28

Chapter 28: Chapter 27

Rickon

Clang!

The steel of the blunted blades echoed throughout the yard. The day had finally come that Rickon and Lyanna were using blunted steel instead of wooden swords. It was much different now. The weight on the metal was unfamiliar to move after having gotten used to the wood, and now there was a lingering sense of caution in every swing. There would be far worse than a bruise if a stray swing hit skin.

But he was getting better, albeit by his determination and newfound desire to be more like a warrior than just a wanderer or out of his constant irritation at losing to a girl over and over.

"You're doing better," Brienne remarked, "but you're still looking at the spot you want to strike. It makes it too easy for your opponent to read you like that. Keep your eyes locked with your opponent's. Not their arm, not their sword, but their eyes."

Rickon twirled his blunt blade in his hand and readied himself to fight again. It was true that he had been watching Lyanna's blade the entire time. But now he fought with all of his focus to keep a locked gaze on Lyanna's eyes and not her ligaments. Seven Hells, this felt uncomfortable to do, not that he was feeling warm in the cheeks about this, but the instinctual fear of not watching the tool meant to hurt him was what did it.

They fought again and for the first few strikes Rickon managed to keep his eyes with Lyanna's and still retain some of his skill, but then his gaze broke and he was looking at where he wanted to strike. It was his undoing as a strike was parried and Lyanna's blade was brought to his chest, stunning his ribs lightly.

"Oof!" Rickon clenched at the hit and almost keeled over to his knees. For a light blow, it hurt terribly.

"As I said, your eyes will give your opponent all they need to read you. Lyanna, go over sets five and six with him until he can only do it so long as he keeps his eyes on you."

Lyanna nodded and Brienne set off for some of her own business, probably to go speak with some of the other masters of arms in Winterfell regarding the progress of training the common folk into soldiers.

"Eyes up, Stark," Lyanna said firmly as any commander would.

"You know you should be addressing me as Lord." Rickon raised his sword up and began to walk through the steps and sword swings with Lyanna, all the while trying his best to keep his eyes on her which was something he didn't want to do regardless of fighting or not.

"You'll get the title once you prove your experience." Lyanna went faster and it disrupted Rickon's rhythm just as he was getting it, forcing him to steal a quick glance or two at her sword.

"Then by all means, let Bran take the damn job instead. Oh, that's right, he's too busy feeling up the weirwood and doing far more important things to be Lord of Winterfell," Rickon added some extra strength to his swings to try and get Lyanna out of rhythm but she returned in kind and knocked his sword out of his hand.

"At least he actually cares about what's going on."

"And I don't?" Rickon raised his arms up. Every single day was one with hardly any rest. He was attending the meetings, inspecting his guards, saw the wight off for King's Landing, all of it and yet it wasn't enough for anyone. "I'm doing the steps, I'm writing the letters and numbers, every single stupid thing you all put in front of me, I've done. What more do you people want? I'm not my father, or Robb, or Jon, and I don't have any stupid magic, so if you're upset that I'm not more-."

A group of riders came into the grounds just then, interrupting Rickon's attention from his lesson. It was the Smalljon and his men back from the south, but Jon and Sansa weren't with him.

Rickon sheathed his tourney blade in his belt and left to go bid greeting to Smalljon and hear about the going ons down south.

"Lord Umber!" Rickon called, "Back so soon?"

"It was the King's order that I return to begin clearing the north most lands of the people and bring them to Winterfell. My son, Ned, has begun this already but he needs men and horses."

"And what's been going on with the King? We got word that Daenerys Targaryen arrived and he's trying to make her his ally."

"She's got three dragons and a big fuckin' army. I think we'd be the only ones to live out that if she tried fighting us in winter. But if he can get them to fight for us, the dead won't stand a chance. Besides that, he's trying to organize a royal army sworn directly to the crown but not many were answering his call to arms when we left."

"Hm… then perhaps we should make use of the former Bolton men for this. There's around a thousand of them that surrendered, right?"

"I see where you're going with this and it's a good idea. Once I've settled in, I'll make the arrangements for them to go south and bear swords and shields with dragons instead. And that reminds me, the King's had something made for you, for all the namedays he's missed."

The Smalljon reached to his saddle and presented Rickon with a new sword, one that was incredibly made especially at the hilt. The crossguard was engraved with direwolves and inlaid with copper and brass, and there was a small diamond in the center on each side.

Rickon gripped the polished wood handle and pulled free the Valyrian Steel blade. Something about this sword felt right to hold in his hands.

"This was Jaime Lannister's sword, one of two that Tywin reforged from your family's greatsword, Ice. The King had the guard redone to suit the true wielder."

Rickon glanced over to Brienne, to her sword. If he could get the right smith, maybe he could reforge both swords into one. But from what he could vaguely remember of his ancestral sword, it was enormous, but he was much smaller at the time. Still, he could remember how big it was in his father's hands and such a blade was too big for battle. He preferred a blade like this.

"Ice has returned to House Stark." Rickon said quietly as he sheathed Ice. "Thanks for bringing it back home, my lord. Good luck with the rest of your duties." He took a step to return to his practice, but he stopped. The sword felt heavier than before. He looked at it, how beautiful it was and started to feel just how much worth it was, not in gold, but to everyone. This was a rare weapon that could kill the White Walkers, one of the strongest in the world, and it was his. Too bad he wasn't as great a fighter or else he might be able to put it to good use.

Rickon sighed as he walked over to the sword rack where the practice swords were and set Ice to hang there. He returned to the practice yard to find a confused Lyanna instead of the stoic one.

"Don't you want to give it a swing or two at least?" What was this? A girl her age suddenly acting her age?

"Aye, when I'm not such an arse with a blunted sword." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Could you show me the steps again, please?"

The corner of Lyanna's mouth twitched in a smirk before her face returned to the focused and composed look she usually had.

Together, Lyanna and Rickon practiced the steps Brienne had shown them and this time Rickon didn't talk back whenever Lyanna pointed out a flaw in his form. "Don't forget to keep the tip pointed where you want to aim."

"Right," Rickon adjusted his grip to be firm but also repositioned the sword to aim for the heart of his imaginary foe. As the hour went on, Rickon thought it was strange that he could notice his body start to correct itself on instant in these parts he had trouble with the past few days. Was it finally accepting help from Lyanna or swallowing his pride that did it?

