Elphaba818:
I know it was another slight delay to get this chapter posted, but at least the delay this time was somewhat shorter than usual. I've been eager to get this chapter done for the longest time, as this is one of the chapters I've been excited to write since the earliest brainstorming days of this story in general! I'm very pleased with how it turned out, and Longclaw is such an awesome co-writer for helping me to work out the overall plot holes for the general idea on how to make the key moments of the BIG SCENE in this chapter work in a way that makes sense. Thank you once again for being the world's best co-writer, Longclaw! Howl of the Dragonwolves wouldn't be nearly as awesome as it is without your support! ;D
Sadly, Longclaw doesn't have any author notes of his own to provide for this chapter, but he still wishes all of you well and hopes you like the chapter!
Enjoy the chapter, everybody! And be sure to leave a nice review when you're done!
Happy Reading!
- Elphaba818
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Sound of Thunder
At some point, Jorah just gave up on trying to map his way through the sacred city of the Dothraki.
Some parts remained the same since he had served here as a mercenary and later as sworn sword to Daenerys. The few permanent buildings, the merchant quarter — few merchants were daring enough to actually trade in the center of the horde — all were familiar. And yet, in a nomadic lifestyle that constantly packed up and moved all over Essos, a series of tents wouldn't exist in moons, then completely reappear in a completely different manner moons later.
Jorah should've realized it, but in his zeal to find Torrhen it had slipped his mind and he was paying the consequences. Yet another twist and turn left him basically blind. Lost in a sea of tents.
And yet he had a savior. "Can you smell his scent?" he whispered harshly, looking at the black wolf sniffing the air. Shadow let out a whimper and trotted around a corner, Jorah following him.
The wolf was like no dog Jorah knew — as a Northman, he grew up hearing stories about the legendary Kings of Winter that bonded with direwolves the way Targaryens did with their dragons. It didn't shock him that Torrhen, with both the blood of the dragon and blood of the first men, shared such a bond with the beast. Shadow knew where he was, and Jorah followed. Daario and Barristan had probably found Daenerys by now…
A great commotion began to echo to Jorah's left. People burst out of the once sleepy tents, bursting past Jorah. "It's her!" one yelled. "The Khaleesi has returned!"
He grew pale. This could be very good… or disastrous. With Shadow on Torrhen's tail, he rushed to catch a glimpse of what was going on.
The throng of people hurried towards the center of the great tent city. Men, women, and children alike. Jorah, draping a cloak over himself, hurried to the top of a hill. Climbing atop a wagon, granting him a vantage point in which he could see the great display around the central meeting hall of the Khals. The same place where Khal Drogo had killed Prince Viserys. Where Daenerys had eaten the heart of a stallion.
What he saw would never leave him, just as his Khaleesi emerging with three dragons from the flames never left his memory.
Outside of the meeting hall the crowd gathered — the massive throng of people coalescing around it in a tight ring. A great inferno had consumed the place in which raiding campaigns of a dozen khalasars were debated and coordinated, the fate of tens of thousands decided. The flames towered high into the darkness, red-orange light illuminating the city in an eerie glow.
Had the building been occupied? If so, all were surely dead…
And yet… Moments later, a form whom the flames left merely a dark shadow stepped out from the flames. The doorway collapsed in front, but it merely stepped over the debris, revealing a female form.
Jorah smirked at the sight of it. Slapping his knee with his good hand at the greatness of it. "I knew you'd triumph, Khaleesi."
Daenerys Targaryen in the flesh. The unburnt walked, her skin blemish-free and silver-hair reflecting the orange inferno behind her, before the entire khalasar. She stood, naked, before the great horde with no fear. No trepidation at the fact that she had just killed all their leaders. And the khalasar simply stared. Not a sound made, even from the children, frozen in awe.
A sudden black shape passed low overhead, shriek causing the crowd to flinch as if one. Slamming down into the flaming carcass of the meeting hall, Drogon reared his head. Wreathed in fire, he roared again behind Daenerys, the Queen once again unaffected and standing taller than could be possible. Small though she was, she towered over all as if a goddess of Old Valyria.
The outcome was never in doubt. As if commanded, worshiping strength rather than some misguided loyalty to men clearly dead, all the Dothraki fell to their faces in submission.
Jorah had never felt prouder. Daenerys was a true Khalessi once more.
A loud bark drew his attention. It was Shadow, pawing at the wagon. "Boy, what is it?" The direwolf gestured with its head, pointing off into the distance. From his perch atop the wagon he could see beyond the tents and huts to where the Dothraki kept their mounts. Bloodriders kept their main steeds with themselves, but the remounts and tribute horses were corralled in a single place, and there…
"Torrhen!" he shouted, but to no avail. "Go, boy!" Shadow needed no prompting, bounding towards his bonded companion. "Someone! Help! The Khaleesi's son is in peril!" He called out. Few listened, overawed by Daenerys and her dragon. "The horses! They stampede!" That drew the needed assistance as several warriors and riders swiveled around and saw what Jorah did. The clouds of dust, the neighing cries.
While the dragon's roars were deafening, so too were the stampeding of hundreds of horses.
Thump, tha-thump. Thump, tha-thump. Thump, tha-thump.
"This is it… I've got it, finally!" He reached for his quill and rushed to scribble the notes down on the parchment. "Finally… Finally it's right!"
"Oi, Andal! Shut it!"
"Stop banging that drum! We're tired!"
"Bang it again, and I'll use your head as a drum!"
Torrhen absently waved off his crèche-mates without looking back. He didn't dare look away from his work right now. If he did, his musical muse would be lost. "Five minutes. I'll be done in five minutes."
A furious growl reached his ears. "You say that ages ago!" Karro snapped. "You being sick no reason to keep us awake all night!"
Torrhen merely hummed, furrowing his brows as he contemplated how to adjust the next part in his future mother's song. "Aye, right…"
"You bang that thing all day long! We train all day, now we want sleep!"
"Aye, right…"
"Tomorrow you ride again! You well enough to bang drum, you well enough to train!"
"Aye, right…"
"We tired of your antics, Andal! You no— Oi! You no listening to me?!"
"Aye, right…"
Something small and firm suddenly struck him in the back of the head. Torrhen whipped around. Lying on the ground beside his bed of furs was a Dothraki sandal, and Karro was standing by his own bed on the opposite side of the hut with his hands on his hips and only wearing one shoe. The other boys expressions were mixed as they gazed back and forth between them. Some were shooting Torrhen irritated glares, but the majority were gazing uncertainly at Karro, clearly uncomfortable.
