Catelyn

It was interesting to watch the face of Jory Cassel as he stood there in the Godswood and watched his wife to be approach. She was so used to his normal expressions – quiet stoicism, quiet amusement, pugnacious patience and occasionally, when he was particularly angry, a frozen snarl. He even laughed like his uncle at times.

Today he had a new expression. Poleaxed ox, or besotted lover. And to be honest Annah looked very much the same. She could be hard-faced at times, with every reason to be given her life at times – Lysa! When had she gone so mad!? – but today there was no hardness in that face. Just tenderness, a hint of nerves, and above all love.

He was dressed in a fine doublet that his uncle had had made for him, she in a gown that Cat had personally overseen the sewing of. He had unbraided his hair, she had flowers in hers. His cloak was another gift from his uncle.

As Jory watched Annah approach him before the hearttree Cat heard a misty little sigh, and looked over to where Sansa was watching with a look of teary longing. Bless the girl, she needed to talk to her. To one side of Sansa was Arya, who looked as if she had been forcibly stuffed into her a dress and then told to smile every now and then. Frankly it looked more like a rictus than a smile, but at least the child was trying. On the other side of her was the Terrible Threesome, as Maester Luwin had taken to calling them in a rather long-suffering manner. At least Edric had some manners. She'd had to tell Bran and Robert off twice already for pulling faces.

Rickon was having a nap after running about and playing with Fleetfoot until they had both been too tired to stand. Fleetfoot. It had taken massive hints in front of her son before he had finally settled on that name. He'd started off with Shaggydog, gone on to Smellypoop, BigPaw, Ouchyfinger (after some rather rough playing had resulted in a slight nip to Rickon's thumb) and finally settled on Fleetfoot.

As Jory and Annah started the wedding ceremony in front of the Hearttree and a smiling Maester Luwin she smiled herself. Those two were lucky, to be allowed to marry the person they loved.

She had been lucky as well. She had grown to love her Quiet Wolf, and he to love her. She had heard of far too many marriages amongst nobles that had started in duty and ended in indifference. That said, there was also those that, like hers, had started in duty and gone to love, but not everyone was that lucky.

She'd often wondered what would have happened if she'd married Brandon Stark. Ned had told her tales about him. Too much wolf's blood in him. Too many wild oats to sow. He had been a hot-blooded, headstrong man. And that had gotten him killed – which had helped to start a war.

And that in turn brought up other memories. Oh, Petyr. When had that funny, clever, lovely young man gone so wrong? After his challenge to Brandon Stark that had almost gotten him gutted like a fish? After he had been sent away from Riverrun? When had all that brilliance and wit been subverted into bitterness and greed and cynicism? Had it happened the moment that Father had sent him away? Or later?

She had been wrong about him. And in that other world, that other time, the time that haunted her dreams and still sent her nightmares, her trust in Petyr Baelish had cost Ned his life. And one daughter her freedom, whilst another had vanished into thin air.

It had shaken her – and it still shook her. There were times when she found herself over-thinking things, and then worrying if she was indeed over-thinking the trivial things in life. She had been wrong about so many things in that other time. And people had died in that time, because of her.

Yes, it wasn't that simple, yes, that was a different time and different circumstances. But… it still haunted her. And how she had treated Jon still haunted her too. She could have been a mother to him – but she had not. From jealousy and hatred. She owed him a debt of withheld love that could never be repaid. Because it was blatantly obvious to her now that Jon would never seek to supplant Robb, because they were as close any trueborn brothers could be. Her worst fears, born of tales of bastards seeking ideas above their station, no longer applied here. Jon was not a bastard. He was a Stark. And a Stark who wanted nothing more than to be a part of the family and to fight by the side of his brother.

There were times when she wanted to weep for her mistakes. But that time was not now. Jory Cassel took off his cloak and placed it onto the shoulders of Annah, the last words were said and they were husband and wife. And any bedding ceremony would be a very quiet one, as Ser Rodrik had made it very clear that the two were 'to be left alone to get on with it, right fast.' Fair enough.