By the end of it, Rickon was covered in sweat, out of breath, and didn't feel angry at the task like usual. He felt he achieved something, even though it was just refining his basic technique. All in all, he found himself able to be glad about what was expected of him for a brief moment, it didn't seem so difficult.

"That was a fair form you had. Not perfect, but fair."

"Fair as a maiden," Rickon added. The two of them left the yard to return their tourney swords to the rack and Rickon saw that Brienne was staring intensely at Ice. "Do you like it?" he asked, which snapped Brienne out of her focus.

"It's a marvelous make. I don't think I've seen another blade in the North that's its equal."

"Was the hilt before all gold like yours is?" He asked, hoping to poke further at her keen interest in the sword.

"Widow's Wail was decorated with stags instead of lions. But the name was such an atrocious thing. Joffrey's vicious campaign with it had only one kill, and it was a book."

Rickon scoffed. "I bet I could have beaten him with a wooden sword as I am now."

Brienne smirked. "I heard from your sister that Arya beat him with nothing but a stick."

Oh yes, he forgot about that. All he knew of that day at the Crossroads was from a letter Arya wrote to Robb. She took the prince's own sword and threw it into a river too.

"The sword's mine now," he took Ice once again, but he wouldn't wear it, not just yet. "But it doesn't really fit me."

"You're still just a boy and have far more growing to do. I'd say by the time you turn fourteen you'll be ready to use it properly."

"That's not what I meant. The dead are coming and there are probably a hundred other men who could put this to use better than me. It doesn't feel like it should belong to me."

Brienne's thumb stroked the pommel of Oathkeeper. "I train Podrick for an hour each night and every morning. Come to the yard tonight and join us. But I won't ease my teachings because you're my charge and a boy."

Their conversation was interrupted by an excited voice.

"I never would have thought of doing that!" Tormund exclaimed into the courtyard as he and Podrick were walking. "Tell me about the bendy girl again."

Brienne scoffed and rolled her eyes when she looked over at Tormund and Podrick. She always did that whenever Tormund was close by and Rickon didn't understand why she would. Tormund wasn't exactly private about how he thought about Brienne and he seemed to be the only one who liked her in that way.

"Do you like women instead of men?" Rickon finally asked.

"What? No." Brienne responded.

"Do you not like anybody then? I mean when it comes to getting lovey with someone else?"

Brienne's brow rose up and she looked at peace with herself. "My lord, that is my business. I ask that you respect it."

Rickon merely shrugged at her and walked back to his lesson. He and Lyanna were going to take a small break to catch their breath back. While they did, Lady Barbrey came from atop the balconies overlooking the courtyard with a few papers in her hands.

"Milady," Rickon greeted.

"My Lady, my Lord," she corrected. "I finished looking over the ideas for this little… celebration, and it's not the best thing to do, especially in current times."

Rickon straightened up, ready to defend his pursuit of giving the North a time to relax after so much work. "But everyone's tired and cold. It's the best time to do it when it may just be the last time we can."

"And if we do things with that mindset and win against the dead, we're not leaving much for after. A festival and feast like this would use up too much of the food stores. We've had a long summer which means an even longer winter is coming. We're barely gathering enough supplies as it is for that."

"But Lady Barbrey-"

"Rickon," she said with a strong tone, "this isn't the time. We have a war to win and a winter to survive. When those are done, then we can look at trivial things like this." She walked away from him without another word.

Rickon clenched his fists as his anger grew. Lord of Winterfell, and the North, and yet those truly meant nothing because he was still a child. But why did people listen to Lyanna? She was younger than him by a few months but everyone treated her as an adult. So why not him?

But then a loud smack brought his attention back around and he saw that one of the Umber men was in the cold mud and Osha grasped her left hand after throwing a hard punch.

"You bitch!" The Umber man shouted as he got to his feet but Tormund was far faster on his and by the time Osha was stepping back from getting hit, Tormund shoved the man onto his arse.

"Oh no," Rickon could see that Northmen and Wildlings were starting to rise in temper and voice as this was only starting to grow. Smalljon was on his way and it didn't look like anyone was going to stop some fists from being thrown. In fact it looked like more were going to join in.

Rickon ran as fast as he could to the center of it all and did his best to make himself known as the shouting grew louder.

"Stop!" he yelled as loud as he could. "Enough!"

"Silence!" Brienne shouted in a voice that out yelled everyone else and a great hush fell over everyone. "Your lord speaks."

Rickon, a bit dazed at Brienne's ability of volume, got back to his senses. "Right, if anyone-"

"What is going on!?" Barbrey shouted as she pushed her way forward. She was not pleased at all. Rickon hadn't seen her this angry before. She looked at Osha and then to Smalljon's men. "The King has worked for these alliances with every effort and you dumb shits are about to break it? Idiots! Quit this nonsense and get back to work!"

Rickon felt himself take a couple steps back into the crowd. Lady Dustin had this under control. But then he felt a large hand grasp his shoulder.

"What does the Lord of Winterfell have to say about this?" Tormund said loudly and all eyes fell on him.

"Um…" Rickon stammered, "if anyone keeps this up, they'll be sleeping in a cell tonight and I don't care if it's Northmen or Wilding. Understood?"

"Milord!" the Umber man who was punched by Osha and tackled by Tormund stepped forward, "you're just going to let those Wildlings do whatever the fuck they want?"

Rickon looked around and found Osha. "Why did you hit him?"

Osha stepped forward with a scowl and a hand that looked itching for a blade. "He told me to get out of the castle and back to the woods since even a brothel's too nice for me."

Rickon looked at the Umber man. "Right, you deserved that."

"Oh," Tormund grumbled as he pulled off his gloves, "he deserves a lot more than that."

The Umber man tightened his fists. "You want to raise a fist at me, savage?" The men on both sides shuffled closer together as though to start a brawl but Rickon quickly intervened with as loud a voice as he could muster.

"Enough!" Rickon shouted. "We're not having a fight break out for this! I won't have it in my castle!"

"Then let it be just us," Tormund said as he pointed a finger at the man who insulted Osha, "call it a trial by combat."

"Piss off, goatfucker," Smalljon stepped forward, "If anyone's gonna knock your ass into the mud, it's going to be me."

There was an angry silence as both men stared each other down.

