Chapter 4: Pantheon

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire and its adaptation, Game of Thrones.

It was said the Targaryens were closer to gods than to men.

When the Doom of Valyria came, only House Targaryen remained of the dragonlords. Secure on their citadel island of Dragonstone, the shadow of the dragon drew in. Once, Aegon the Dragon had thought to look eastward, to the lands once conquered by his people. But something else drew him to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros; a land fertile for conquest and readied for a unification no king or lord could have ever dared without the might of dragons.

As the ages passed, and Targaryen kings rose and fell upon their Iron Throne, the gods of the old pantheon, of the Fourteen Fires, drifted from memory. Only a few remained strong, their names given to great dragons of the Targaryen dynasty. Mighty of all among these gods was Balerion; all that remained of his great power was a magnificent shadow, shimmering and shifting like a cloud racing across the land. The most he could do was draw a champion of fire from the host of the dead and pour life into him once more.

His gaze turned to that champion, a failed man possessing the body of a maddened brother. Balerion felt no guilt over what he had help do, even if the others had muttered and whimpered over the choice. The child to save their creation had been born. Why should they put forward another, when a savior was already born?

Balerion was amused by how Meraxes, the most vocal against his move, had her name given to a beast taken down by a simple scorpion bolt, fired by a nameless man. He enjoyed taunting her with it, especially since the Black Dread that bore his name lived long enough to fail naturally, like any other creature.

But he knew that placing champions into the world of life would not be enough. Not when dangers beyond their knowledge, assembled long before they took in a new breath of life, were upon their doorstep. Balerion looked down upon the world, upon a city called Pentos, and placed a vivid imagine into the mind of the Targaryen male. Rhaegar, Viserys; it mattered not to a god what he called himself.

All that mattered was that he lived to see his purpose to fulfillment.

The game had begun.

Rhaegar stumbled as something not of his mind flashed, bright and brilliant as if he had beheld it with his own eyes and hands. He saw a chest, quite large but not so big as to be overtly bulky, that he knew, in his gut, contained a trio of dragon eggs. He could see them, feel their warm scales, and he even knew where they were. One of black, one of green, and one of cream, all lined with complementary colors—red and bronze and gold. He had known of them, knew they would bear life; but this? This was overt guidance. The gods wanted them to bring these dragons into the world.

"Daenerys," he said, turning to his sister. She flinched from him, too familiar with raging Viserys, abandoned Viserys. He could feel Magister Illyrio's gaze upon him, the man's words echoing in his mind. "I am not giving you to that horse lord." Rhaegar glanced at the magister, who was now scowling at him. "We are leaving with our birthright. Today."

"You cannot, Your Grace!" Illyrio shouted, shuffling around. "If the princess is not handed over, as was agreed, then Khal Drogo will sack Pentos! The other magisters will ruin me if they find out!"

Rhaegar scowled, certain the magister stood between him and the dragon eggs. "You assume any of the other magisters will survive…or that you will, Cheesemonger." He smiled slyly at the offended glower he received. "If this khal is as a dangerous as you claim, then when he sacks the city, you in particular will die."

"And you as well! We both promised him a Valyrian bride."

"No," said Rhaegar with conviction that almost shocked him. "We are dragons, Daenerys and I. The last of House Targaryen, the last dragonlords, the ones who escaped the Doom of Valyria. We will survive this, and many more trials to come. No upstart from the grass plains between the River Rhoyne and Slaver's Bay shall stop us from achieving our goal: to reclaim our birthright."

A glance at his sister revealed a strange glimmer in her lilac eyes. He hoped she believed in him, and that the damage Viserys had done was slowly being done away with. It would be many moons before she might trust him, and that would have been under the best of conditions. With the uncertainty staring them in the face, it could be years—winter, even—before Daenerys trusted him the way she should.

And it wasn't as if he could tell her the truth. She would think him truly mad, and not Rhaegar Targaryen.

He stormed forward and pushed past the Cheesemonger, ignoring the man's sudden protests. Rhaegar glanced back at the staring, astonished Daenerys; "Hurry, sister! We are leaving!"

"O—of course!" she simpered, scurrying to follow after him. She stepped around Magister Illyrio, who stared at her in a way that quickly sickened Rhaegar. How dare that upstart merchant stare at his sister so. She was a Targaryen, a dragon, the blood of Old Valyrian. She was better than anything Illyrio could deserve.

"My King—"

Rhaegar wheeled on Magister Illyrio. "Either help us and live or flee with your life. If you stand between us and those eggs, I will kill you."