Torrhen shot Karro a bland look. It was funny, really. Not even a week ago if this had happened, Torrhen knew he would have been immediately enraged and would have screamed profanities as he got up in Karro's face. But after a week of drinking the special Dothraki herbal remedy and his overall time in Vaes Dothrak? It was all too easy to simply roll his eyes, swipe up the shoe, and toss it absently over his shoulder in Karro's direction before turning back to his sheet music.
By the gods, he felt better than he had in years. The only better feeling was being hugged by his future mother.
Seeing his tormentor grow more and more infuriated, he was willing to be generous. "Fine, fine. I'll stop it with the drum." Still, he smirked slyly, unable to help himself. "Just fuck off, aye?"
Karro fumed. "Fuck you, Andal!"
When Torrhen first arrived the boys enjoyed ragging on him, but by now it had gotten old. They just found it exhausting. "Karro, enough already."
"He agreed to stop banging the drum. Let it go."
"We'll deal with him tomorrow in the training ring. Just go to sleep."
Karro was not one to simply let it be — or respect his determination like some of them. "No way! We let the khaleesi deserter's boy do whatever he wants now, and soon he'll be forcing all his Andal ideas on us! He needs to learn his place!"
Torrhen rolled his eyes as he heard the other boys murmur uneasily. Karro was an arrogant shithead, but if his behavior was similar in any way to his own when he first arrived in the past, then perhaps his and his future mother's kidnap by the Dothraki was a good thing in the long run. If they hadn't been taken prisoner, he never would have started taking the herbal remedy to deal with his fire flickers. And the side effect of the medicine definitely made it easier for him to stay calm.
In any event, Karro and the others — most of the others wanting to leave him be anyway — didn't deserve his attention right now. Not when he'd finally found his musical muse for finishing the scores for both Lyaella's and his future mother's songs. The Dothraki drums were the missing link to getting the rhythm right, the part he couldn't make work when first composing the rough drafts back in Meereen. Now that the accompaniment instrument had been tweaked, the remaining parts of both songs were all but writing themselves.
Dipping his quill, Torrhen scribbled down a few eighth notes… only to immediately pause, biting his lip in contemplation. Then he sighed, glancing back at the drum longingly. He really wished he could whack these notes out loud one last time, just to hear how they'd sound in comparison to the previous few measures. Still, as annoying as Karro and the others were, Torrhen knew better than to keep testing them when they were already pissed like this.
"Argh! If only you were here right now, Uncle Rickon! I could use your invisible-ness to get away with musically testing this!" He grumbled. It'd make it so much easier if his friend could greensee himself visiting right now. If he was invisible and banged the drum, the other boys couldn't get mad at him. They wouldn't know what was banging it.
Still, the memory of his future uncle's unexpected visit the other day made Torrhen pause and set down his quill. Time was running out for Rickon Stark. His future uncle had always been an afterthought in the stories he and Lyaella read. He'd been so young when he died no one really thought about him beyond mentioning his death at the upcoming Battle of the Bastards. But Rickon was a good person. Given time, Torrhen was sure his uncle could learn to be a better Lord of Winterfell than his bitch of an aunt.
Rickon needed to survive if there was to be any hope at all in changing history for the better… but to change his fate, he needed to use the Sight to get back to the North to save him.
Torrhen huffed at the thought and ran his fingers through his dark curls. "How in seven hells am I supposed to do this?" A few of the other boys turned to him quizzically, but he hardly noticed their stares. "You visited me by visualizing yourself standing next to me, Uncle Rickon? Then if I do the same, I'll find myself next to you in the Winterfell kennels?"
"Oi! Shut up, Andal!"
"Is the reason why I keep doing it accidentally because I'm not in the North right now?"
"Andal, you no hear me?! Quiet!"
"Do you need to be near a weirwood tree? Or is because of my fire flickers that I'm always—?"
"Argh, that's it! You no shut up, Andal?! I make you shut up!"
The ferocity of Karro's words finally brought Torrhen back to reality. He whipped around in time to see the older boy storming his way across the hut, his eyes black with rage. Torrhen immediately hopped to his feet ready to defend himself, but for once, Karro didn't even look at him. No, instead the Dothraki boy snatched up the pages of his sheet music and darted outside.
"Hey, give those back!" Torrhen yelled, right on his heels. And to his surprise, the other boys in the crèche followed them too, only they were on his side for once.
"Karro, stop!"
"He wasn't even banging the drum this time, Karro! Let it go!"
But Karro ignored them as he led Torrhen and the others past the other dark huts towards the herds of horses grazing out in the Great Grass Sea. Placed in a designated grazing area just outside of the city itself, all the horses were set free to range for the night, some sleeping peacefully while others wandered aimlessly amongst the tall grasses and rocky ledges.
An eternity seemed to pass as the crèche leader led Torrhen and the others through the herd, until Karro finally stopped beside a particularly large pile of fresh manure. It was only then he turned to face Torrhen and the other boys, and Torrhen couldn't help but scowl at the cheeky grin on Karro's face as he held up his music sheets mockingly.
"Give me one good reason why I no throw papers in horse dung? You no shut up since using them."
Torrhen snarled. "Try it and you'll be spitting teeth, that's why!"
The other boys nodded anxiously.
"Give them back, Karro."
"We no be out here after dark. We go back!"
"We all get in trouble! Let's go!"
Karro waved away their concerns without a second glance. He was focused solely on Torrhen and Torrhen alone. His dark eyes twinkled nastily as he let the night breeze ruffle through the pages.
"Tell you what, Andal. I give these back no fuss… if you go for ride."
Torrhen blinked. "Ride? You want me to ride one of these horses?"
"No, no. Not these horses. You ride one of them."
He jerked his head sharply off to the side, and Torrhen and the other boys turned. At the edge of the herd were a few of newer horses the Dothraki had captured and brought to Vaes Dothrak. Still rather wild, none of the bloodriders had broken them in yet and none of the boys had been allowed near them. Let alone try riding them.
He didn't even have a saddle.
"Karro, no!"
"Those horses are still wild! They'll kill him!"
"I don't care how much you hate him, Karro! This is too dangerous!"
Torrhen pressed his lips together as the others continued babbling their protests. Truth be told, he didn't like this idea anymore than they did, but he needed his sheet music back…
And part of him, deep down, rose up for the challenge.
"How far should I go?" He demanded.
Karro's cocky smirk morphed into a puzzled frown and the others stopped their rambling to stare at him in confusion.
"You want me to ride one, right? So how far should I go?" He clarified, folding his arms. "How far should I go until you're satisfied and you give me back my music sheets?"
Confusion turned to horror in the other boys. Karro blinked, baffled. He clearly hadn't expected him to agree to this challenge — none of them did. Looking about himself a bit, he soon pointed to a large boulder some ways off in the middle of the plain. "Ride wild horse out there. Around it and back."