As the wedding party, with a giggling Annah being carried by a smiling Jory, moved towards the Great Hall she looked to one side. Sansa and Domeric were walking side by side, holding hands, with Septa Mordane following them with a certain look of amusement. Cat smiled slightly. Yes, she needed to assist in their own marriage soon. Right soon, in fact, especially with King Robert approaching. If he had some of the same intentions as in that other terrible future then he might want to betroth his 'son' to Sansa. That could never happen. She could never see her daughter married to that… monstrosity, born of incest.

As they entered the Great Hall Jory put Annah back on her feet, and the moment that she saw Cat she curtseyed and then looked solemn. "My Lady, thank you for honouring us in this fashion… to use the Great Hall…"

She smiled. "Think nothing of it. The Cassels have been loyal beyond words to the Starks. Jory's Father died in the service of my husband. And your actions, as well as Jory's, have saved my nephew. He is free of the poison that gave him those shaking fits. This is but a small repayment of what we owe you."

Annah curtseyed formally and then returned to the arms of her husband, who grinned boyishly at her and then waved at the minstrels, who started up a spritely tune, and then the Cassels began to dance as the assembled men and women cheered.

Even Arya smiled a bit at that, and the Terrible Threesome began to… gyrate, perhaps that was the kindest term, to the music.

In the middle of the third dance a guard entered, who waved to Ser Rodrik. The Master at Arms frowned in the direst manner and approached the guard, who whispered in his ear. The frown deepened and then Ser Rodrik slipped outside.

He returned at the start of the fifth song and approached her. "My Lady, a party has arrived. 'Tis Lord Dondarrion and his ward, Lord Dayne."

She stared at him. "Lord Dondarrion? From the Stormlands? And Lord Dayne? From Starfall?"

"Aye my Lady."

She looked helplessly at the festivities at the moment and then shrugged internally. "Very well. Let then enter the Great Hall – but they will approach me quietly. I will have nothing disrupt the wedding."

There was a pause as she waited, her feet tapping to the music and after a while a small party of men entered and approached her, escorted by Ser Rodrik. Their leader was a slight man with red-gold hair and a surcoat of a field of stars slashed by a purple lightning bold. Behind him was a tall, fat, bald man in loose red robes and then a far younger man with blonde hair and eyes so blue that they were almost purple, with a surcoat that had a white sword and falling star crossed on lilac.

"Lady Stark," the leader said quietly, "I am Lord Dondarrion. I thank you for your hospitality. I was hoping to meet Lord Stark, but I understand that he is at Castle Black at this moment."

"Lord Dondarrion, be welcome at Winterfell," she replied. "Yes, my husband is away at the moment. How may I help you?"

"Not help me, so much as my ward. This is Lord Edric Dayne."

The young man with the purple eyes bowed deeply, He was as white as a sheet and he seemed to be trembling. "Lord Stark is truly away?"

She frowned a little. "He is. In the meantime my son Brandon is the Stark in Winterfell."

Lord Dayne, for some reason, swallowed almost in relief. Then he bowed again. "My Lady…" There was a pause as he seemed to search for the right words for a long moment. "My Lady. House Stark sent out the Call. House Dayne has answered it. I am the Sword of the Morning. I am…" his voice wavered for a moment. "I am the last trueborn man of House Dayne. I have come. I will serve House Stark. I will help to throw back the Others and defeat the night." And with that he drew his sword and, holding it upright by the pommel, knelt in front of her.

The wedding music stopped dead as everyone looked at her and she stared at the boy. What was going on?

And then a gasp went up. Lord Dayne's sword was glowing.

Ned

As he slumped – there could be no other word for the action – into a chair in the Old Bear's quarters there was a glugging noise and then a mug of ale was thrust into his hands by Jeor Mormont. "Drink," the Lord Commander… commanded. "You look like you need it. Especially after riding for so long and then having the Old Gods speak through you."

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch sat down opposite him with a mug of his own and looked at him wryly. "Does this often happen to you, Ned?"

