Blake

Two days passed before Lord Stark finally made his decision. Not that she could blame him, with his son's injury and this being a momentous opportunity, it warranted a lot of consideration. In the end, Lord Stark accepted the position of Hand to the King, as well as the betrothal between his daughter Sansa and Joffrey. Preparations for his trip south began immediately, and the household sprang into life. People were running around, packing up clothes and items, or figuring out who came and who would stay behind. Horses were shod, carts loaded, and the air was thick with the sounds of bustling chaos.

Blake stood by the window of her chamber in the guest quarters, watching the flurry of movement below. Her own servants likely had joined those of the Lannister and Starks, preparing for their journey back South. She could pick out familiar faces in the crowd, Lady Stark giving firm orders, Robb Stark overseeing provisions with the Greyjoy by his side, and Sansa chattering excitedly with her septa, likely about the South. Arya darted about, seemingly attempting to avoid being fitted for a new cloak or some other 'boring' task. Blake sighed, her breath fogging the glass. The North was cold in more ways than one, yet she'd grown accustomed to its somber, unyielding presence in the few weeks she had been here. The South would feel like a different world entirely to the Starks, warmer, brighter, but no less treacherous.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Blake spoke, without turning. "Come in."

The door creaked open, and one of her servants stepped inside, bowing deeply no doubt. "My lady, the final arrangements for your belongings have been made. Shall I have them loaded onto the carts with the others?"

Only one chest remained in her guest quarters, which contained the clothes she would change into upon the morrow, for their departure. Everything else had been packed away, a surprisingly difficult task, given how much she had brought with her. Admittedly, it was minor compared to what the Queen likely had in her wheelhouse.

"Yes, do that," Blake said, turning to face the young woman, Ada, if her memory was correct. She was a fisherman's daughter, and had served well in Dragonstone. Her father had been estatic to have his daughter working as a servant in Dragonstone, as it was the safest and best paying job on the island for a girl. "And ensure my personal chest stays under watch. I don't want it misplaced." Her armor was hidden under her dresses, to avoid any prying eyes.

Ada nodded, her expression obedient but curious. She gave a short bow of her head and stepped back outside, closing the door as she went. "Of course, my lady."

As the door closed again, Blake allowed her shoulders to relax slightly. She needed to befriend the Starks even more so now that Lord Eddard was the new Hand of the King. Father needed allies at court, of which he had very little, and even fewer were actually useful. He'd gotten lucky with the late Jon Arryn as an ally, but now, well, he was left with low hanging Lords at best. The Game of Thrones was one her father understood well, though it was never one he enjoyed playing. Still, if her role here could strengthen her family's position and secure alliances, she would play it. The Starks were honorable and outside the usual King's Landing politics, but their honor could be both their greatest strength and their downfall. She would need to tread carefully, especially with Sansa and Arya, who seemed the most susceptible to an outsider's influence.

Already, Cersei had Sansa Stark in her claws, ever since the betrothal had been announced. It was nauseating, seeing such a sweet girl fawning over Joffrey of all people. Was this how she was with Him back in Remnant? If so, it certainly explained a lot. At least Blake got along with Arya, who followed Jon Snow around like a pet.

Arya wasn't interested in being a proper lady, which no doubt frustrated her Mother but intrigued Blake regardless. She'd caught Arya sneaking away from her lessons on more than one occasion, always with a wooden sword in hand or dirt smudged on her cheek. The young Stark had been born in the wrong world, she would have made a fine huntress.

A louder, more demanding, knock on the door broke her focus. Blake straightened herself up, smoothing her cloak as she turned to see who it could be. It wasn't one of the servants, which meant it was one of her party. "Enter."

Uncle Andrew entered, wearing furs and leathers that made him appear larger than he actually was. Even in the Summer, the Northern cold was unforgiving, like Atlas' had been. She mentally shuddered to imagine how bad it truly could be once Winter started.

"My Lady Blake." He greeted her with a warm smile on his face as he strode towards her. Uncle Andrew closed the door behind him. "I thought I'd find you in here, brooding as usual."

Blake rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward in response to his not inaccurate words. "I'm not brooding, Uncle. I'm observing. There's a difference."