"Fine," Rickon said and both men looked at him in surprise. "Just you two, but no killing. Is that understood?"

"Aye," both men said at the same time.

"Alright. Then have at it. Just fists."

"Hold on!" Barbrey said, "does this look like a bloody tavern to you?"

"Lady Dustin," Rickon said, "this is how boys do their talking."

Everyone surrounding them began to back away and Brienne had cautiously pulled Lady Barbrey back as well when she didn't move immediately.

Smalljon handed his cloak over before he raised his fists up in a brawler's stance while Tormund looked relaxed but with eyes glaring death at the Lord of House Umber.

Finally, Smalljon took a step and Tormund responded in kind by roaring at him in a charge. He head butted Smalljon in the chest and tackled him to the dirt, punching at his sides while Smalljon elbowed hard on his back. They rolled over and Smalljon escaped Tormund's grasp and threw a hard punch at his stomach. Normally, a blow like that would make one clutch his stomach and fall forward, maybe even vomit, but Tormund was able to stand tall.

The Wildling warrior began to throw punch after punch, some getting blocked by Smalljon's huge arms and others hitting hard on his shoulders and one at his neck. The Smalljon responded in kind with a hard upward punch that landed square on Tormund's chin and knocked him backwards a few steps.

Tormund spat out the blood gathered in his mouth and smiled with red teeth. "Thank you, my lord, may I have another or is your other fist meant for a goat's arse?"

Smalljon rushed Tormund and tackled at his stomach while Tormund punched hard on Smalljon's side. Both of them fell hard in the snow and mud, getting themselves terribly dirty. Both of them rolled around, completely covering themselves in cold mud as they threw fist to jaw and elbow to chest. It didn't take long for them both to be painted in mud and by then it was hard to tell them apart. Both of the large men and their beards were colored brown. They slipped and keeled over trying to get their footing.

"Kick his savage arse!" One of Smalljon's men cheered.

"Show that southerner how a free man fights!" One of the wildings cheered back. The crowd was gathering more and more around the brawl, and almost all of the Northmen were cheering for Smalljon but there were a few with the Wildings that rooted for Tormund.

Both of the large men finally found a firm footing to get to their feet and at the same time they each punched each other hard into the face of the other. The both were dazed before they each fell hard into the mud again, this time laying still and groaning.

A collective 'oh' went across everyone watching as they waited to see who would rise victorious. But it soon came clear that no one would be rising from their own strength. Both men were stuck laying in the mud, groaning.

All of the sudden, Tormund started laughing in a low, exhausted breath. And to most people's surprise, the Smalljon began to laugh too until both men were laughing like jolly fellows.

"That," Tormund wheezed, "was a damn good fight."

"Aye," Smalljon agreed, "somebody get us some fuckin' ale!"

Rickon smirked at the results and looked over to Barbrey and Brienne. Both of them rolled their eyes and walked off. But why were they upset? Was it because their way didn't work or something else?

Rickon didn't know and frankly didn't care because this was his idea and it worked.

Jon

The large doors of the throne hall swung open to the Dornish retinue. It wasn't a large group, only three lords, several accompanying them, and two guards per lord. Each bore clothing with distinctive markings of their appropriate House. A cloak pin of a sword pierced shooting star, a belt buckle of an iron gate, and embroidery of a hooded hawk across the tunic.

These men stood just before the steps of the Iron Throne in which Jon sat.

"I bid you welcome to the Red Keep, my lords."

"We thank you for the privilege to present ourselves to you, your grace." Lord Atticus Dayne said. "We three Lord's of Dorne have decided against following Ellaria Sand and pledge our oaths of fealty and loyalty to the true King of Westeros, your grace." The men all fell to one knee.

"And why have you decided this? Why go against the majority of your homeland and your liege?" Jon had already known the answer, as the Raven had conveyed their decision to him already. They were of the Dornish that had feuds with the majority of Rhoynish blood, following the ways of the Old Gods or Andals and seeing the traditional Dornish customs as foreign to theirs. Most of all, they did not take well to the murder of the Martells or Myrcella, at least that's how it was for the Daynes.

Lord Yronwood cleared his throat, drawing Jon from his dark thoughts. The Lord spoke his words with venom. "That whore leading the rest of Dorne is a murderer and a thief. We have no qualms with an elder daughter inheriting before a son, but to murder the Prince and his heir is a disgrace!" One of those accompanying Lord Yronwood, a man in similar attire, placed a hand on his Lord's shoulder. Lord Anders took a breath to calm himself. "Trystane was my ward for his youth until his betrothal to Myrcella. He was a son to me and I held back my desire to murder Ellaria Sand with every ounce of strength I had when we were in her counsel. No more. I swear to the Old Gods that I will avenge Trystane, one way or another."

Jon lifted a hand up to stop Lord Anders. "Justice will find those who deserve it, my Lord. But it is not always our hand that seeks it that shall deliver. So long as this desire does not compromise the negotiations I am having with Daenerys Targaryen." He thanked the gods the words came out evenly.

Lord Anders nodded. "I swear my loyalty and promise to you, my King."

Lord Dayne looked back to one of his men who carried a small wooden box. Again, Jon knew what it was since the Raven was responsible for guiding the Daynes to find this lost treasure, buried underneath the roots of a plum tree along the Torrentine. The man brought it forward, but Jon stood up first and descended down the steps to Lord Dayne.

"Rise up, my lord." Lord Dayne did as instructed. "It was because of your brother that I remained safe when the war ended. I've learned he had his disagreements about my mother and father's union, but he upheld his oath and honor to the end. Ned Stark told me and my brothers of the day they fought, but the truth is that Ser Arthur won. It was a knife in the back that led him to defeat. But even so, he wasn't angry at Lord Stark. He did his duty to the last breath."

Lord Dayne's head fell with eyes shut tightly. His hands shook but he quickly composed himself. "Thank you, your grace." He held the box up. "The-"

"I know what's inside that box, my lord." Jon stopped him. "And I think it's best if it stays there. The receiving of Blackfyre has caused a bit of a stir and your gift might cause more discontentment against my pursuit of peace with my aunt. Will you accept my apology for this request?"

"Yes," Lord Dayne said with an amused shake of his head, "in fact I should apologize. I didn't quite think the situation through as I should have. But our gift, our loyalty, and armies are yours, your grace. With your permission, I wish to send some of my men and some supplies to Winterfell to aid in the preparations."