Ned took a deep quaff and then sighed. "It's a long story Jeor. Let's just say that the last time it happened – to me at least – an ancestor of mine took control of me, opened a vault in the crypts in Winterfell and then led my sons and others to the Wolfswood to an ancient Godswood there – where we met her." He pointed at Frostfyre, who was lying in front of the fire. Hearing her name she looked at him for an instant and then looked back at the fire.

The Old Bear stared at him. "I was going to ask about the direwolf. We so seldom see them. And to see one follow you as a pet…"

"Oh, she's no pet," Ned corrected him. "She and I protect each other. Just as her direwolf pups will protect and be protected by my children. That was the ancient compact. And so it is again. I don't know when we lost the link. But it's been renewed. That must have been the reason for the direwolf head on the banners."

There was a short silence as they both looked at the sleepy direwolf. "The Old Gods are active again, as the legends tell they once were," Jeor rumbled. "I don't know if I should be afraid or reassured. It's good to know that they are acting to protect us… but the fact that they had to get involved in the affairs of man scares me. There can be no other reason, than that the Others have indeed returned." He shivered a little, not that Ned could blame him one bit. "How did the Call come to be sent?"

"GreatJon Umber had an artefact that my ancestors gave his ancestors, to keep at the Last Hearth. The Hearthstone, it's called. Simply holding it gave me a vision of the home of the Others, a place called Hopemourne."

"Hopemourne…. I've heard of that place. The Wildlings speak of it with dread."

"They're right do so, based on what I saw there in my vision. A terrible place. And the Night King is awake there. But I digress. We found a hidden door my solar, to a place that my father never told me about. And there were other artefacts there, including a stone box with the same marking as on the Hearthstone. When I placed the one inside the other – the Call was sent out."

There was a short silence. "Based on what I've seen," the Old Bear muttered, "It was right that it was sent out."

And then there was a knock at the door. On Jeor's barked command to enter it opened to reveal Maester Aemon, who bustled in with a book under one arm and a look of intense… actually Ned couldn't quite put his finger on what that look was. It seemed to be a combination of excitement, curiosity, sheer joy and concern. The moment he saw Ned he stopped and bowed.

"Lord Stark," he said in acknowledgement. "Words cannot express the debt that I owe you."

"Maester Aemon," Ned protested, "It was the work of the Old Gods. Not me."

"They spoke through you, and therefore I owe you and them my thanks." He sat down, his book on his lap and then stared at him with eyes that looked far younger than his face. "You have something of the look of your grandfather to you," he said eventually, before smiling suddenly. "I remember him well."

"He was a good man," Ned muttered. "Although I have few enough memories of him."

Maester Aemon nodded – and he looked at him piercingly. "Lord Stark just over a week ago Mance Rayder sent word to us to parlay North of the Wall. We – the Lord Commander, Ser Alliser Thorne, Quorin Halfhand and myself – rode out to meet with him. He told us a strange take, he and his… interesting-sounding lieutenant Tormund Giantsbane."

"Aye, he did indeed," the Old Bear rumbled. "Ned, they said that a group of giants had come in – bearing a dying Child of the Forest."

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. "One of the Children of the Forest?"

"Aye."

He drank quite a bit of his ale. He wasn't quite sure why he felt such shock. Given all the other news, about the Old Gods, giants, the Others and so on, this shouldn't have surprised him. And yet it did. "A Child of the Forest… they have not been seen in centuries. They were sure?"

"They sounded extremely shaken about the whole thing," the Maester said grimly. "And then they said something else. They said that it had a message for them – and for us. They said that the Others were preparing something by the sea, South of the Frostfangs. It also said that Rayder and this Tormund had to go to the Nightsfort to help a man through what I presume is the Black Gate there, with two others. A man with a golden mind and a boy who died and fell through time. And that their task was to mend the links between magic North and South of the Wall."

The old Maester was staring at him intently. And no wonder.