The magister blinked, then nodded. Rhaegar waited until the man had vanished through a wide, opulent doorway before turning back to his sister. "Are any of your handmaidens about?"

"I… I do not know," Daenerys murmured, ducking from his gaze.

He glanced around; he knew what those girls looked like, and none were present. They had likely heard of the Dothraki and of Rhaegar's—of Viserys's—decision to not hand his sister over to their khal. It was smart of them to flee, though he would have preferred some of them remain close at hand. He tried to grasp for those odd memories that had taunted him prior to his reawakening. They were fluid, moving like water, which was doubly frustrating. House Targaryen's power had come from fire; the death of the dragons had spelled their inevitable downfall.

A downfall partially my fault, he remembered with deep bitterness. Rhaegar might not regret Lyanna and their Visenya, but he certainly regretted the damage done by their errors. Daenerys and Viserys, most of all, had suffered for his failures.

He led Daenerys down the nearest corridor until they reached a stairwell, spiraling down into the ground. Rhaegar followed it, down and down, taking a torch as they went. His sister remained close at hand, though he could tell from her soft footsteps that there was enough space between them that she could fly back up the stairs, should he suddenly turn on her with anger and violence.

Viserys, my poor brother. Forgive me for my follies, and may you find peace in the afterlife.

"Do you… Do you hear them?" Daenerys suddenly whispered. "'Awaken us. Awaken us.' Over and over, I hear them cry out." Rhaegar paused and glanced back at his sister. She stood a few steps behind him, staring with lilac eyes blown wide. The black iris was so large he could just remember what it had been like being dead.

"The dragon eggs," Rhaegar said. "They call out to us, call out to our blood." He risked a step toward her; Daenerys flinched, but did not step backward. "Remember our words: 'Fire and blood'. I think… I think that's the secret to awakening them."

Her gaze went to the torch he held, then to his face. "Where will the blood come from?"

"The Cheesemonger, or that Khal Drogo I so foolishly betrothed you to. Never will I ask a sacrifice of you, Dany." He glanced at the torch her gaze had become fixed upon. "Do not fear the flame. Dragons are fire made flesh, and we are dragons."

Rhaegar felt some of his brother's madness with that last sentence, but he more felt the strange, divine presence that had aided him in returning from death. For some reason he thought it had been Balerion, a dreadful black shadow which haunted the void, which aided his return. Mayhaps he was going mad, succumbing to the Targaryen curse.

They continued on, heading into the cellars of the magister's manse. Rhaegar had not suspected they would need to go so deep, but with how precious dragon eggs were, it made sense to store them in a secure place. Eventually they reached a point where a faint chill settled upon them; before either could begin shivering, however, dressed as they were in silks, they reached the base of the stairwell. They entered a long, plain passage of stone blocks and wooden doors. Small torches, only a few lit, were strung along on iron sconces between every other door, alternating from side to side.

"Which door, brother?" asked Daenerys.

"I don't know," Rhaegar murmured, "but I believe I shall know it when we reach it."

She nodded. It appeared by choosing to not give her away like a horse, Daenerys trusted him a bit more. Perhaps entertaining whatever she may say would go even further. He didn't know yet, and Viserys's memories were too dripping with madness and delusion to gleam anything valuable from them. Best he could tell, Daenerys still loved her brother, despite how strained their relationship had become.

They followed the hallway for some time. Rhaegar turned off twice, first taking a left, then a right. He continued down that last corridor for several paces before coming upon a door of dark wood and metal, sealed with a padlock.

"Seven hells," he muttered, glowering at it. "Of course it's locked."

"Now what?" asked Daenerys. Rhaegar glanced at his sister and frowned, seeing the despairing look upon her face. "They're here, aren't they? The dragon eggs Illyrio—"

"Ah, so you two are here," drawled a familiar voice. They turned to find the Cheesemonger, along with two of his Unsullied guards. Their spears were bloodied and their armor damaged. "I should have come here immediately, but I was waylaid by unhappy wedding guests."

"Did they follow you?"

Illyrio chuckled. "I had ten Unsullied, when I started for this floor." He glanced back at the two still with him, standing stiff and still like statues. "They are what remain."

Rhaegar knew, even if he had a sword that he couldn't defeat them both. Perhaps if there were only one he would have a chance; but between his meager skill and Viserys's lack of training, he did not trust this body to get through a fight safely. Yet the longer he stared at them, the more he saw something waver in their gazes. They had seen eight of their own, brothers in arms, cut down for a single man's dishonorable vanity; was killing two innocents worth the price those other Unsullied paid?

There was only one way to find out.