"I welcome it, my lord. I'll send a raven to Winterfell to let them know to expect your host." Jon looked over to Sansa and issued her forward. "My stewardess will see you to the rooms we have prepared for you all. There will be a dinner tonight that I welcome you all to."

The Dornishmen were led out of the room by Sansa. And now it was that Jon had technically gained loyalty from all seven Kingdoms.

The next group was a small host of five men from the Vale, four bannermen led by a man dressed in the familiar attire of House Royce, only Andar was much younger and in his prime than his father was and sported a clean black goatee.

"Your grace," Andar bent the knee and so did his men, "I am honored to be invited into your halls. My father told me many great things about you and I regret that I could not be by his side retaking Winterfell from House Bolton."

Jon raised a hand up, dismissing the apology. "You have nothing to apologize for. With the Hilltribes armed to the teeth, the Vale wass in need of their best men more than ever. You were exactly where you were needed."

"Thank you, your grace. Though I must admit, I am at a loss as to why you have called for me. Not to say I am not wanting to be of whatever service I can, your grace."

Jon gave him a nod. "I have something for you, something my men found in the ruins of the Dragonpit." He stood from his seat and walked over to one of the servants who was purposefully hiding out of the attention of the court and took the sword from him. Jon walked over to Andar and held out the refurbished blade and scabbard to him. "It's been over a hundred years since anyone in your family held this."

Andar's eyes widened and two of his men peaked over to see. "It can't be… it…" he reached his hands out and delicately took the sword from Jon's hands. He looked at Jon, silently asking for permission to draw the blade to which Jon nodded with a smirk.

Gasping, the heir to Runestone stared in amazement as he drew forth the Valyrian steel blade and held it at his chest, marveling at the ripples and beauty of the hilt. Runes were carved into the crossguard and a large piece of amber was set in the bronze pommel that was also decorated in runes.

"When enemies march upon our lands," Andar said quietly as though he were in a sept or godswood, "the winds shall carry their lamentations to the highest peak." He lowered the sword and fell to his knees again. "Thank you. A thousand times thank you. If there is anything House Royce can do, we shall."

Jon nodded and gestured his hand for Andar to rise up. "Your loyalty and aid in the war is all I ask of you when the time comes."

Andar gave a determined nod. "And you shall have it, your grace."

In the corner of Jon's eye to the right, he could see Tyrion standing in the back of the court, observing all that was happening and looking both upset and amazed at how things were transpiring. He imagined the dwarf would have several dozen comments to say if they had a moment to talk. But today was all about doing his duties from the throne. Returning to his seat upon the damned thing, he waited for the next group of nobles arranged to see him.

The rest of the morning and all through the afternoon was more or less the same. Many lords and ladies who had not been present at Jon's coronation came to present and offer their fealty to him, most of them did at least. But there were many others that came to be guests and in the Red Keep, no doubt to take their measure of him or Daenerys, whoever suited their gain better.

One of the finer examples of a House in the middle of a decision between which monarch were the Velaryons. Young Lord Monterys, his mother Athena, and the cousin Jaecerys had partaken of bread and salt, but they did not kneel or swear loyalty. On the outside it was just a simple introduction, but Athena Velaryon kept a fixed eye on Jon the whole time.

According to the Raven, the Velaryons were here to decide who would profit them better if they were to take sides. Jaecerys was near Daenerys age and without a wife, their choice as a suitor for her, and Athena even considered trying to offer her own hand to Jon since she was of the Velaryon House by blood and still young enough to bear children. It was just a matter of which Targaryen was the better choice, the one on the Iron Throne or the one on dragonback?

It didn't matter to Jon. The Velaryon Fleet was one of the most well known fleets in all of Westeros, and it was damn obvious how much he needed ships to ferry supplies, food, and soldiers to the North for the war.

However, before introductions could begin, a commotion of shouts erupted from the main corridor outside the hall.

"What's going on?" Jon asked, pointing at Beric and Remus to go and investigate. The two Kingsguard dashed off and four guards followed behind them. Moments later, the guards returned with two men in tow.

The Velaryons backed away when both disruptors were presented before Jon. Ghost had gotten on all fours and a low growl emanated from the white direwolf.

Both of the men were recognized, Jon had met them during the processions of Lords and Ladies swearing fealty and offering greetings to him. "Lords Jonos and Tytos," the Brackens and Blackwoods. "What do you think you're doing in my halls?" He asked in a condescending tone.

"Your grace," Lord Blackwood addressed first, "I must protest the presence of these traitors! The Brackens gave up after the Red Wedding and allowed the Lannisters to defile the Riverlands, besieged my home and stole my lands!"

Jonos Bracken raised a fist up but was restrained by Beric and one of the other guards. "Your rebellion cost my daughter her life! We had made peace and your foolishness killed her!"

"Silence!" Jon ordered and both men were pulled further apart. "Ser Brynden," Jon directed attention to the Blackfish in his seat left of the Throne, "Do you know of this matter?"

The Blackfish nodded. "After the Red Wedding, Lord Blackwood refused to surrender to the Freys and rallied battalions to fight back how they could when I amassed my force to take back Riverrun. Lord Bracken on the other hand did surrender to the Iron Throne and paid his dues for his part in the war. His daughter, Barbara was set to marry a man from House Swann, but her retinue was caught in a skirmish and she was killed."

Jon looked out to Lord Bracken. "You have my condolences for your loss, my lord."

Lord Bracken seemed to calm just a bit. "Thank you, your grace. I pledged to Robb Stark in the War and named him King in the North. I fought with him, sympathized with him, but the losses I suffered at the Red Wedding were too much. My people's lives hung by a thread."

Before Jon could respond, Lord Tytos beat him to it. "But the lives of my people were forfeit? Bracken banners were carried over the bodies of my people before they were seen outside my home under siege!"

Jon eyed the lord carefully. The Blackwoods did indeed give their support first after the Tullys when he helped take back the Riverlands, moreso when Myranda accepted being a means of bribery for Ser Bronn's allegiance. "And this constituted the murder of an innocent woman?"