"I hate riddles," The Old Bear grumped as he got up and poured more ale. "How can a boy die and fall through time? And a golden mind? What does that even mean?"

Ned exchanged a long look with Maester Aemon, who raised an eyebrow at him. "I can take a guess about the man with the golden mind," he said slowly. "Tyrion Lannister came North from Winterfell with us. If any man could be said to have such a mind, it would be him. He's clever and a Lannister of Casterly Rock."

The Lord Commander nodded slowly. "Which just leaves the boy who died and fell through time. What does that even mean?"

Ned stood suddenly, walked to the door and barred it. Then he strode back, to where a surprised Jeor Mormont was looking at him with both eyebrows raised. "Ned, what's wrong?"

"What I am about to tell you is for your ears and your ears alone, Jeor. Lord Commander, this is important." He sat down again and then gestured at the Maester. "Maester Aemon here already knows about this. It is time that you knew as well. The first time that the Old Gods intervened was months ago, when they…" He paused. This was still something that hurt. "When they saved my oldest son. Who had died. 'Tis a strange tale, but he died at a time and a place where the North was suffering, when a war was ranging that should never have happened. Robb died in our future, a future that will now never happen. And the Old Gods sent him back to Winterfell, to a point when the war could be – just, if things go the way I plan them to go – avoided."

The Old Bear stared at him, stared so intently that he didn't blink. And then he leant back a little. "If anyone had said that I would have called him a bloody liar. For you to say it, after all the things that I have heard of and seen with my own eyes and ears… well, I'll not doubt it. So. Your son was sent back. And you mentioned a war?"

"The King, Robert, was dead. A hunting accident in dubious circumstances Robb said. And his son… well, Joffrey must never be king."

"What's wrong with the boy?"

"He's not Robert's son. That stays within this room as well."

If Jeor's eyebrows had been active before they now threatened to fly off his face, so fast did they move upwards. Then then came down into a beetling scowl. "Who's the real father?"

"Ser Jaime Lannister."

There was a long silence. Then Jeor drank the last of the ale in his mug with a few gulps and got himself another one. "Bloody hell," he said faintly, wiping some sweat off his forehead. "So there was a war over the fact that he's a bastard born of incest?"

"There was."

"And your son lost his part in it?"

"He trusted the wrong people. And that's all I'll say about it – it's a war that will never happen now. At least I hope not. I… am planning something to reveal the truth to certain people."

Jeor nodded shortly. "And what was happening at the Wall when all this was happening?"

"From what Robb said that he heard, the Night's Watch was neglected even more. There was word… there was word that there had been a Great Ranging beyond the Wall. One that you led. The last reports weren't good."

There was another short silence. "The Others still came then."

"I think that they did. And the Realm was divided and distracted."

Jeor sighed, before scowling again. "Right then," he grumped. "We know they're coming. We know that your son and Tyrion Lannister need to go to the Nightfort. Oh – can the Lannister boy be trusted?"

"He can. He knows that the Others are coming. He's a clever man Jeor. The Gods may have jested when they crafted him in his mother's womb. He may have the body of a dwarf, but his mind is another matter. He's brilliant."

The Old Bear nodded slowly. "Then Maester Aemon and I need to talk to him. We have something that he needs to read. A Lannister once commanded at the Nightfort, before it was abandoned. We have his personal journal. And at the end of it we found a sewn-up leather folder. With a name on it."

Ned looked at the two older men. They had a very odd look on their faces. "What name?"

"'Tyrion Lannister.'"

Daenerys

Sleeping dragons in their own individual cages in the sun were… adorable. She just wished the she didn't feel like a dragon in a cage as well. There were Unsullied guards at the doors, guards that followed her everywhere. The Magisters of Pentos were very polite, very 'reasonable' – as they were always describing themselves as being – but the truth was that they were keeping her as an effective prisoner.

The manse was being fully repaired now, work crews swarming over the place as they pulled out burnt joists and installed new ones. The gardens were somehow being restored, with large amounts of freshwater being poured everywhere and all in all they were doing amazing work.

