funk. Bursting into tears, she held Ghost tighter and weeped into his fur. "No, it's not the same!" Her voice was still low, but no one was listening. Everyone crowded in Jon's solar while she and Shireen were alone in his bedchamber. "I lost Aemon, and now I lost the last member of my family!" She rose, shaking as she paced the room, wailing and pulling at her hair to a scared Shireen and despondent Ghost and Sonar. "This is my fault! I… I should've read that stupid history book closer — there was obviously a sign that this was gonna happen to my father but in the name of the gods… In the name of the gods, I didn't see it! I was supposed to change things and now look! He's dead!" She collapsed again, still sobbing. "Torrhen will never meet our father now…"
A still silence was broken by the voice of her friend. "What… your father…?"
Lyaella looked up to see Shireen was staring at her with wide eyes. Lyaella blinked, noticing Ghost with his front paws shielding his face and Sonar trying to curl up into a roll, whining occasionally. Realizing it, she gasped. "Did… did I say that out loud… oh gods…" She was torn between just sobbing again or banging her head against the wall. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
"Lyaella, Lya, stop!" Shireen was soon pinning her hands down, staring into her eyes or at least trying to. "Look at me. Look at me please."
"Just… just forget what I said. I'm in grief and I'm saying things like a mad Targaryen…" Please just forget… please… She could trust Aemon but could she trust Shireen with this, the niece of the Usurper who killed her grandfather?
But Shireen's grasp was firm. "Just tell me, I'm confused about everything." She smiled softly. "I'm your friend, you can trust me. After all, we're orphans together now, and as the only two smart girls amongst countless adults who think they know better simply because no one pays attention to children" — that got a snort from Lya — "we need to stick together and trust each other since no one else here will ever trust us."
Blinking through her tears, Lyaella pondered what Shireen was saying. Aemon, he was her family and the wisest man she ever knew. He would never betray her or Jon — Shireen was a Baratheon, but was but a child like her. Children could be cruel but Shireen was nothing but kind to her, a sort of kindness Lyaella could recognize as genuine. Bastards do grow up quicker than trueborns.
I don't understand how, but somehow I saved Shireen from what was certainly her death at the hands of the Boltons that killed her father. History was changed, and the once Princess now had pretty much little ability to press forward any sort of claim to the Throne. Granted, she still did have a claim, but even so… she didn't seem like the type of person who wanted the throne in the first place.
They were both orphans, in every sense of the word. Shireen had a point, and not only that but Maester Aemon did indeed advise her to find another trustworthy ally for herself to entrust with the truth of who she is once he's gone. Lyaella quickly made a decision. "Shireen, I need you to lock the door." While Shireen did that, Lyaella grabbed some bedding and began stuffing it against the cracks and block the cracks in it with the bed blankets to muffle their words. "Look," she told a surprised Shireen. "I need you to swear to absolute secrecy. I would do it in front of a weirwood if I could."
"Lyaella, what's this about…" From the insistence in Lya's face, Shireen shut up. "Alright, I promise."
Sighing, Lyaella took a deep breath — still wheezy from her grief. "Jon Snow… he's my father. My mother is Daenerys Targaryen." Best to start with that...
Unlike with Aemon, she held back one bit of information — that of Jon's true birth. One tiny bit to keep close to her chest, something she didn't want anyone to know… not unless she and Torrhen were absolutely sure. But with the rest she just spilled it all out. The future, Kinvara, the fate of the world, her birth…
She had to admit, Shireen took it pretty well. "I think I'm going to throw up…" Shireen rose, twirling her hair nervously. "You're really from the future?"
Biting her lip, Lyaella nodded. "I know it's hard to believe…"
"An army of dead things is hard to believe… this is tame compared to that and the former is actually real." Shireen ran a hand down her face. "I'm inclined to believe you since no one would imagine this from whole cloth, not even in a dream, but I still can't wrap my head around it. Why didn't you tell your father?"
"Don't you think I wanted to?!" Lya whimpered. "He was my father and I loved him. I wanted more than anything to tell him… but his destiny is, or was too vital. I couldn't just spring this on him and force a change to his path so drastically. Kinvara said he had to make his destiny for himself."
"You told me."
"I can trust you, I could trust Maester Aemon — I hope Torrhen found someone he could trust wherever he is. But I told you of the deception in my time. How my aunts and uncle conspired with my mother's enemies to destroy them both."
"Yeah, you told me that too." Shireen hugged her, herself tearing up. "We both lost fathers."
"At least yours knew you and loved you."
"Jon loved you, I'm sure of it." They just stood there, holding each other as friends.
A loud rapping on the door drew both of their attention, reminding Lyaella that she and Shireen weren't truly alone. That they were already playing with fire given that Thorne waited outside with an entire garrison of the Night's Watch. Gingerly, they opened the door and wandered outside, Ghost and Sonar following. "Open up, Ser Davos," the aforementioned First Ranger called out. "This is pointless. Open the door so the men inside can join their brothers in peace."