Torrhen huffed. "Fine. And when I get back, you give me my music and promise to leave me alone. I'm sick and tired of your bullshit."
The older boy swelled furiously, but before he could do anything Torrhen turned and jogged across the plain towards the group of wild horses. Approaching the first one he saw, Torrhen made sure to circle around it slowly so the horse saw his approach before daring to move closer to its side. The stallion nickered in annoyance as he patted its neck, but as soon as he tried lifting himself up, it shifted about to stop him and he fell back down. Karro chuckled darkly, as did a few of the other boys despite their misgivings. Torrhen scowled, but kept his mouth shut as he tried again, swinging his leg over its back.
The horse seemed rather agitated by his actions and shuffled around unpleasantly, but Torrhen had grown accustomed to riding bareback by now and managed to stay on. "Easy! Easy there! Don't get mad at me, alright? We just gotta take a little ride, 'kay?" He talked to the stallion as he did to Shadow — they didn't have a bond as he did with his direwolf , but his mother was the first dragon rider in over a century. Riding was in his blood. "Around that boulder and back again. Do that for me and I promise you'll never have to—"
A booming roar suddenly shook the earth. Every horse in the field neighed in terror as a black shadow blocked out the moon, flitting across the sky and growing larger as it swiftly descended towards the center of the city.
Drogon.
Karro and the others yelped in alarm, but Torrhen didn't get the chance to adjust. His horse had already been on edge, but the black shadow spooked it beyond reason. The stallion whinnied in alarm, rearing back as it promptly bucked him off. Torrhen screamed as he flew through the air, landing rather painfully in the dirt a few feet away. Even so, he promptly scrambled back to avoid being stepped on as the horse went feral from fear. Not just it, but many horses were just as spooked. They too started kicking up a storm of dirt and dust as they sped away from the danger… which in turn startled the other tamer horses into fleeing the shadowy threat entirely.
Stampede. Drogon had inadvertently scared all the Dothraki horses into descending into a terrified stampede.
And Torrhen and the other crèche boys were caught smack in the middle of it.
"Seven fucking hells! Run!" Torrhen screamed, grabbing one rather frozen comrade and dragging him away.
Karro and others didn't need to be told twice. Shouting out their own terror they bolted after Torrhen without question.
It was a nightmare. They ran blindly through the field as thousands upon thousands of horses — the Dothraki riders kept half a dozen remounts for battle — roared across the plains. Too gripped by terror and instinct to calm.
"Jadat she, jadat she! Lanat!"
Dirt and grass kicked up in his face as he scrambled after the others. His lungs heaved, but he didn't dare slow down. If he did, he'd be trampled for sure. They all would, actually. If they wanted to live, they had to run.
Still, not all of them had the same instincts about survival as he did. He turned his head at the whistle of an arrow, only to go wide-eyed in shock.
One of the boys, with a bow and quiver, had the stupid idea to stop running and instead stand his ground to shakily fire arrows at the horses to stop them. "E-Elat! Disse elat! A-Anha…" The boy whimpered, his hands shaking as he struggled to nock another arrow.
Torrhen couldn't understand the crazed speech, but it didn't matter. He might be the stupider twin between himself and Lyaella, but he wasn't half as dumb as this idiot.
"Goddammit! Come on, dolt!" He screamed. Lurching away from the others, he doubled back six steps, seized the idiot boy by the elbow, and promptly dragged him the way he came. The boy dropped the bow, and behind there was an audible crunch of wood intermingled by angry hooves, but Torrhen didn't dare look back again. He was sure if he saw just how close the horses were on their heels, he'd freeze up just like that boy had and let his fear engulf him.
Karro stared at him dumbly as he and the other boy managed to catch up to the others. Why he was staring like that, Torrhen didn't know, but he had no time to ponder it. Instead he whipped his head around in every direction as he searched for temporary safety for all of them. Finally his eyes locked onto a large boulder some ways off to the right.
"There! Over there! Get on the rock!"
The other boys quickly obliged. Pushing themselves to run even faster, they bolted to the rocks and scrambled to climb. It wasn't much, but at the very least it was big enough for all of them and would force the horses to run around it rather than try jumping.
Torrhen's hands struggled to find a good groove to grasp onto as he launched himself at the boulder. His hands were coated with sweat and every time he found a crevice and started hauling himself up, his fingers would slip and he'd skid back down. He swallowed, his heart beating wildly. The thunderous roar of hooves were practically on top of them—
A hand whipped out from on top of the boulder and latched onto his wrist. Several others followed. With their help, Torrhen managed to climb up just in the nick of time before the horde was upon them.
Falling to all fours, Torrhen groaned as he panted and gasped for breath. Karro and the others were no better, too exhausted from the mad sprint. The yelling in Dothraki, the murmuring in Dothraki… it felt familiar somehow. But how? As much as he hated his Stark relatives, he and Lyaella had led a sheltered life in Winterfell. He'd certainly never been stuck in the middle of a raging stampede like this before. So why did all this feel so familiar to him…?
Wiping his sweaty curls out of his eyes, Torrhen racked his brains for the answer. Then he jolted, his eyes going wide. "That day in the throne room… My fire flicker!"
Now he remembered. That day in the Great Pyramid when the queen tried to banish Ser Jorah all over again. He got that splitting headache before fire flicking with accidental greensight. It was only for a few seconds, but he definitely remembered living through that exact moment of the current disaster before returning to reality in Meereen. The Sight had allowed him to foresee what was going to happen to him in the future!
Could he use this? Or would it make him like King Bran? Only time could tell, but Torrhen felt apprehension fill him.
A harsh shove to his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. "Oi, Andal… I dunno what you're rambling about… but stuff it!" Karro wheezed, doing his best to paint his usual sneer on his face to hide his obvious terror. "We gotta figure out how we're gonna get outta here!"
The other boys hastily nodded.
"What're we gonna do?!"
"We can't stay here forever!"
"The slaves in charge of the herd tonight should've tolled the alarm already!"
Those words made everyone freeze, Torrhen included. The boy who'd shouted that was right. While the herd was allowed to graze freely each night, there was still generally a handful of slaves that the Dothraki kept around to keep an eye on them, to ward off rustlers or the like. Something as obvious as a raging stampede should have immediately been reported.
"Look, over there! The meeting hall!"
Another boy pointed sharply back to Vaes Dothrak. In the heart of the city, a raging inferno blazed rapidly in the darkness like a dying star, and the great black shadow that was Drogon circled through the air above the burning hut before finally landing behind the carnage and sitting almost proudly. Gathered around the crackling flames were the vast majority of the city.
Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. "No one's realized what's happened…" Torrhen murmured, his throat thick. "The queen's taken all the khalasars for herself… They're watching her… No one's noticed the herd…"
Karro and others froze in horror. He was right, and they all knew it. Gods, why had his future mother chosen tonight of all nights to enact her plan?! Why in seven hells hadn't she warned him she'd be doing this tonight?! He would've just let Karro keep his stupid sheet music had he realized that this moment from A Song of Ice and Fire would be happening tonight!
No help would be coming for them. Not with all the Dothraki distracted by the rise of their one true khaleesi. They were on their own.
"Fuck… Just fuck…" Karro whimpered, his eyes bulging as he stared in disbelief at the endless sea of raging stallions. He plopped down on the boulder, arrogance melted from him. "We're all fucked…"
Torrhen scowled as he saw the others nod hopelessly, and he promptly shoved Karro's shoulder. "Don't talk like that, asshole! You're the damn crèche leader! You want everyone to give up, huh?!"
"What you want me to say, Andal boy? You have idea?"
"No, but—!"
A loud howl suddenly broke through night over the thunder of hoof beats. And not just any howl. A direwolf's howl.
Karro and the others jumped, but Torrhen slowly smiled. Only one direwolf had ever left Westeros and ended up on this side of the Narrow Sea. His direwolf.
"Shadow?!" He yelled, scrambling to his feet on top the rock. Karro and the others all shouted and reached to drag him back down, but he whacked away their hands. If his direwolf brother was out there, he had to be able to signal him for help. "Shadow, where are you?!"
Soon another lone howl cut through the din. Only this time, it sounded closer than the first one. Much, much closer. Almost as if his direwolf was—
A sudden bark resounded from somewhere off to the right, and just as Torrhen and the others whipped around a massive black beast leapt forth from the stampeding herd. Landing directly in front of their rock, it just barely stayed out of danger from the galloping horses as they sped past. Karro and the boys screamed and scrambled back in alarm, but Torrhen felt no fear. No, instead he gasped with relief as he darted forward and flung his arms around its black, furry neck.
"Shadow!" He cried. "It's — It's you! You found me!"
Shadow whimpered happily as he nuzzled Torrhen's neck. His direwolf had grown considerably during his absence and was nearly as tall as the rock they were on. His black fur was matted and tangled with grasses and leaves from the long trek across the Great Grass Sea, but it didn't matter. Shadow was his direwolf brother. He'd come all this way from Meereen in search of him, and their bond had told him he was in danger. He'd come to save him.
Karro suddenly grabbed at his trousers. "Oi, Andal! What — What that thing?! You know beast?!"
Giving his pal one last scratch behind the ears, Torrhen turned. "Aye. This is Shadow, my direwolf. We got separated when Queen Daenerys and I fled Meereen. He's here to help!"
The other crèche boys blinked and looked over at his lifelong friend curiously, but Karro just stared up at him, baffled.
"Help…? How beast help? Look! We stuck here!"
The others quickly nodded.
"He's right, Andal."
"We no climb down! Horses trample us!"
"What can one beast do?"
Torrhen frowned, but he couldn't hold their hesitance against them. If it were anyone else who'd found them right now he'd be just as reluctant as they were. But this was Shadow. His direwolf brother. Moreover, he was bigger and stronger now than he had been since he'd last seen him…
…big enough to fulfill one of his personal lifelong dreams!
A wordless laugh escaped him as the idea took root. Karro's and their fellow crèche-mates eyes all boggled at his unexplainable elation, but Torrhen ignored them to focus back on Shadow. "Hey, bud. You came all the way out here to help me out, right?"
Shadow panted and licked his palm.
"You don't mind helping my Dothraki crèche-mates too, right?"
He blinked his red eyes.
"D'you think you're strong enough to get us out of here, boy? Two at a time, anyway?"
Shadow swiped his tongue across his nose before nuzzling against him one last time and moving to stand parallel against their boulder.
Torrhen whooped for joy. "Good boy, Shadow! Good boy!"
Karro poked him. "Andal, what you talking about?"
He pushed his dark curls out of his eyes and glanced down at the others. "We're gonna ride Shadow two at a time."
A cacophony of shouting erupted as the other boys voiced their alarm and protests. They yelled so loudly and all at once that between them and all the noise from the horses thundering past Torrhen couldn't understand them, but he raised his hands for silence.
"I know it's risky, but look around! The herd's not gonna stop anytime soon, and no one in the city knows what's happened! We gotta get outta here or we're all dead!"
No one argued. He was right and they knew it. Still, they couldn't help but gaze nervously at Shadow.
Torrhen sighed. "He's tame, I swear. We don't have time for this. If you all wanna live, you'll do as I say and climb on! Now!"
There was a brief pause, but finally the boy archer whom Torrhen had saved from his own stupidity crawled closer. He gulped, hesitant, but then slowly swung his leg over Shadow's back. Shadow shook his head back and forth from the new weight, but he didn't object. His compliance put the others more at ease, and another boy bravely climbed on behind the first.
Two at a time they went, Shadow nothing more than a black blur in the horde as he zigzagged with his riders to the safety of the edge of the city. Sure enough as soon as the first duo climbed down, they sprinted towards the flames of the burning meeting hall without a second look back. Torrhen and the others kept their hopes up that they brought back help, but in the meantime, they had to keep trying to save themselves. Sure enough, Shadow soon returned to carry the next set of riders back to safety. And then again and again.
There were lots of boys in the crèche and despite Shadow's speed it was still a fair distance. It took a long time for the direwolf to carry them all across the plain, and by the time the first two boys came dashing back to the fields with what looked like the entirety of the Dothraki population at their heels, Shadow had finally made it back to the rock to carry the last two still in trouble — Torrhen and Karro.
A middle-aged man definitely not of Dothraki descent began shouting things over his shoulder at other Dothraki. Wait, was that Ser Jorah? They were quite some ways off and the wall of raging horses blocking him made it difficult to see, but the one clear glimpse Torrhen saw made him pretty sure it was the Northern knight. Thank the gods!
Dozens of warriors were dashing across the field to mount any straggling horse they could find, Ser Jorah amongst them, doing their best to calm the herd. The women of Vaes Dothrak flocked around the boys trembling in shock near the huts to check them for injuries, but it was clear the riders would have a tough time of it. The horses were too spooked and the herd too vast.
Torrhen bit his lip as he watched the adults struggle. "Looks like we're gonna have to ride Shadow off this rock after all. Come on!"
Karro gaped as he knelt down and swung his legs around Shadow's middle. "Are you mad?! The adults are here! We should wait for them to reach us!"
Torrhen gave him a bland look, then swept his arm out at the chaos. "Look around! It's gonna take them ages to get to us! If we wait here, we could be killed at any second, but if we go on Shadow, we can meet them halfway and get outta here sooner!"