She would have a splendid cage, one just for her. The Magisters had had a series of loud shouting matches over who was to have the honour of hosting her and they had finally decided that the best way of preserving internal peace within Pentos was to simply put her up in the manse of the late Illyrio Mopatis.

Along with her dragons. The dragons were very important to them, They'd given her a lot more books about them, but then that was not a particularly good thing, as the books would sometimes contradict each other. The Old Valyrians had kept their dragonlore – their true dragonlore – very close to their chests. Sometimes all that the books really had for her was a load of old wives tales.

She sighed, rubbed at the bridge of her nose and then turned for the table to get a glass of fruit juice. And then she froze. There was a man sitting quietly by the window, a man who had not been there a moment before. He was plump, bald and had eyes that were almost purple.

"Good afternoon," the strange man said with a bow of the head. "I didn't startle you too much did I? I apologise if I did."

She took a step back. The man wasn't threatening, but he had appeared so unexpectedly that she was taken aback. "Who are you? Where did you come from?" She looked at the door. Should she call for the guards?

The man smiled slightly. "The guards know that I'm here. I have visited this place often enough. The Unsullied by your door know the password I used to gain access. So do not be alarmed. As for who I am – my name is Varys. I was a councillor to your late father in King's Landing."

The name rang a bell in her mind. "Varys – you were my father's spymaster."

A wince crossed his face. "I prefer the term 'Master of Whispers'. A more elegant term than 'spymaster'. The latter sounds positively sordid." He paused and then looked at her. "I have very little time here in Pentos, but I thought it important that we meet. I sent you a letter a few weeks ago. I hope that you got it?"

Daenerys stared at him. "That was from you?"

"It was. I needed to warn you not to trust anyone. It was… important. It still is important."

A long moment passed. After a while she turned to look at her dragons and then turned back and stared at him. "What do you want?"

A fleeting smile crossed his face. "You don't trust me. Nor should you. You do not know me." He stared hard at her. "But there are things that you need to know. I trust that you know of your predicament? You are a prisoner here."

"I know," she said, her voice as hard as she could make it. "The Magisters of Pentos wish to use my dragons."

"Do you know what they call you, in the streets of Pentos? Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons. And they speak of you with an odd mix of hope and fear."

"Hope?"

"That you can help make the conquest of Braavos a bloodless one. Well, bloodless on the part of Pentos that is."

"And… fear?"

"Dragons, my dear. Dragons. Creatures that have not been seen for many a long year. Or rather many a long decade."

She was about to open her mouth and order him never to call her 'my dear' again, when all of a sudden he stood and strode over on noiseless feet to the window, where he peered out at the harbour. "Do you play cyvasse? It has yet to make its way over the Narrow Sea, but it is quite popular in Volantis and Pentos."

Confused, she blinked hard. "I have heard of it," she said eventually. "Viserys was starting to learn it. before… before…" Before the false dragon egg ate his mind, she just couldn't bring herself to say the words.

"It is a fascinating game," Varys said as he sent an enigmatic look her way for a moment. "The different pieces on a board. The tactics. So many ways of playing. Nobility love it. But then such people often like to think that life is like just such a game. When it's not. The Magisters of Pentos seem to think that they can play cyvasse, but with people and companies of sellswords in the place of pieces."

The spymaster turned to look at her again. "For the Magisters of Pentos you have now become a very valuable piece on the board. You and your dragons. They think that you and they can gain for Pentos the streets of Braavos. Nothing can stand against three dragons.

"But it goes further than that, so much further. Do you really think that the Magisters will thank you and let you go after that? Lorath? Myr? Tyrosh? What about the First Daughter, Volantis itself? The Magisters will be talking about that. Will they do it? Perhaps. Perhaps not. They will talk for a long time over this. But it's the other Free Cities that worry me. What would they do if they had access to you and your dragons? Simple – conquer the other Free Cities. So as news of you and your dragons spread, like ripples from a thrown stone into a pond, so will the impact of what people think Pentos will do with you.