"If you two wish to live, to bring honor to your brother's sacrifice, then help me and my sister," Rhaegar said. "I can save you from the Dothraki, and free your fellows still enslaved."

It took a long, long time for the two Unsullied to make their decision. Rhaegar recognized when they did, for they leveled their spears at Illyrio Mopatis and turned to him, asking, "This one wishes to know what to do with the magister."

"He still needs to unlock this door."

The Unsullied nodded. They prodded Illyrio with their spears, enough for the fat man to take out the key and unlock the chamber. Rhaegar shoved the magister to the ground, stepped over him, and gazed upon a large chest. He opened it and grinned at the sight of dragon eggs: black and red, green and bronze, cream and gold.

"Now, for fire and blood," he whispered, before turning to face Illyrio. "Up, Cheesemonger. I'm not finished with you just yet."

Rhaegar closed the chest.

Daeron woke, flushed and sweating. He pushed his dark curls away from his forehead, which they had been stuck to. The warmth of Winterfell felt oppressive suddenly, and he turned to his room's sole window. He drew it open a half-hand, and basked in the biting chill of the North. He had dreamed of a palace, tall and brilliant, consumed by fire. He rubbed his face, and thought of the words that had accompanied the strange dream—or, as he feared, a vision.

"Answers await under the ash and misery of Summerhall."

He had almost forgotten the ruined Targaryen palace, built in the Dornish Marshes as a place to retreat from the politics of King's Landing and the history of Dragonstone. Robert Baratheon, the Usurper, the King, the man who slew his sire, had defeated three separate armies at Summerhall, and turned foes into friends. Would the king be able to look upon Daeron and see his betrothed's son? Or would he see dragonspawn, as he did with Aegon and Rhaenys?

Daeron sighed and shoved back his furs. There was no reason to fixate upon worries about the past. His vision seemed clear, even as it compelled him to go against his uncle's commands. Something tickled at the back of his mind, an idea that he could do both; and yet he was afraid of Lord Stark's disappointment. Years as his bastard had conditioned Daeron to accept a particular worldview, and being revealed as a secret Targaryen prince would not immediately undo it.

A whine drew his attention to a pair of glimmering red eyes. Ghost had snuck into his chamber during the night, and the white fur ball was already upon his feet, as silent as his namesake. It felt like a lifetime since they found the direwolf pups, yet Daeron knew it had barely been a full moon. He offered a hand to Ghost, who proceeded to sniff and lick the offering.

"Good boy, Ghost," Daeron murmured, ruffling Ghost's fur. The pup's tail wagged, just as silently as he moved and breathed. "Good boy."

Time passed, measured only in heartbeats and the slow greying of the sky beyond his window. Ghost had drawn away at some point, though the direwolf pup remained close by. Daeron breathed slowly, and with every breath his mind whispered, 'Summerhall.'

"I'm not mad," he whispered to himself. "I'm not mad. I'm not mad."

Daeron understood he was a Targaryen, but perhaps he could escape the family madness. His mother was a Stark, a family free of such troubles.

A thundering knock struck his door. Daeron flinched and Ghost scurried out of sight, hiding as he stared at the door. Given how the pup did not bear his milk teeth, Daeron suspected whoever was banging upon the door, making it rattle upon its hinges, was someone trustworthy.

He pulled on a long linen tunic before drawing open the door. Arya stood on the other side, already dressed in a thick coat with trousers and boots. A leather cap was atop her head, hiding most of her long brown hair. She had a large pack slung over her shoulders, bulging with supplies. He spotted a bedroll strapped right beside her head, and then his gaze found fervent grey eyes.

"You saw it, right?" Arya shuffled for a moment, then regained her certainty. "A vision of a burning palace. I… I don't know why, but I have the feeling we need to go there. Now. Before dawn."

Daeron nodded. He had seen the same, though the thought of going now was bitter in his mouth. He had hoped to wit, perhaps for when he and Arya were sent south to Dorne. "It was Summerhall," he said, "where my father was born."

"Summerhall," repeated Arya. "That's in the Stormlands, near the Red Mountains." She shifted the sack over her shoulder. "If we're going, then we should leave soon. Someone arrived for Father, and the Ki—I mean, the Usurper is coming north." She then squirmed and glanced around.

Daeron nodded, understanding why Arya might be worried about Robert Baratheon. He had heard enough allusions to how similar she was to his mother, Lyanna Stark. As he thought of his mother and of Summerhall, he wondered what secret might await him there.

"I'll pack what I have, then."