Swallowing thickly, Karro nodded and unwillingly climbed on behind him. Torrhen couldn't help but roll his eyes at his reluctance. For all his bravado before, the Dothraki crèche leader really knew nothing about danger in real life.
Ignoring his co-rider, Torrhen sank his fingers into the black fur around Shadow's neck and clicked his tongue. "All right, boy! Let's get outta here!"
Shadow let out a hearty growl, then sprang forth into the frenzy.
Karro yelped and instinctively grasped onto Torrhen as they hurdled forth. Dirt and dust kicked up in their faces, and all the noise from pounding hoof beats drummed directly in their ears as the direwolf raced between horses. But Torrhen hardly noticed any of it. He couldn't help but lean in closer to Shadow's neck, hugging him tighter. Ever since Anōgar's egg had been destroyed, Torrhen had known he'd never be a true dragon rider. He'd flown with his future mother atop Drogon when escaping Meereen and Lyaella would gladly let him borrow Sōnar when she was bigger, but neither was the same as riding with a true bond.
Shadow might not be a dragon, but he was a direwolf. His direwolf. Having lost his chance to be a real dragon rider, Torrhen had dreamed of this moment for years. The day when Shadow would finally be big enough for him to ride.
The day he made history for being the first Targaryen-born direwolf-rider.
A choked laugh escaped him as they whipped past a handful of stallions, and he tipped his head back and whooped for joy.
Karro whacked his shoulder. "What you—?!"
"Woo!" Torrhen shouted, his smile splitting his face. "We're doing it Shadow! We're finally riding! You and me!" He punched his fist in the air. "Together!"
Shadow didn't break his stride, but his ears perked up happily and he let out a mighty howl.
Vaguely, Torrhen was aware that Karro was sputtering something about him needing to shut up and concentrate, but Torrhen didn't want to think about of that. He wanted this to himself. One moment to enjoy this. This first ride atop Shadow… to always remember this moment of pure freedom…
A high-pitched whinny suddenly cut through the air, followed swiftly by a firm thump, a loud groan, and angry snorting as hooves thundered. "Vo! Vo, nakho!"
Torrhen snapped back to reality and whipped around. It appeared one bloodrider had attempted to mount one of these last handful of outlying running horses, but it'd been too distraught to let him. Having bucked off the warrior, the stallion had changed its course entirely and was now galloping in the opposite direction from the man… directly at them.
Screams erupted from the onlookers. Every bloodrider along with Ser Jorah immediately galloped towards the mad stallion. But it was too close. None would reach them in time.
Karro choked in terror, but Torrhen's mind raced, his fear only getting the better of him for one second before he remembered his Dothraki hunting training. Grasping onto Shadow's neck more firmly, he leaned forward and kicked his heels into the wolfs' sides. "Shadow, run as fast as you can at an angle! Karro, give me your arakh!"
Karro jerked as Shadow growled and altered his course. "Wha—?"
"Don't ask questions! Just give me your fucking arakh and hold on tight!"
The other boy seemed confused, but he fumbled for the curved blade at his hip with one hand and tightened his grasp on Torrhen's animal skinned tunic with the other. The raging horse was only twenty yards away now.
"H-Here!" Karro cried, his hand shaking as he passed it forward.
Fifteen yards…
Torrhen reached behind him, grasping onto the handle.
Ten yards…
He tightened his grip on the blade, holding it at the ready.
Five yards…
He sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
Galloping hooves echoed directly in his ears, followed by an enraged whinny.
Torrhen didn't let himself think. He just swung his arm.
A shower of burning hot liquid rained down on him as dozens of screams filled the air. The scream of the horse. Karro's scream. The screams of the onlookers. The screams of Ser Jorah and the approaching bloodriders. But none held a candle to the one scream that truly mattered to Torrhen Snow. His future mother's scream.
"Torrhen!"
Still, Torrhen didn't dare open his eyes. He wasn't sure he could endure finding her face in the crowd and see the horror and disgust on her face for how he'd just murdered this terror-struck animal. It was an act of self-defense, yes… but this wasn't the same as killing an animal for food. The horse had just been scared and not thinking straight. This felt wrong.
Underneath him, he heard Shadow whine and even felt him crouch down so he and Karro could slide off, but he still kept his eyes shut and didn't move. He felt Karro slide off though, and the Dothraki boy could barely speak beyond wordless babble.
"Great Stallion… You, Andal — You — You just — You—"
"First Man."
Although his eyes were still closed, he somehow sensed that Karro had blinked at him judging by his momentary confused pause. "Wha—?"
"I told you before," he croaked, barely processing his words. He wasn't sure how he was even talking right now. "I'm not of Andal descent. I'm First Man. Get it right… And give me my sheet music. Now."
Another pause, then Torrhen heard a fumble of fabric followed by the rustle of parchment. He steeled himself with a deep breath, and then slowly opened his eyes.
The body of the dead horse was sprawled out across the grass before him like a mangled marionette. Blood oozed out from the slice across his throat, forming a deep puddle on the ground. Karro stood next to the body and stared up at him with wide eyes as he held out the music scores. Splatters of blood coated his face, arms, and clothes, but he wasn't nearly as blood soaked as Torrhen was. Hot, sticky red liquid covered him from head to toe. Even Shadow was drenched.
It took all of Torrhen's willpower to force back his own horror and be strong. Swallowing thickly, he slowly lowered his arm and climbed down. Passing the arakh back to Karro, he wiped his hand clean, drew a deep breath, and forced a firm glare at the other boy as he took back his music sheets and tucked them away into his tunic.
"This stops now," he growled. "I don't have time to deal with your bullshit. You ever pull a stunt like this again, I won't save your ass. Got it?!" Shadow growled menacingly to emphasize his point, hackles rising.
Karro flinched, his eyes darting between him and his direwolf brother as he hastily nodded. "U-Understood! I… I-I-I stop!"
"Good."
"Torrhen! Torrhen, are you all right?!"
The boys turned. Ser Jorah and the other bloodriders were slowing their galloping horses to gentler cantors as they approached, and right on their heels was none other than his future mother, wearing a cloak of animal furs. Ser Barristan and Daario Naharis were right behind her as the rest of Vaes Dothrak watched them.
Even so, Ser Jorah and the other bloodriders reached them first. The bloodriders examined Karro for injuries as Ser Jorah did the same with him, but even so their attention seemed to be focused more on him rather than on Karro. Torrhen didn't get the chance to linger on this though, not when Daenerys finally made it to his side and nearly tripped over the body of the dead horse as she hugged him tightly.
"Torrhen! Gods…! You — You just…! What's going on?! Why are you out here to begin with?! What happened?!"