"You are your Father's daughter, the two are one and the same." Uncle said dryly, his smile never leaving his face. He must've been happy to finally be able to head South once more, not that she could blame him. He pulled a letter from the inside of one of his cloaks, the seal of her father standing out on the parchment's surface. "Your Lord Father sent a raven."

Father knew better than to send confidential information by raven, the Starks still weren't their allies. She narrowed her eyes, looking past her Uncle, towards the door. There was always a chance someone was listening in, be it a servant of the Starks or a Lannister footpad following her Uncle.

Uncle Andrew smirked as he stepped further into the room, sitting on a chair of ironwood. "Horpe is guarding the door, as well as Ser Clayton and another of your Father's knights, at each end of the hallway."

"The Lannisters will notice such movement." Blake warned. Such action could tip off the Queen that she was up to something.

"They will merely see a knight guarding the door of his Lord's daughter, and two drunks playing with dice." Uncle Andrew waved her off. "Your Father merely writes to inform us that the Royal Fleet has sailed."

Ah, the cover story for the reason why Father gathered the entire fleet to Dragonstone, massing the rest of his levies. Officially, he was preparing to campaign in the Stepstones, to blood the Royal Fleet and make it safer for merchants heading for the Seven Kingdoms. All of which was valid and justifiable, and a long overdue task.

Unofficially, they were gathering their strength should the Lannisters try to harm Uncle Robert. Blake took the letter from Uncle Andrew's outstretched hand, her expression neutral but her mind working swiftly. The seal had already been broken, but she trusted Andrew's discretion. Still, the implications of the fleet's movements weighed on her.

"Does Father suspect Robert is in immediate danger?" Blake asked, carefully unfolding the parchment to see for herself.

Andrew shook his head. "Not yet. But with Eddard Stark heading south, the balance of power in King's Landing will shift. Your father believes the Lannisters will act soon, whether to tighten their grip on the throne or to ensure no one can loosen it."

Blake read the letter quickly, noting the carefully worded phrasing contained therein. Her father was cautious, as always, but the underlying message was clear. The letter, written by his very hand, made no direct mention of such actions, but Blake had learned to read in between the lines, especially when it came to Father. He was preparing for a storm, one that might engulf the realm if Robert's recklessness, or the Lannisters' ambition, lit the fuse. All it would take is one wrong move, and the Realm would ignite in a civil war.

"Father's right to prepare," Blake said finally, setting the letter aside in one of her pockets. "But if the Lannisters catch even a hint of what he's doing, they'll act preemptively." If they were even the ones at fault for Lord Arryn's death. They were merely the main suspects, without proof to bring the matter before Uncle Robert, nothing could be done. Yet something about it troubled her. Weiss wasn't wrong, the Lannisters gained nothing from removing Jon, not when they had time on their side. So if it wasn't them who killed the old Hand, then who? Or was it actually just, as she suggested, an illness? Or was Weiss funneling misinformation to her?

No-no, that wasn't possible. Weiss may have spent years amongst the Lannisters, but they were still friends. Weiss was loyal, of that Blake was certain. Their friendship had weathered far worse than the political scheming of King's Landing. Still, her instincts told her something was amiss. She was missing some crucial element to this entire mess, but for the life of her, she couldn't place it.

Uncle Andrew nodded and stood up from his seat, the wood creaking as he did so. "Sleep well. This will be the last time we'll sleep in beds for moons."

Blake forced a smile upon her face and bowed her head slightly. "You as well, Uncle."

He left soon after, leaving Blake alone once more with her thoughts. As the door closed behind Uncle Andrew, Blake sat back down by the window. Her Father's cautious preparations were wise, but the sheer fragility of the alliances that surrounded them weighed on her. The Game of Thrones was never just about power; it was about trust, or the lack thereof, and the delicate balance of knowing whom to rely on and when. And yet, without any trust, you couldn't accomplish half as much as someone who did.

Blake's gaze fell on the Stark courtyard below, where the final preparations for their departure were unfolding. The chaos was beginning to settle, and the caravan was starting to take shape. Wagons were being lined up, horses saddles prepared for the morrow, and supplies loaded. It was an efficient display of Northern pragmatism, one that Blake found oddly comforting despite the underlying tension due to Bran's fall.