Lyanna was surprised how easily she had grown accustomed to thinking of herself as her brother. Eddard was easy to emulate; his strict honor made saying what he might say simple, along with predicting his choices. It didn't hurt that she had access to his memories, including those of being Lord Stark, ever since the end of the Usurper's War.

Robert's Rebellion, her brother's memories reminded her. They were intrusive at times, especially when she thought ill of Robert.

She glanced at the waiting guardsman, a fresh-faced boy who, according to Eddard's memory, was named 'Leydan'. It was an odd name by northern standards, but there had been those who came north with the Stark forces and with Lady Catelyn following the war. Perhaps she should be unsurprised one of them would come to Winterfell and become skilled or trusted enough to guard the ancient citadel of House Stark.

She rose from her cooling bed, furs tossed aside. Catelyn had retired to her own, frustrated over how the secret of Daeron's parentage had been kept from her for so long. How, Lyanna wondered, would Eddard's Southron wife reacted learning the truth not from him, but from Howland or even from the boy himself?

Lyanna sighed and drew on her boots. Leydan watched her with a slight furrow between his thick brows.

The journey through the halls and passages of Winterfell was swift. Leydan knew his way about with the same ease most of the servants displayed, getting them from his chambers to the main yard in half the time it would normally take. There was a single man awaiting them, standing as he leaned against a long, three-pronged spear. Lyanna felt her heart skip, recognizing the telltale weapon of a crannogman.

There was only one she could envision coming to Winterfell. She had planned to summon him, yet here he was.

Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch and her friend, drew back his hood as he turned to face her. He smiled and approached with silent steps.

"Howland?" asked Lyanna, hating how difficult it was to hold back her astonishment. He was about the same height as when they met at the Tourney of Harrenhal, so many years ago, yet his face was older, weathered by time and life in the Neck. Familiar green eyes stared at her, seeing the face of her brother. "I was going to send a raven upon the morrow. When did you set out for Winterfell?"

Howland smiled, a sly, almost cryptic look. "It's been a very long time, my friend. I set out when you awakened…and I had to make sure my dream had not been just that."

Her mouth went dry at that. Howland knew who she was.

Howland knew, and Lyanna had no clue how to handle this revelation.

Howland stared at his old friend, struggling even now to remember that it was Lyanna Stark, and not Eddard, within the form of the Lord Stark who stood before him. She was slow to regain a grasp of her emotions displayed so obviously upon her face. How she had deceived all of Winterfell would be quite the story, though one to be exchanged once behind doors and walls that could be secured from eavesdroppers. For now, there were a great many things he needed to explain to her.

"We should head inside," he whispered, "to your solar."

"Yes… Yes," muttered Lyanna, nodding just as Ned would. It was almost amusing, how similar they could be. "Yes, we should. Come. Follow me, old friend."

Lyanna led the way, quiet in that long, thoughtful manner every Stark Howland had ever met were capable of. Even Brandon was capable of it during those few hours when his wits weren't addled by the wolf's blood coursing through his veins. They crossed the large courtyard to a newer part of the castle, grim and grey. They passed through a small door and turned, following a staircase up two flights to the third level.

Their path to Lord Stark's solar was serpentine; were Howland from any other corner of the North, he may have gotten lost. As a crannogman, though, he was quite accustomed to following strange routes through bog and mire. To navigate stone corridors, unnaturally warm as they were, was like child's play to him.

He said nothing as they entered the solar. It was rather plain, by lordly standards, though it matched Eddard. Lyanna had wisely changed nothing, suffering most likely under the pressures to pretend to be her brother.

Once sat behind the desk, Lyanna asked with her best effort to appear confused, "When you mentioned an awakening, what were you speaking of?"

Howland smiled and answered the question, amused how her face paled with every word.

Ser Jorah Mormont grimaced as the nightly air of Pentos was filled with screams, a hand clenching around the leather-bound grip of his sword. He had grown vaguely accustomed to the odd ways of the Free Cities since fleeing his home, but what was happening now left him troubled. The knightly vows he had sworn, kneeling before Robert Baratheon, demanded he step out into the streets and defend innocent life, to defend women and children incapable of fighting whoever had breached the walls of Pentos.

He rubbed his dark, coarse beard, watching for whoever was responsible for the terrible disturbance. He had remained suited in mail and greaves, the green field and black bear of House Mormont adorning his garb.

"Our time has come, Ser Jorah."

He turned away from the barred window to his companion. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he stared at the red-robed woman, kneeling before a rippling fire. Kinvara was a serpent, and unfortunately there was no separating himself from her. She rose gracefully as the flame whipped about and suddenly went out. Chills ran down his thick arms.