He tensed. He wasn't a liar and refused to make up a stupid excuse just to get Karro of all people out of trouble, but he wasn't a snitch either. "We… Well… We were—"
"It's my fault, silver khaleesi. I dragged him out here," Karro suddenly said. All eyes snapped to him. "Him and the other crèche boys."
Torrhen blinked. So did the other boys in the crèche caught in the crowd.
"I provoked him. I stole his papers. I'm sorry. I accept any punishment my khal decides on."
His future mother stared at Karro incredulously for several moments, then all at once her queenly mask returned. "The khal of your khalasar died not even ten minutes ago. He and every other khal in Vaes Dothrak were burned alive in the meeting hall for the crime of planning my rape and murder." Her face didn't change one inch, but a fire blazed intensely in her violet eyes. "I remember you from the other day. Karro, was it?" Karro gulped and nodded. "I don't tolerate cruelty towards the innocent. Especially not when it involves Torrhen here, my heir to the Iron Throne."
Torrhen stiffened.
"You claim you accept any punishment your khal decides upon? I am your khaleesi now. The khaleesi of all Dothraki, and I think the most appropriate punishment for such an arrogant boy who thinks cruelty is a game is to have you learn firsthand how such behavior is not acceptable. Ser Barristan?" She paused, glancing over her shoulder at him and Ser Jorah. "I know you already have Torrhen as your squire, but I've heard in Westeros that sometimes knights take on two squires. Would you be willing to take another in your service? Or perhaps you, Ser Jorah? I know you're a Northerner and knights are rare in the North, but perhaps you could take on a squire of your own?"
Karro stared in horror as Daenerys prattled back and forth with the two knights and turned helplessly towards his crèche teachers for support. The bloodriders in charge of training the crèche boys only shook their heads, their faces stone cold. It didn't matter that Daenerys was everyone's khaleesi now. Even if she wasn't, the bloodriders clearly agreed that he'd crossed the line.
Torrhen hardly absorbed any of this, though. His mind was racing from one key aspect of what his future mother had said. Had she decided to make him her heir for when she finally conquered the Seven Kingdoms? All because she knew for sure now that he was indeed of Targaryen descent?
He swallowed and turned to pat Shadow. So many emotions were coursing through him thanks to revelation, too many to name.
Because his mother couldn't do that. She just couldn't.
"Reminds me a bit of home."
Beside Jon, Sansa shook her head. "Too small for home," she remarked in a bit of distaste as she looked around the great hall they waited in. "At least Bear Island had some aesthetic pleasure, and mother gave Winterfell some home comforts."
Jon shrugged. "Lady Stark did enjoy decorating." Catelyn Stark was not his favorite person, but for Sansa's sake he would be respectful — she did love her children, something he could never dispute. "Beyond the Northern austerity, at least." Many Northmen thought the idea of decoration being a lit hearth, several house banners suspended from the ceiling, and a table filled with plates of hearty meats, soups, breads, and ale. Jon was of that nature, but even now Sansa was a Southerner at heart. A Northwoman in a Southern glove. "Did the Boltons practice austerity?"
She stared ahead. "Their idea of decorations did not sit well with me."
Gods, that was a stupid question. "Indeed." He'd heard rumors growing up of Roose Bolton using the skin of his enemies to decorate his solar. Ramsay was altogether worse. "Think the Dustins and Ryswells will back us?"
"As I recall," Davos spoke, standing to Jon's right while Sansa was on his left. "Lord Ryswell's other daughter was Roose Bolton's first wife, and mother to his trueborn son. Both of whom died suspiciously before the War of the Five Kings started."
"Aye, was quite the tale… 'til father was wounded by the Kingslayer."
"Ramsay killed them," Sansa spoke lowly. "I know he did."
"Then why are we worried?"
Sansa looked at them. "There's more to worry about…"
Suddenly the doors opened behind the raised table, stilling all conversation. First out was a guard in Dustin colors — crossed halberds over yellow — and he banged the aforementioned halberd on the stone floor. "Lady Barbary Dustin and Lord Rodrik Ryswell."
So the Ryswell banners I saw outside weren't a fluke. Jon was heartened at the ability to sway two respected houses at once — saved him the hassle of going to the Rills after Barrowtown — if it wasn't for the sour scowl on Lady Barbary's face.
"Jon Snow," she began as she sat upon her chair, her father joining right beside her to her left. "I don't think I've ever seen you before."
He pursed his lips. "I was able to blend in very well as a lad." Since Lady Catelyn always had me elsewhere whenever guests arrived. He wouldn't say that in front of Sansa though, nor would it be worth a damn.
Lady Barbary snorted, but nodded. She was an older, handsome woman. Brown hair tied back in a widow's knot and slender frame marred only by a few wrinkles. It gave her a… severe air. "You look much like your uncle, Lord Brandon. A little bit of your aunt as well." Jon blinked. He'd often been compared to his father, but never his dead aunt and uncle — Ned Stark would occasionally reminisce over his late brother, but he never talked about his sister. Growing up, Lyanna Stark's death had always been a tragic subject in Winterfell. "They had what he called, the 'wolfsblood' your father lacked. Lady Sansa though, you look much like your mother."
Sansa curtseyed. "Thank you, my lady."
Her scowl deepened. "That wasn't a compliment," she said, leaning back against the back of her chair. "So, you're planning to kill my late goodbrother's bastard?"
"In a sense."
It was then that Rodrik Ryswell leaned forward. His bald head was covered in wrinkles and he had a stoop, but that belied a reputation as a cunning commander from the days of the Rebellion. "I've been told you have an army of Wildlings. Is that true?"
Jon and Sansa shared a look before he nodded — there was no chance they could deny it. "Five and thirty hundred Free Folk warriors." Lord Rodrik grimaced, while Lady Barbrey's thin brow arched even more than it did naturally. "And five hundred former bannermen of House Baratheon sworn to Princess Shireen, whom I have an alliance with."
"So Wildlings and Southerners," Lady Barbary said haughtily. "Not exactly a collection of allies that would benefit the North. I expected more from your father's son."
"Forgive me, Lady Dustin," Sansa cut in, casting an irritated expression Jon's way. "But House Mormont, House Hornwood, House Mazin, and House Forrester have declared in our favor."
"But House Umber, House Karstark, and House Whitehill all declared for the Boltons," Lady Barbary cut in. "House Whitehill alone can muster the same strength of arms as all houses sworn to you."
"They still understand the ancestral loyalties sworn to House Stark for millennia… as did your houses. They were never part of the domains of the Red Kings, were they?" Jon tried not to show how surprised he was at how Sansa remembered their history lessons with Maester Luwin all those years before. The youthful maiden paid attention to the great love stories — Jaehaerys and Alysanne, Rhaenyra and Daemon, Florian and Jonquil — but not much else.