Tytos sucked in a breath and the skin of his neck tightened. "Barbara's death was not intentional, your grace. We had reports that a caravan of supplies was on the road and the Freys had mingled men into every House to keep an eye on them. From what I was told, a crossbow bolt missed its mark and went into the wheelhouse with Lady Barbara."

Rubbing at his eyes, Jon felt the pains of the innocents who were caught in the flames of war. The image of Rickon getting struck by Ramsay's arrow replayed in his mind, making his fist curl. "And was the man who committed the murder punished?"

"He died in the fighting, your grace."

"And did you send a letter of apology or condolences to Lord Bracken for his loss?"

"...no, your grace, as I had not received any for the innocents his men killed. With your ascendance, they retreated back to Stonehedge and have yet to answer-"

"Enough!" It was hard to find the line of middle ground, as each man made it thinner and harder to reach. "Bran," Jon whispered, disguised as a sigh.

'Arrange a marriage between Tytos' son Hoster, and Jonos' daughter Catelyn. They wed two years after I was crowned and it was a good marriage considering things.'

That sounded probable, but it wasn't enough to settle things... "I'm tired of these feuds going on and on throughout the Kingdoms. Someone gets hurt, so someone else must suffer to equalize the pain felt and on and on it goes until no one remembers why the fighting began in the first place. Lord Tytos, you have sons, and Lord Jonos, you have daughters. I am going to arrange marriage between your Houses and you will finally put an end to these hostilities."

"Your grace!" Both spoke up in protest, but Lord Bracken pressed on louder. "You cannot expect us to just end without justice-"

"Yes!" Jon shouted to the both of them. "I do expect you to. How many have to suffer the consequences for your grudges until there's no one left? The only way it ends is when someone decides to."

"You're asking the impossible," Lord Tytos began.

"Am I? The feud between your two Houses is just as famous in the North as the Forresters and the Whitehills. After the Red Wedding, The Forresters kept fighting until they almost perished, but it was Torrhen who decided to make peace for the sake of everyone's lives when he could have easily had Rodrick and his family killed. If they can, then so can you…" A festering anger swelled in him. "I'll have the marriage issue drawn up by tonight, my lords." Jon told them as he walked away from the Throne, leaving the rest of his introductions for another time. His body was beginning to shake with anger and it wouldn't do well to continue like this.

Wandering outside with Ghost and Ser Wallace trail behind him, Jon took solace in the gardens, a place he never took the time to traverse much.

He wasn't meant to be a King, he was supposed to be the Lord Commander. But it wouldn't be much longer now. Soon the dead would come and if they won, he could finally be free before the rats could have their chance to be rid of him.

Despite his thoughts and worries, Jon found himself finally able to appreciate the beauty of the gardens. His first fortnight here, he found the sweet and blissful scents too much. If he actually gave a damn about the gardens, he would have ripped out the flowers and planted trees, try to make it something that reminded him of Winterfell and the North. But now, he found it nice.

Passing under a hedge, the bliss and peace was not broken, but rather dented when the small company came to a fountain empty of water and a pair of scaffolds near the center with a stone mason on each carving at a large piece of marble. Several men and women surrounded the fountain as the work was done. The two masons noticed Jon and gasped.

"Your grace!" When the masons both bowed to him, the statue they were carving was revealed to be a man carved all the way down to his knees. Jon cocked his head when he noticed the face of the statue.

"I don't recall asking for this to be made," Jon pointed out but noticed a familiar sketch of his face nailed on a post of one of the scaffolds. Seven Hells, this was Sansa's doing. She asked for him to get a portrait made because Sam wanted his likeness depicted when Aegon the Sixth was finally recorded into the history books.

"I think it's a crime to not have done so with such a handsome face like yours," a young woman said, walking from the fountain over to him.

Jon recognized her looks but couldn't remember her name. Half the women he was introduced to at court all melded in his mind. She was golden haired, but not a Lannister, shorter than him by a finger, and quite slender. Her dress suggested a better hint, as Jon came to at least recognize the styles of each realm, and hers was from the Crownlands. The colors were bright blue with streaks of red and silver.

Greatly resisting the urge to sigh or simply walk away, Jon kept his manners together and bowed his head when she curtseyed to him. Whoever she was, she won the prize for being the first of many maidens trying to flock into his presence that succeeded. However it was noticeable that she kept a further distance from him given how much her eyes looked back from him to Ghost.

"My name is Madelyn Rykker, your grace."

"It is pleasure," Jon caught sight of a pair of girls glaring at Madelyn with daggers in their eyes. "I remember you were with your mother and father when I was crowned."

"Yes, You were quite focused that day. I think it's admirable that we finally have a man worthy of his seat and not boys who don't know the first thing about it."

"Tommen was a good King, he only had bad influences. I don't seek to slander those I've made peace with."

The notion caught Madelyn off guard and she swallowed. "Right, of course. I'm so sorry. I tend to let gossip from the other girls get the better of me."

"Your grace," Ser Wallace leaned over and whispered almost silently in Jon's ear, "pretend I'm reminding you of something important you have to do now."

"Damn," Jon hissed, playing on the suggestion, "I forgot about that." He looked at Madelyn. "Forgive me, my lady, but I must return to my duties now." he bowed his head and turned heel before she could try and suggest another get together. Ghost padded up behind them and dashed off ahead, chasing a stray cat out of a bush. "Thanks for that."

"Just doing my duty, your grace."

Jon smirked, but then slowed to a stop. Down in the lower levels of the gardens, he could see Daenerys walking alongside a man with silver hair, but it wasn't any of the Velaryons he met today. Whoever he was, he finished his conversation with her with a kiss to her knuckles followed by a skip in his step in his departure.

"If you don't mind my asking, your grace, but why are you so against a marriage to Queen- I mean, Princess- or Lady Daenerys?"

Jon looked back with a face that gave all the answer Wallace needed to know that he did in fact mind the question and never to grace the topic again.

He was not strong enough for her.

"Let's go. We have much to prepare for the selections tonight."

Sansa

Once upon a time, Sansa Stark stood upon a patio in the gardens of the Red Keep that overlooked the bay, crying at the sight of a ship departing, a ship she could have been passenger on and escaped so much of a terrible life as a hostage.