She turned to face him, a thin, sly mouth smiling. Her dark eyes gleamed like coals as she stared at him, and Ser Jorah once more wondered what path she had beheld before him, and what her strange red god could offer him. She drew her robe, silk or samite or perhaps velvet for he could not tell and headed for the door beside him.

"Come along, Ser Jorah."

He followed Kinvara from the small house they had been occupying and out into the Pentoshi night. The sky was filled with stars, much as it had been on that night…

. . .

It had been a fool's errand, Ser Jorah knew, to set out by ship at night. Low tide had been hours away, closer to the dawn than to the hour of the wolf. Somewhere a bell tolled, even as Ser Jorah thought of a small roll of parchment delivered to him by an agent from across the Narrow Sea. The Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, had learned that Ser Jorah had been heading for Pentos, where apparently the last Targaryens resided. He could still remember the message, word for word, despite being in a pouch along his waist.

By order of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, a royal pardon is being offered to Ser Jorah of House Mormont, once Lord of Bear Island, in exchange for the capture or killing of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. Upon return with proof to King's Landing, pardon will be confirmed and title reconfirmed.

The offer of pardon, to regain Bear Island and his lordship, was tempting. Enough that Ser Jorah found himself staring at the docks of Pentos, preparing to cross the short distance to the city. Rumor was that the Targaryens were housed by a magister, some Cheesemonger that was even now in talks with a khalassar across the Great Grass Sea. It was a foolish measure, though not one that surprised the aging knight. Viserys would be a man of two and twenty, anxious to re-establish a dynasty that had yoked the seven kingdoms to a single throne for some three hundred years.

As he prepared the small, rickety boat he had commandeered, light footsteps approached from behind. He rose straight and turned to find a tall woman in a red robe, staring at him with dark, almost twinkling eyes.

"Ser Jorah Mormont," she began, already knowing his name. He stiffened, the hand upon his greatsword clenching tightly. "I am Kinvara. I have come on behalf of the Lord of Light to guide you away from a ruinous path."

"Ruinous," he repeated, staring at her. "What would one of the Red God's simpering fools know of ruin?"

Kinvara smiled as she took a few steps forward. He spotted slippers embroidered with tiny red jewels upon her feet. It was the kind of foolish garb Lynesse had liked during their short, ill-suited marriage. He regretted marrying that daughter of House Hightower. She brought nothing but pain and ruin upon him, despite what love and joy he found in their marriage.

"A long night approaches, Ser Jorah. One you as a son of the north know of."

He nearly scoffed. "Stories. Tales told to frighten children. The Long Night is nothing more than a myth."

"The beliefs of a man without faith." Kinvara's gaze went past him to Pentos. "The fate of the world rests upon the shoulders of House Targaryen. Why do you seek to betray their meager trust?"

"There's no trust between us," he grumbled. Ser Jorah turned back to his boat. "If that's it, then—"

"You will not find the redemption you seek, being guided by the whispers of a spider."

Ser Jorah stiffened. He had an uneasy feeling about what Kinvara met. He turned back to her, slowly drawing his greatsword. It cleared the sheath, though he held it loose and by his side. She watched him without sign of fear. Odd, for a woman like her.

"I have come to you this night, Ser Jorah, because of what I have seen in the flames. I have seen you suffer for your treason, caught between your heart and your soul. I would free you of this conflict and grant you a smoother path home to Bear Island."

For several seconds, he only stared at her. And then he sighed loudly, through large nostrils, and sheathed his weapon. "Tell me, then, what you've seen…witch."

Kinvara smiled and came before him. Dawn rose long before they finished speaking on that small, grimy pier.

. . .

Recent memories faded as a thick, putrid stench caught Ser Jorah's attention. He looked around, brows furrowed as he tried to place it. He recognized it, though many years had passed since he had smelled it possessing such intensity. Had he not known better, he may have thought he was on Pyke, fighting at the front with the faceless soldiers of the Seven Kingdoms. It had been that day and the courage he showed that earned him his knighthood; a lordship was earned by blood, and a knighthood by deed.

"Seven hells," he muttered, drawing his sword. "There had been bloodshed this night."

"Indeed," murmured Kinvara. "The Lord of Light is with us tonight, as long as we stick to the proper path." She pointed toward something in the distance, upon a small hill. "See there. Already a sign reveals itself for us."

He followed her hand, and his heart nearly stopped. A manse burned, slowly gutted by rising fires. It was a familiar one, for it was widely said on the streets of Pentos that the Targaryen children lived there.

TBC