She stared at him and then shivered a little. "You really think that?"

"Oh, I know it. They are dreaming themselves into a second Valyrian Freehold, with themselves in charge. Many of the Magisters long to become a player in Game of Cities here in Essos, the equivalent of the Games of Thrones back in Westeros. They have long had peaceful policies forced upon them, especially by Braavos. This is their chance to break free of them."

Her hands shook a little and she looked over to the cages again. "I… I… don't…"

"Braavos is already readying a note of protest no doubt, as the blurred line between the Iron Bank and the Sealord blurs even further. The Braavosi will soon prepare for war. A war of pre-emption is better than a war of defence. And the other Free Cities will be watching, waiting – and preparing." He nodded at the harbour again. "How many of those ships now preparing to set sail will also be bearing news of you? As I said – a new piece has appeared on the cyvasse board. It is a carved one of you – and your three baby dragons."

Her legs were shaking now and she stiffened them to disguise it. Despite that he noticed, bowing slightly and then fetching her a chair, into which she sank. "Your pardon," he said gently as he returned to his own seat. "But you need to hear the truth on this. I cannot drip honey onto it. It is what it is."

She pulled herself together. "You think that my very presence here will start a war," she told him harshly. "No, you cannot drip honey onto that. Then what do you suggest that I do?"

A long moment passed as he stared about the room and then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again there was a look of almost weariness in his eyes. "It all depends on what you want to do – and what you want to become. I have not addressed you by title this day, because I wonder if you know yourself what you want? I could get you out of the city today – there are at least four passages down to the harbour from here where not a soul would see you – but where would you want to go? Another of the Free Cities? They too would view you as a piece on the cyvasse board, someone to use. One of the deserted settlements that scatter this region perhaps? But how long can you hide three dragons before you are found?

"You have some time to decide. Your dragons are young, it will be years before they can be flown by you, let alone control a flame. The danger is that war of pre-emption on the part of Braavos or one of the others that I mentioned, but I have sufficient assets to give warning enough to get you out of here."

Her three dragons were still sleeping in their cages as she looked at them. How long before they out-grew those cages? She looked back at Varys. "What other options do I have?"

He shot her an odd look, as if she had surprised him a little. "If you mean Westeros, then the plans that Illyrio Mopatis and I were drafting with a few others are gone. For many reasons, not least being the vanishing of the Dothraki."

"Plans?" She asked the word in a baffled tone. "What plans?"

"You were to marry the Dothraki horselord Khal Drogo. Your brother was to marry a Martel of Sunspear. Plans for a rising were being laid down. Approaches to the Gold Company had been made. And then, in an instant – well, three instants – they were all ruined. The Dothraki all vanished to the East. The Call was sent out in Westeros. And your brother died in the way that he did."

The Call? What call? And what was this about Viserys?

Her confusion must have been evident on her face, because Varys sighed and then stood and walked over to the nearby cabinet, where he poured two goblets of wine. "The manner of your brother's death has… weakened many loyalist sympathies in Westeros. House Targaryen has few friends there at the moment. Oh, there will always be those ready to rise up and tear down those above them, but the true loyalists… they are weaker now."

Varys looked her in the eye. "Your Father, King Aerys – do you know what they call him?"

She returned the look. "I know. The Mad King."

"Of course you do, Illyrio said that someone had been in the library. I owed your father a great debt. He brought me over the Narrow Sea, to be his Master of Whispers. I did much for him. That said… I saw him every day. You're going to ask me if he really was mad, aren't you?"

Eventually she nodded.

"Yes," he said as he sipped his wine and then looked at something on one wall that wasn't actually there as he seemed to shrink a little. "He was mad. Paranoia gripped him hard after the Defiance of Duskendale. By the time of the Great Tourney at Harrenhall he was… well, his hair was long, his nails were long and his paranoia was even longer. By the end, in the Red Keep, he was a… a shrieking maniac. He burnt people alive for no reason. And because he was mad, and your brother went mad and tried to kill you, then the overall impression is that you must be mad too."