Now, she stood upon that same patio, looking out to the bay and all the fishermen and their boats. One solitary longship was departing that bore the sigil of House Stark. Upon it was a most expensive cargo of Valyrian Steel ingots, enough to pay off the Crown's agonizing debt and earn millions into the coffers. The ship would be meeting with an escort fleet of ten other ships waiting just outside the bay. No one except a select few knew what was aboard that ship. Aside from the ingots, four swords had been forged and sold, as well as the most expensive suit of armor in the world. Although calling it a suit was technically wrong. It was a coat of scales made from the legendary steel. Once these items were delivered, the debt would be paid, and the smiths who made such monumental crafts would begin working on their next task. Each of the Kingsguard were to receive a Valyrian blade of their own.

"I take it back," a familiar dwarf's voice said from behind Sansa, "brooding suits the Starks, but this blissful gaze you have suits you far better." Tyrion walked next to her and looked out too. "It's good to see someone when they're truly happy about something."

"I am not particularly happy, Tyrion. I just have nothing to worry about."

"Carefree, then. It's good for you. It makes me hate that I might be breaking the mood."

Sansa looked down to him and met his gaze. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion turned and began to walk, Sansa following close behind. "I have been meeting with my counterpart, Lord Seaworth, to discuss other possibilities of negotiation, and the disturbance King Aegon had at my best idea at the time."

Sasna had noticed in particular that when the subject of a wife and heirs came up, that was when something in him snapped and forced him to get out as fast as he could that day in the small council chamber. "I think a part of him can't let go of his vows from the Watch… well, some of them." He wore a crown and won great glory. But a wife and children…

"He is a good man. Devoted, even if some of her Grace's council have been too jaded by her other rivals' sense of deception and horrid behavior to grasp it just yet." Was Tyrion trying to flatter her or being serious? Sansa was almost convinced of the latter, but would not allow even the one who had protected her while they were married to earn her absolute trust. That was reserved for family only, and Brienne. "Perhaps a… compromise is best?"

"Do go on," she said pithily. "The last attempt did not end well as I remember." The surprise was that it was Daenerys who agreed to it first.

"King Aegon is a military mind. It is weaved into his flesh whether he likes it or not and has the highest experience fighting these dead men. Her Grace's commanders have fought human enemies and thus King Aegon holding leadership is likely the best option." He cleared his throat. "The realms have benefitted with him upon the throne. They will continue to need someone like him, a man of honor and justice, but also a man who does what's right. Anyone's first thought would make him Master of War if not the King, but only those who look see he hates the blades he holds. He would do wonders as Daenerys' Master of Law, the title will be unworthy of him."

Sansa was skeptical. "You were always the best at paying attention to people, my lord. But you're overlooking the obvious in Aegon-"

"I know he does not like it here, he does not want to even be here. But he himself said that he is where he is because he must. And if we are to truly recover from the last decade of war, then he must remain where he is needed." He paused, running a hand through his golden locks, although they were much darker than when he was arrested now that Sansa looked at them. "I'm starting to see that Daenerys needs him just as much."

They both found their way to a small stone bench, both sitting on it, alone in the gardens. It would have felt more familiar if the feeling of eyes watching were upon them. "Beric told me they met alone in the gardens after the meeting. Even with one eye, his sight is sharp. Daenerys went to Jon frustrated, but she returned with a look of melancholy upon her expression, longing even…" Trailing off, she locked eyes with Tyrion. "Is Daenerys in love with him?"

Tyrion sighed and looked over to the fountain. "I think she wants to be. She is a Targaryen, and she wants to be part of the life of her family's legacy."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you would consider that love? Jon deserves… someone seeking him, not his crown."

"I don't mean to say she only looks at Jon because he is her nephew and the one on the throne." He held up his hands, defending his Queen. "She desires love just like everyone does, and because of her past and her experiences, she is willing to accept what some would assume to be fate or destiny. But her condition prevents her from acting upon that wish with him. He is their family's future. And that duty upsets him because I believe he wants to love her as well. You don't see people look at each other that way simply because they want a political peace between them." A smile crept on Tyrion lips, "much like I doubt you stare at him longingly just because you want to fulfill your duties as his Stewardess."

Sansa blinked, eyes widening in spite of herself. "What?"

"Oh, nothing." But from the twinkle in Tyrion's eye, a hint of the Imp that had entered Winterfell long ago rather than the beaten down old dwarf that was Hand to Daenerys, his thoughts were of a rather prurient nature.

Sighing, Sansa rose from her seat, smoothening her skirts. "Perhaps I should speak with Queen Daenerys myself." Once she noticed Tyrion nodding approvingly, she asked the next part of her statement. "Do you know where she is?"

"I did hear from her that she wished to retreat to the Red Keep's library for some reason or another, ever since Missandei found that tome about the Valyrians, she's begun to pour her spare time into knowing her House like never before."

"And you're not with her?" asked Sansa, folding her arms, "because as I recall, you read just as many books as there are stars in the sky."

He shrugged apologetically at Sansa's glare. "The Queen shits, the Hand wipes. She won't call for me unless she shits."

Rolling her eyes, the acting senior advisor to King Aegon crossed her arms. "You were always short on matters of common decency, Lord Tyrion."

His brow rose. "A dwarf joke? From you, Lady Stark?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not."

Tyrion chuckled. "I'll make it, that was quite good. Subtly done, the best ones are always subtle."

Shoes clicking upon the polished stone floor as she returned to the Red Keep, Sansa knew Daenerys was in the library as the Dothraki bloodriders waited outside the main doors, adjacent to the castle guards. One of the bronze skinned men was sipping at a steaming mug of something while the other shivered, rolling a triangular looking coin between his fingers. Clearly these men were unused to the light autumn cold of these parts, but nevertheless all quite imposing. It wasn't until Sansa was a mere yard away that they noticed her. She stood strong and fierce, one of the more beneficial lessons she'd learned from Cersei. "I am here to see the Khaleesi."

She hoped she didn't butcher the pronunciation of Daenerys' Dothraki title. Without a proper tutor in the basic words, she had to guess and hope her efforts learning bits and pieces of the language were not for her embarrassment.

From the lack of snickers, Sansa mused she did alright. "Wait," one grunted, passing inside as the other stared at her. However withering the glare off one of these savage warriors was, Sansa didn't flinch. It didn't change from her determined scowl. To all but those she was supposed to charm, never break a powerful facade. Finally, he returned. "In," he said. At least these men were making the effort to learn her language as well.