Lord Rodrik nodded. "You have a point there, Lady Sansa, but such oaths do not provide in the here and now, do they?" He didn't seem hostile, just… tired of it all. "I heard you spoke to Lord Manderly."
"He wishes us well and gave us food, but he's neutral." Jon was loath to admit it.
"I see." His expression was grim. "House Cerwyn?"
"Neutral."
A huff. "Was always a coward. And Glover?"
Jon looked again to Sansa, who took over. "Loyal to the Bolton's enough to not render aid in the slightest."
"So it looks like you have three weakened houses, some Southern men-at-arms, and Wildlings." This was Lady Barbrey. "To be quite honest with you, Lady Sansa, I am not impressed. You may be only five and ten hundred less than Ramsay's six thousand, but an army of undisciplined Wildlings is not one I'd commit my father and my seven hundred combined swords."
"Forgive me, Lady Barbrey." It was Davos, interjecting just as he had done at Bear Island. "If I may interject?"
She didn't look amused. "And who are you supposed to be?"
"Ser Davos of House Seaworth."
Lord Rodrick raised his bushy brow. "Not familiar with that? A Stormlands house?"
Davos shrugged. "Of a sort, Lord Rodrick." Jon suppressed a chuckle at Davos' dry wit. "Lady Sansa is very knowledgeable about the Northern houses, and from her came a tale of how Lord Roose Bolton was married to your younger daughter. Lady Bethany, I believe she told me her name was."
The Lord of the Rills' eyes watered, the old man sighing. "Bethany, aye."
"She was a lovely girl, was she not?"
"She was, Ser Davos Seaworth. Had a lovely boy too, if a bit taciturn like his father." Lord Rodrick wiped his eyes, to which his surviving daughter silently scoffed. Sentimentality wasn't working on her. "Ramsay Bolton killed her, and her boy. Is that what you're referring to?"
"I am, my Lord. Just like my sons were incinerated by the Lannisters defending King's Landing, all to support the cause of usurpers and traitors." He took a step forward. "Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are all that remain of Ned Stark's blood, true Starks. Not usurpers like Ramsay Bolton, kinslayers and rapists." Jon heard Sansa's breath hitch ever so slightly, and he reached out to squeeze her hand. She squeezed back. "We don't ask you to sacrifice your house for revenge, but when our interests align… You owe it to your daughter and grandson."
From how he exhaled, clenching his fists, it seemed like Lord Ryswell was swayed. Lady Barbrey however… "That's your argument? A bastard oathbreaker and the wife of a Southern fugitive coming to talk to me about vengeance and family honor? Where was that when your uncle, Jon Snow, seduced me and promised marriage before he was betrothed to your mother, Lady Sansa?" Lady Barbrey's eyes narrowed. "Or when the man I did marry died on your father's goose chase all over the south for Lady Lyanna? He carried her body and but left him to rot in Dornish soil. Was that honorable?"
"Daughter." It was Lord Ryswell. "You don't mean to support Bethany's killer?"
She rolled her eyes. "At this point, Father, you can support them — but I do not believe Jon Snow or Sansa Lannister," there was severe emphasis, though Jon supposed Sansa was less hurt by it than being referred to as Bolton, or Bolster as Lyaella had. "Deserve my support as much as Ramsay would."
"Do your oaths to my father, and my grandfather before him, mean nothing?" Jon asked, trying to stay calm. "Your oaths to my brother, swearing him to be King in the North, that you would recognize no other ruler of the North except one named Stark?"
"As I recall, your brother broke his oath and lost his life. Perhaps dying at Ramsay's hand will be your price for breaking your oath, Lord Commander." She folded her hands together. "You have bread and salt, but I deign do not wish for you to be in my keep for much longer. I am sure my father would…"
Before Sansa could continue to argue — Jon acknowledging they at least convinced Lord Rodrik, though the two hundred of his men paled in comparison to the double that Barbrey had — a sharp coughing echoed through the hall. "J-Jon…"
Jon turned. Stumbling into the room was a small child half doubled over with a hand pressed against their chest. For a moment, he didn't know who it was due to the hood of their gray cloak hiding their face. But after a few seconds of hoarse coughing, the child looked up. Jon blinked incredulously before rushing towards her. "Lya!"
"What is this interruption?" Lady Barbrey asked, more curious than irritated.
"Forgive me, mi'lady," replied a guard. "She was asking for Jon Snow, and she looks ill."
"Who is…?"
"She's a ward of my brother's," Sansa spoke quickly, though not even she could hide her surprise. "She suffers from the wheezes."
Jon nodded, but his focus was no longer on the current meeting. Lyaella's health took priority, but he was also confused by her cloak. It was the same one she always wore, but that hood hadn't been on it this morning. Where did it come from? And why was she gripping the edge of it with her free hand so it wouldn't slip off her head? Was she trying to hide from Lady Barbrey and Lord Rodrik due to her usual shy nature? Or was she trying to hide from him just how bad her wheezing was right now? She was certainly paler than normal.
He cupped her cheek. "Are you alright? Why didn't you stay with Shireen?"
"W-We… We ran out of t-tea…" Her breaths were shallow and sharp, lips holding just a hint of a blue tinge. "You… You have the teabags… r-ran out…"
Blinking, it then occurred to Jon — he wanted to smack himself upside the head for his stupidity. "My apologies, Lyaella." Apparently he had kept a supply in his cloak's pocket, having purchased it that morning in Barrowtown. "Lady Dustin," he said, standing up. "May we trouble you for some hot water? For tea?"
Lady Barbrey looked over them for a moment curiously. "We have tea here," she motioned to a steaming pot on the table. "Go ahead." Hard as she was, she didn't seem cruel to a sick girl.
Their maester poured a cup for them, and Jon added one of the medicinal teabags. Some moments of silence passed as Lyaella sipped it, but already color appeared in her cheeks again. Breathing returning. "Thank the gods." Jon patted her shoulder.
Lord Ryswell smiled. "You care for your ward, I see." He sighed. "Reminds me of me with both my daughters." A smile was cast Barbrey's way, and it seemed to chink her armor.
Jon smiled politely before turning back to Lyaella. "What happened to your cloak? That hood wasn't attached to it when I last saw you."
Lyaella blinked and shifted anxiously. "I… I sewed it on. Wanted to… Wanted to have a hood…"
"Why?"
"Because of… Because of my hair…" Jon stiffened, and from the corner of his eye he saw Sansa do the same while Davos eyes darted to Lord Rodrik and Lady Barbrey. Lyaella glanced over at the Northern highborns before ducking her chin, pulling her hood down more. "I hate it… and it's good for… for hiding, too…"
Lord Rodrik stared at her, puzzled. Lady Barbrey furrowed her brows.