She stared at him and then laughed. "I am not mad!"

"No, I can see that. You have something of your mother about you." He smiled almost wistfully. "A remarkable woman. She was always dignified no matter what… indignities were thrown at her." The smile vanished. "Your father could be… cruel. And that remains the point. People remember your father. Your eldest brother was infamous for indirectly starting the Rebellion. And the manner of your other brother's death is swiftly spreading.

"My point is that the time is not right for a return to Westeros. Perhaps with time, if the ground can be prepared first. And that in turn is problematic. Something is happening there, something that I cannot explain."

"What is it – is it that 'call' you mentioned?"

An odd look crossed his face, a combination of bafflement, exasperation and annoyance, mixed with a well-hidden fear. She'd seen that look once before, on someone talking to Viserys in the hope that he wouldn't be shouted at. "Ah. The Call. It was heard by all of those with the blood of the First Men. Magic. A very strong magic. It was heard all over the Seven Kingdoms, in the most surprising places. And the words heard were all the same. 'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed.' In Westeros all eyes are now on Winterfell and the Wall. Crops are being sowed. Homes are being prepared – roofs mended, walls repaired. The smallfolk – those that heard the Call – all say the same thing. Winter is coming. It will apparently be a long one. It will freeze even Essos I fear. Something dark is coming."

She stared at him intently, trying to riddle out what was in that face. "Magic scares you."

The merest flicker of the eyes told her that she was right. "Magic should scare everyone," he replied a trifle hoarsely. "In my case I have reason. When I was a child someone used me for a blood magic rite. I am now a eunuch as a result."

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but he held up a plump hand. "No matter, I take no offence. You could not have known. Magic… has consequences. Nevertheless, the Call has been sent out. Something stirs at the Wall. And it has thrown the Game of Thrones there into some degree of confusion. Some seem to have stopped playing it completely, which is… bizarre. As a result, even if your dragons were fully grown an attempt at regaining your father's throne might not be a good idea. With this Call echoing in people's ears… well I do not think that you might have many friends or allies. Apart from the Velaryons perhaps and of course Mace Tyrell. It's both a shame and a relief that he's no longer in charge of the Reach. A butterfly could enter one ear and fly out the other unimpeded."

She absorbed this with a frown. "Then what is your counsel? What should I do? Where should I go?"

Taking a deep breath he clasped his hands and then looked at her. "That all depends on what you wish to do, as I said earlier. You have some time ahead of you to make a choice. Will you stay in Essos and try and forge your own piece in the game of cyvasse that the cities are playing, outwitting those who would use you? Or do you return to Westeros and try to somehow survive in a Realm that distrusts your family as you try and build its reputation anew? Or should you go somewhere else, like the Summer Isles? It's all upon you to work out what you want to do. All I can do is advise. One thing I would advise for you to do is to write to your great-great-granduncle – do I have the number of greats right? No matter – Aemon Targaryen. You are not alone. You are not the last Targaryen."

"My brother said that he was old, blind and useless."

"If anything the loss of his eyes has but sharpened his mind. He is by no means useless, he is a fount of advice. And he is the Maester of Castle Black. Seek his advice. I can guarantee that any letter you send him will reach him undisturbed. You have my word on it."

She sat there for what felt like half a year, her thoughts reeling from one thing to another, like a moth caught between several candles. There seemed to be a pressure on her, something that weighed her down.

"I'm sorry," Varys said softly, "This must all have come as a shock to you. But you are the dragon and the nest has crumbled into nothingness and now you must spread your wings and learn to fly before the ground rises up and kills you. You have some time. People owe me favours and I can warn you if you need to move quickly. But you must try and decide in which direction to move."

"I will write a letter to my great-granduncle," she said eventually. "How can I get it to you?"

"I am here in Pentos for a day or so. I can come for it tomorrow."

She nodded and with that he stood, bowed and walked out on those noiseless feet, leaving her alone with her sleeping dragons and nothing but the sound of the waves far away.