"Thank you." She pressed past them, entering as her dress swished against the stone floor.

As Tyrion supposed, Daenerys was resting upon a table in the middle of the library with a book in hand and several other books and various papers before her. She wore her black dress and a woolen red cloak about her shoulders, fierce and powerfully beautiful in only the way a Valyrian could be. Jon had some of it mixed with the harsh power of the North, having been considered more pretty than handsome in their younger years, but in Daenerys the ethereal strength was pure. All evident even as she looked completely the young woman she was. It was strange to think she is just a couple years older than Sansa. Daenerys being both the powerful Queen and a slight girl, ever sweet and innocently beautiful, everything Cersei tried to be and wasn't.

Young as she was herself, Sansa wondered if anyone ever thought of her as that when she was relaxed… if perhaps Jon did in those brief times people would see each other as strangers before they were familiar.

Scratching her forehead, Daenerys sighed and raised her hands. Cracking her knuckles as she stretched… only then noticing Sansa. "Lady Stark." A tired smile spread on her face, but otherwise quite genuine.

Many women could fake such, but being among Cersei and comparing her to Daenerys, Sansa felt she could tell the difference. "Your Grace," she curtseyed. "If I may interrupt you, unless this is a bad time…"

"Not at all, come. Sit across from me." Daenerys gestured to the bench at the table, to which Sansa gladly wedged herself into.

"Thank you, your Grace."

"Lady Stark," the smile on her face became suspecting, "I thought we agreed to not be so formal when things do not require us to be."

Sansa smiled back. "That we did, Daenerys."

Daenerys giggled and nodded. "Thank you, Sansa." It lightened the slight tension between them.

"However, I must be remiss to note that Lady Missandei doesn't care for me much. Or my cousin." It still made Sansa feel quite at odds calling him her cousin. He still felt like her brother, and quite in the Targaryen sense of the word rather than the Stark. 'No, I cannot afford to blush right now.'

Wincing, Daenerys' eyes glossed over in apology. "Forgive me on her behalf. Missandei is just… quite protective of me. Only Ser Jorah has been with me for longer than her, and she's given me advice and companionship since I began my campaign to create a better life for the enslaved in Essos."

"A just campaign, certainly," Sansa admitted. What Daenerys had done was monumental in history, those which would be talked about for a thousand years next to Jon's victories. Jon would mention Sansa's as having been just as miraculous, only shrouded in the hidden subtleties of diplomacy. "Given Lady Missandei was a former slave, I doubt she would trust any other ruler to follow."

"That would be correct. If I were Aegon, I would simply give it time."

Weaving her fingers together and setting them on the table, Sansa suppressed her urges to play games with the Dragon Queen in front of her. Daenerys was not Cersei, nor Olenna, not even Lyanna Mormont. She is Jon's family, and my friend, and I am not Baelish. The Sansa that had fled Ramsay would never have taken such a risk, but the one now was able to trust another, a verified trust, but trust nonetheless. "Please do not be offended, but the same is true of the Northmen."

Daenerys blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"After all they've been through, Daenerys. The death and the wars and the betrayals, they have made the people I've grown up among, my people, as paranoid and embittered as your freedmen. They see Jon as their only champion. The Free Folk are even more loyal to him because they know he will die to protect him. He has died protecting them."

"So you are saying that they would be as intractable to me as Missandei is to my nephew."

"To put it shortly, yes. I would only be careful." She waited for Daenerys to react badly, but nothing came. The Dragon Queen seemed only to digest it, processing what she needed to.

"Thank you," Daenerys finally said. Sansa smiled warmly, glad to find someone as receptive as Daenerys. She knew many a monarch who would not only scream treason but punish the messenger. Suddenly she laughed, only for Daenerys' brows to furrow. "What is amusing?"

Sansa placed a hand on her lip to still herself, though her grin didn't leave. "It's silly of me, I've let us go off on a tangent." She collected herself and looked at the things before Daenerys. "I came to ask about what you were doing at the moment. I heard you have taken solace here and it made me curious." She gestured to the stacks of tomes that, if let grow unchecked, would soon tower taller than Daenerys herself.

"Oh." Daenerys beamed happily, her eyes animated as she gestured to the book in front of her. An ornate tome of fading black leather, decorated with silver and copper fittings. Surrounding the book were many parchments written with notes, from the looks of it, select passages that were translated over twice. "This is an old tome from Valyria, written in the original dialect of my ancestors when the civilization first began. I can hardly transcribe it myself, but it looks like my brother Rhaegar had done plenty of it." She held up a few papers at once to indicate Rhaegar's work.

"What did he study from it?"

"Well, the book itself is called Legends and Histories of Heroes. It details the First Houses of Valyria, the dragons, magics, and the most notable figures that each of these had."

"Was House Targaryen one of the first?"

"Not necessarily. The first Valyrians had only several Houses to begin with. House Targaryen was formed in the generation that followed." Daenerys turned the pages of the tome with gentle haste and stopped when she came to a page emblazoned with the Targaryen sigil, but it was more detailed than any banner was. The red, three headed dragon had subtle scales in the body and veins in the wings, the eyes glowed in the light, and the black background was a swirl of shadows. On the page opposite, there was a drawing of a tall man with Valyrian features, and in his hands was a broken sword.

"Is he the founder?" Sansa pointed.

"Yes. But the strange thing is, there is no mention of his name. His sons who brought up the House into glory are known, but not him." Daenerys turned the page, and once again, there was an image drawn of the broken sword, only now it was larger in scale and the blade had visible markings on it. "This intrigues me out of all things," Daenerys tapped on the image of the sword, "the engravings on the blade," she pulled forth one of the parchments that had a copy of the drawing, and the engraving written off to the side, "at first my brother was able to translate it to this phrase in Valyrian. The Prince who was promised shall bring the Dawn. But, Missandei was able to point out that through another dialect derived from Ancient Valyrian, the word for dawn is the same as the words 'glory' and 'King.'"

"The Prince who was Promised." Sansa repeated, bewildered by the appearance of Valyrian culture. "Was it a Valyrian or could it be anyone?"

"I don't know," Daenerys set the parchment down. "According to the priestess I met, it's been a question that many have found different answers to. First it was believed to be Stannis Baratheon, the same priestess claimed it was me, and Melisandre of Asshai believes it to be Aegon. And then there are those who believe it's not just a Prince, but a Prince and a Princess."