"Nothin's pointless with a Princess and a Lord Commander to defend," Lyaella heard Davos shout back. She couldn't help but give a tiny smile. Now as then, the Onion Knight was ever loyal.
"Give it up, in the name of the gods." Another rapping on the door. "He's dead and so is Stannis. Your cause is hopeless and no blood should be shed between brothers in black… nor their guests." He actually sounded sincere, but Lyaella wasn't going to believe him for a second. "If you're worried about your men and your Princess, I'll let you go to your ships at Eastwatch, sail wherever you wish. I'll even let the wolf north of the Wall, where it belongs. Just open up and hand over the true Princess."
"You will do nothing of the sort, Ser Davos!" demanded Shireen, quickly slipping from friend mode into… something that seemed unsuited to her nature. Command. Lyaella… she appreciated it. Who knows what you will be now, Shireen…
Pursing his lips, Davos walked back into the chamber — resting in front of the table that held her father's corpse. "How many men do you think he has on us?"
A black brother shrugged. "Dozens. Probably ten men-at-arms and more archers and crossbowman just waiting for us. Thorne isn't stupid."
Sighing, Davos looked at Shireen and Lyaella, both huddled near Ghost. "You sure about this, Princess?" Looking at Lyaella, both as a cousin and as one Princess to another — Lyaella would have to remind everyone later that she was definitely not royalty, but for now there were more pressing issues at hand — Shireen nodded. "Lady Lyaella?"
Eyes closed, when they opened she locked them with Ser Davos. Just as how she remembered them, they were filled with concern and care, though not the same affection. Just as well, he doesn't know who I truly am, nor had the relationship he did with my father yet. Even still, his presence was a balm over her shattered heart. "Just kill Thorne… and Ollie. Neither deserves to live for what they did." Her voice was even, eerie in how little emotion there was. Shireen stared at her with worry.
Davos merely nodded. "Boys, I ain't much of a fighter." He drew his sword. "Apologies for what you're about to see." The loyal brothers and Baratheon guards drew their own blades or maces, ready to fight.
And then a loud bang resounded against the reinforced door. Everyone flinched, from the toughest veteran to poor Lyaella. Bang! Ghost growled. Bang! Sōnar shrieked. Bang! Swords pointed at the door. Bang! The wood cracked and a hole was seen…
BANG!
That wasn't Thorne — no, it was bigger. Louder. Lyaella blinked as the scuffing of wood was heard outside, Thorne and the others departing from in front of their door. "The fuck…" murmured one of the Baratheon men.
Shireen, shaking, pointed to the door. "Go see what's outside."
"Princess," Davos warned. "It could be a trick…"
Suddenly there was a loud crash, followed by a bellow that Lyaella recognized instantly. "The Giant! Wun Wun!" Joined by the battle cry of what had to be dozens of wildlings, that caused Davos and the others to cautiously fan out of the room… though Shireen tried to stop her, Lyaella followed, Ghost and Sōnar hot on their heels.
"Fight, you cowards!" she heard Thorne yell. There was a tense standoff, archers pointing at each other while all men held swords at the ready.
Tormund was at the front of the van, joined by Edd. "Put down all your weapons," announced Edd. "There is no need for any more bloodshed than has already been spilt."
The thwack of a drawstring filled the silence. Grunting, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun feld the crossbow bolt hit his back. The Night's Watchman — perched in one of the battlements — started shaking in terror at Wun Wun.
In what would've horrified Lyaella even a day before, Wun Wun grabbed the screaming watchman and smashed him against the wall before tossing the broken corpse onto the courtyard. Now, the sight only made her jump from the suddenness of it all, then frown grimly.
That seemed to do it, for every watchman aside from Thorne and Ollie tossed their weapons onto the ground one by one.
"You traitor!" Thorne snarled at Edd.
"The only traitors here," Edd replied icily, "Are the ones that drove their knives in their Lord Commander's heart."
Tormund in his face, axe clutched in his hand, Thorne refused to give an inch of ground. "The Night's Watch spent millennia defending Castle Black against the Wildlings!"
"Aye," deadpanned Tormund. "Until you." A loud cry shrieked in the air. Ollie, knife in hand, charged at Tormund — only for the Wildling leader to punch him in the stomach and toss him to some of his men, who restrained him.
"Get them to the dungeons," ordered Edd.
Thorne resisted. "Princess, this was all for you!" he begged her.
Lyaella turned to him, incredulous. Then she slowly shook her head. "Me…? You didn't do this for me. You did this because you hated Jon. If it really was for me, you'd have stopped the second I begged you to."
"No, I swear! This was—!"
"Do what you want with him, Tormund. I don't care. I really don't…" The ginger-headed Wildling nodded before motioning for the men to cart Thorne and the other conspirators off.
"Lya!" Through the milling crowd, Lyaella could see Munda rush to her. Soon she was enveloped in a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're alright."
While she was happy to see her friend again, Lyaella glanced back towards the chamber where her father's corpse resided. Her eyes quickly refilled with tears. "No… I'm not…"
She meant every word.