"Step closer, child," she ordered. "I might not wish to entertain Lord Snow or Lady Sansa any longer, but I would never harm a child. You have no reason to fear me."
"She's ill, my lady. Very ill," Sansa cut in, purposefully stepping forth to shield Lyaella from view. "She needs to go rest now."
Jon nodded and quickly wrapped an arm around Lyaella's shoulders to steer her out of the great hall. While Sansa's idea back at Castle Black for dyeing Lyaella's hair worked perfectly… it had worked too well. Much, much too well. They had to get her out of here before—
"If she's ill, Lady Sansa, she should stop and recover for a moment before leaving. Especially if she'll be needing more of that tea your brother has." Gazing disdainfully at his rigid sister, Lady Barbrey turned back to Lyaella. "Come closer, child. It's all right."
Lyaella hesitated, but stepped forward. She was a bit unsteady on her feet and coughed some more, but she still managed a respectful curtsy. "Hello… Nice to… Nice to meet you, Lord… Lord Ryswell… Lady Dustin…"
Ryswell bent his head. "Nice to meet you too, little one. Your name is Lyaella, is it?"
She nodded, still very breathless. "Yes, my lord… I'm… I'm Lyaella Snow…"
"Snow, you say?" Barbrey asked, raising a brow. "You are the same as Lord Snow? You are baseborn?" Lyaella nodded again, clutching the edge of her hood tighter. "What is wrong with your hair, Lyaella Snow? Why do you feel the need to hide?"
"I… I don't like how it looks, my lady… And I'm… I'm used to hiding… I'm just used to it…"
Lady Barbrey cracked a small smile. "Well, as a woman who was once a quiet girl myself, let me give you some advice. Never be ashamed of what you are, so stop hiding and find your voice."
"My… My lady…?"
"You're not ashamed of your Snow surname. That's good, very good. But don't ever let something as silly as your appearance be the reason why you should feel ashamed. You might be speaking slowly and quietly right now because of your breathing, but I can see you're the type of child who is naturally quiet, aren't you?"
She flushed pink and didn't answer.
Lady Barbrey furrowed her brows, her smile vanishing into a fierce line. "You might be baseborn girl, but you're a baseborn girl of the North. Northern women must always, always be strong, and that goes double for anyone born out of wedlock. So never be afraid to speak your mind. Remember that, always."
Lyaella blinked and nodded. "Y-Yes, Lady Dustin… I will, I promise…"
"You will? Good. Then you won't mind lowering your hood so I can get a better look at you, will you?"
It took every bit of Jon's willpower to not stiffen. Sansa and Davos seemed to struggle too.
Lyaella flinched and bent her head. There was a long pause, but at last she let out a resigned sigh before she lowered her hood with shaky hands and met Lady Barbrey's gaze.
Immediately, Lord Ryswell sat ramrod straight and Lady Barbrey froze, her face going blank.
Were it not for how doing so would all but confirm for Lady Barbrey and Lord Ryswell their initial assumptions were correct, Jon would've run his hand over his face with a tired sigh. Thanks to the dye at Castle Black, Lyaella's silver locks were now as black as ebony. She looked like a proper Northern girl in every possible way. That was good for keeping her Targaryen lineage secret… but neither he nor Sansa had taken into account how she would look now for having dark hair along with gray eyes.
Eyes which he and Sansa shared.
An eternity seemed to pass before Ryswell cleared his throat. "I would say she's your daughter, Lord Snow, but you were born the year the Rebellion ended. You're far too young, she's too old… but you look alike."
Jon felt Lyaella stiffen, sensitive he was to her distress. "She's of the North, my lord," he said shortly.
Ryswell cocked his head. "No, she looks like a Stark… much like Lady Lyanna even, and like yourself." He pursed his lips. "Would your father, by chance, have had another child by your mother?"
"I don't know who my mother is, my lord. I would doubt it," Jon replied.
"I assure you, Lord Ryswell, she is not our sister," Sansa added, if a bit too… vociferously. Jon understood — it was one thing for young Ned Stark to have an indiscretion in the South while on campaign so short into his marriage, but it was another for him to make it a long affair. It hurt Jon to hear her imply such about Lyaella, to reject her so strongly, but he knew why.
Lyaella stepped out of Jon's hold, still rather breathless. "No… I am not their… their sister… but I care about the North… and what you're doing… Lady Dustin, is wrong."
Barbrey blinked. "I beg your pardon?" She looked annoyed.
Coughing, Lyaella stepped closer, holding her head up high. "You… You just told me to try… try speaking my mind, Lady Dustin… I… I overheard everything that was said while you met with Jon and… Lady Sansa and Ser Davos." Her voice was weak but steady, and Jon worried she was straining herself. "By not joining forces… with Jon Snow to stop Ramsay… you're allowing people like your sister… like your nephew… like yourself and myself, Lady Dustin, to suffer in the long run. That is on you."
"Forgive her, my lady," Sansa sputtered. "She's just a child, she's immature."
"I am more mature than her," Lyaella replied, nodding at Barbrey. "Not fighting Ramsay… because of petty rivalry with House Stark."
"Lyaella, you need to get some rest…" Jon insisted, only for Davos to clutch his arm softly.
"Let her speak, Lord Snow." Davos furrowed his brows, insistent. "The lady herself encouraged her to speak freely, after all. And if there's anything that woman respects, it's someone firm," he gestured with his eyes to Lady Barbrey. Against his better judgment, Jon slowly nodded.
Lyaella stepped back a bit, leaning against Jon for support — support he granted. "I saw… Barrowtown when we came, Lady Dustin. The stores, the larders, less full?" Lady Barbrey said nothing. "The North… it suffers. Winter is coming… and you threaten to starve… or at least do badly. What has Ramsay done to help?" Silence. "Nothing. He butchers people… and plays games… Lady Sansa knows and can vouch for my assertions."
Eying Lyaella with… reservation, Sansa nodded. "She's right."
"He's a monster, Lady Barbrey. Your family knows it to be true… please stand behind House Stark. Jon Snow, I know him. Yes, he helped the Free Folk, but they were hurting just as you are. He is what… the North needs." Tears pricked her eyes, and Jon simply hugged her. Feeling his heart break at seeing her cry.
Lord Ryswell was tearing up as well, while Lady Barbrey's scowl… softened. "It's… It's been a long time since I've seen anyone with such heartfelt innocence. Harkens back to a time where I was the same." She sighed. "But you're right. I still think you're a naive fool, Lord Snow, but a naive fool is better than a monster." Barbrey rose to her feet. "House Dustin's banners shall fly beside Stark."
"Thank you, my lady." Jon looked to Sansa, who smiled at him, while he felt Lyaella hug him tighter.