"There's a note written here in the book," Sansa noticed and her finger trailed over to a small collection of handwritten notes on the side of the page. "When two are one, truth is complete. I think there is more to the words on the sword, but it's written on the other half."

A subtle gust of wind blew through the windows, and it brought quite a chill with it. "Damn," Daenerys cursed at her teeth, chattering, "I'm still not used to the sudden colds here yet."

"This is only the end of autumn. Wait until the real cold comes," Sansa replied, but also feeling a great shiver run down her body despite her thick layers. That felt… odd. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

Then the warmth returned.

"I've never seen snow in my life. To think that this is not true cold." Daenerys made a face, one that seemed downright silly to Sansa, indicating displeasure. "Perhaps I should've stayed in Essos. Had you come to me."

Sansa couldn't help but smile, stifling a giggle. "Then I'd have to worry about burning my fair skin. Summer here in King's Landing was quite atrocious." Both of them let out a chuckle, everything at ease. "Given all that was said about you in Joffrey's court… he and those around him were liars, but I was worried their statements would prove true."

Daenerys raised a brow. "That I was a Mad Queen?"

"More like foreign usurper raised by horse savages and witches, leading an army of slaves."

"They're all free men."

"I know now." Sansa smiled. "I am glad that you proved them wrong."

Daenerys returned the smile with a radiant one of her own, reaching out to squeeze Sansa's hand. She felt that strange feeling again at the touch.

Margaery's teasing replayed that moment, and Sansa blushed. Turning her head to the pages. "We should get back to this."

If Daenerys looked put out, she didn't show it, starting to dig through the books and loose pages. "This, it turns out," she began as she pulled out a small red leatherbound book, "is the personal diary of Aegon's father. Rhaegar's diary."

Sansa's eyes widened. "Prince Rhaegar? May I see?"

She nodded. "Come, sit by me." Sansa eagerly did so, rushing over at the prospect of learning from the words of the man that fathered Jon. So eager was she, sitting down, Sansa essentially brushed against Daenerys quite closely. Their sides flush and legs touching. "Oh," she piped, noticing.

Sansa felt some color rush to her cheeks.

Clearing her throat seemingly just as awkwardly, Daenerys pointed to the text. "I've reached just before the tourney of Harrenhal. The one where…"

"He fell in love with my aunt." A story that was finally starting to emerge into common knowledge. Such a tragedy that Sansa herself had ensured bards in the city were told of so they could sing it to the people, common and noble. Ensuring Jon's romantic origins would be known rather than the great lie of rape and kidnapping. "What does he say?"

"Here, read for yourself." Sansa traced Daenerys' hand…

…lying here, the prophecy continues to haunt me. The son born of salt and smoke that would emerge as the one to save us all… such is what some heed of while others talk of ice and fire joining together. Extreme heat, extreme cold, not mixing but forging something of the greatest power. I am clearly of the fire, but the ice? Perhaps a Northman? A woman of the North? Someone with strong ties to their ancestral bloodlines.

I wish not to dishonor my wife, but my dreams haunt me like nightmares otherwise if ignored. My first thought is the Starks, but the only daughter is betrothed to Robert Baratheon and his temper is well known. A Stark would have been ideal, since it was Lord Torrhen that first warned my family of the threat.

Blinking, Sansa gaped as she read the lines. "What does he mean by Lord Torrhen? The King who knelt?"

Daenerys nodded. "There's a letter here I found among the pages. It's far older, addressed from Queen Visenya Targaryen to Queen Rhaenys." This time Sansa needed no prompting to read it.

You ask me why King Torrhen bent the knee so quickly and without fuss. We can boast about our dragons and our power in battle as much as humanly possible, but Aegon relates how wrong it is in this instance. The now Lord Torrhen knows of the same threat as he does. When Aegon told his bastard brother of what he saw in his dreams, Lord Snow had every name for every monster, and the name of the war that is to come. The Long Night.

Sansa gasped. "They knew even then?!"

"Even if I hadn't seen that monster, these letters confirm it. Rhaenys herself speaks of how the Dornish invasion was postponed because they felt the Long Night would come in a few years after the Field of Fire."

"Interconnected, all interconnected." Sansa shook her head. "So the romances we've spread are lies? Rhaegar only married my aunt Lyanna because of the prophecy?"

To that, Daenerys grinned and pushed the diary to Sansa. "Read on." Sansa did so, only for tears to form in her eyes.

Has anyone ever living been granted such a gift? So unexpectedly… a gift so precious that one would be willing to destroy the bonds of family and honor to hold in your arms and feel the kicks of your child under her skin?

I have, and that gift is Lyanna Stark.

She is currently with child. She thinks we conceived from our first night of love. The prophecy is set in motion, but as willing as I was to ensure hope for mankind the gods saw fit to grant me the most glorious joy of loving and being loved by Lyanna Stark…

There was more, but the relevant passages brought a soft sob to Sansa. "Jon… he must see this."

"I do hope he will," Daenerys replied, looking down at the pages with eyes that almost appeared to have the subtle hints of a broken heart. But her expression changed when she took the diary back. "There is more, far more. Rhaegar's journal speaks of so much of his own research into his dreams and the prophecies. I have written to Lady Melisandre on Dragonstone to comb through the vaults of Dragonstone for any other text that could help. It was her who sent the diary to me."

"Perhaps the truth that preserves the realm of men resides within these pages and that island… I cannot imagine losing this war. Everything we've fought for will be for naught if we lose this war."

Daenerys covered her hand, and this time their fingers weaved together, making Sansa's heart beat. "We will win this war." Meeting Daenerys' gaze, Sansa saw the same storm reflected back at her from the Dragon Queen.

"Pardon, your grace," Missandei said, her appearance was a surprise to both women, "but Lord Varys has returned from his errand and he has some urgent matters to relay from the council on Dragonstone."

I'll see him at once," Daenerys said, looking back at Sansa, "thank you for your time, Lady Stark."

"The pleasure was mine." Sansa said back, watching Daenerys and Missandei leave the Library. Sansa waved down one of the attendants. "Have these brought to Queen Daenerys' room, please." She took one last look at the many pages and notes strewn about, at the image of the broken blade and pondering all that she had learned in such a short time.