She would pray tonight for his recovery. Not to the Seven, nor the Lord of Light or the Two Brothers of Remnant, but to whoever was listening.

The morning came quickly, the crisp Northern air biting at Blake's skin as she stood in the courtyard. The Starks and their retinue bustled about, ensuring everything was in order. Horses were readied, wagons had their cargos secured , and the final supplies were tied down with ropes that groaned under the weight of their loads. The Lannisters and the few Stormlords that Uncle Robert had brought along did the same.

Blake pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her golden eyes scanning the activity with a calm detachment. She wore several layers of clothing, to fight off the Northern morning's frigid temperatures, but she would likely discard a couple layers once they were underway. The future Lady of Dragonstone had arrived upon a horse, and now she would be departing in her wheelhouse. The wheelhouse was a grand construction, ornate but practical, its exterior bearing the sigil of House Baratheon. It still paled in comparison with the gaudiness of Queen Cersei's wheelhouse.

A servant approached, bowing deeply before gesturing toward the wheelhouse. "My Lady, your belongings have been stored, and the wheelhouse is ready."

Blake nodded, her gaze flickering back to the courtyard. Uncle Andrew and Uncle Robert stood off to the side, giggling like little girls under the watchful eye of the Kingsguard. Lord Stark spoke with his sons, as Lady Stark, her beautiful face now thin and haggard, did her best to remain strong. Not that she could blame the poor woman, this had been an eventual visit, to say the least.

"My Lady." A familiar voice approached Blake. She turned her head, allowing her amber eyes to meet Stark grey. Jon Snow bowed his head deeply. He wore black velvet, fine leather, and an expertly made cloak.

"Jon Snow." Blake said simply, forming a slight smirk. "You should be heading South, not North."

The Young Snow had decided to join the Night's Watch on the Wall, instead of serving as a squire on Dragonstone. It was such a shame, he was still young, and didn't deserve to freeze for the rest of his life at the edge of the world. And yet, who was she to judge? If he chose to do what he deemed an 'honorable' path, it was his choice, not hers. At least he wasn't joining a terrorist organization.

"Serving on the Wall is a great honor." Jon Snow answered awkwardly. Yet, there was a core of steel to his words. She wasn't the first to question his desires, apparently. He was determined, it seemed, to ride this to the end. She could respect the dedication at least.

Blake raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. "An honor, perhaps, but not one I imagine you chose freely. Still, I suppose there's something noble in guarding the edge of the world, even if no one ever thanks you for it. Should we meet again, tell me of the grumpkins and snarks you've fought to defend the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable under her pointed gaze. "It's where I belong, at least there I'll have purpose."

"Purpose is good, but don't mistake isolation and punishment for purpose, Jon Snow." Blake tilted her head, studying him with a more careful eye. For the most part, only criminals manned the Wall now, with the occasional honorable recruit or bastard bereft of alternatives. "The Wall is a cage, as much as it is a sanctuary."

His expressions hardened at her words, his pale cheeks turning a slight shade of red. "The Wall doesn't hide what it is, my Lady, unlike the South."

Blake chuckled softly, taking a few steps closer to him. She reached out, and brushed an errant strand of snow-dusted hair from his shoulder. "You're not wrong, but still, Dragonstone will always be open to you. Remember that, should our paths cross again."

Jon hesitated, his Stark upbringing warring with his discomfort at her forwardness. Finally, he nodded, a short dip of his head. "I'll remember, my lady."

She stepped back, allowing the moment to pass. "Safe travels, Jon Snow. May the Wall give you what you're searching for. I shall pray for the recovery of your brother."

"Thank you, my Lady." Jon Snow bowed his head once more, and turned, heading toward where the rest of the Stark family stood. The boy had potential, but he was throwing it away for an ideal that would do nothing but chain him to a life of cold and solitude. Still, she respected his choice, even if she thought it foolish. Swords were needed in the South, not on the Wall.

Blake turned to her wheelhouse, and started moving towards it as a servant opened the door for her. It was time to make herself comfortable for the long journey home.

Father was waiting.

A/N

The next chapter should be the end of this arc.