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Chapter Text

Rickon

The snow was finally starting to lighten after several straight days of it. Yesterday had been the worst, keeping warm would have been impossible had Rickon not had the company of a direwolf with him and the large brush covered in a thick layer of snow, making a perfect natural shelter.

Rickon was sitting down in front of the embers cross legged. His rabbit was cooking nicely over the glowing charcoal. It would be some time until it was ready. He was able to construct a spit from a stick and torn strips of wool from his cloak.

Shaggy had gone off to hunt hours ago. A wolf that big needed much to survive and all of the Seven hells would turn over if another one of Rickon's meals got stolen again. After the first two days of being out in the woods, it was a fast lesson learned that any saved rations had to be tucked in the deepest depths of Rickon's bag else a nosy beast would dig them out for a midnight snack.

Regardless of the storm, the fending off Shaggydog, and the cold itself, Rickon had finally felt free for a change. No more lessons that meant absolutely nothing to him, no more nagging women pretending to be his mother around him, and no more 'Lord Rickon'.

If they really wanted him back, then Jon himself would have to come and find him. But he'd already be hiding at the Wall in one of the abandoned castles. Getting there, however, was going to prove difficult as he had already nearly been caught by two hunters from Winterfell. Damn fools, did they not hear about his note? Did the command 'don't come looking for me' not mean a thing to them? Just another proof that he wasn't the real Lord of Winterfell.

A great sigh escaped Rickon as he stopped rotating the spit and layed back on his cloak acting as his bedding. His head rested easy on the fur mantle. It was so warm. Sansa really did make the best cloaks, just like their mother did.

Their mother… the memories he tried to rummage of her were blurred in his mind. He could only see a shadow being painted with details that were wrong. The same went for his father, and Robb, and Arya. It was good to know she was with Jon and Sansa at least.

Rickon shook his head. Trying to remember people he used to know was giving him a headache. If only he had Bran's power. He wouldn't have to keep wondering what his dead family looked like, what their voices sounded like…

Everything was drifting into a daze as he kept thinking… it was like falling deep into a daydream he wasn't expecting…

And then he was gone from his shelter. He wasn't underneath the canopy of brush and snow. He was out in the woods, gnawing at the bones of the elk he killed and feasted upon.

Shaggydog was content with this, being out of the stone hills his friend nestled in. Too many of the men back at the stone cave, not enough space to run and wrestle with his brother. But it was a nice stone hill. His friend was happy for a time, and that's all he cared about…

A sudden brush of the wind brought a familiar scent. Shaggydog lifted his head and sniffed deeper. It was human… not one of the hunters… younger… female… traces of bear fur… and blood.

Shaggydog sprang to his paws and began dashing through the thickness of the powdery snow and past many trees. There were many prey that fled the mass of black running through the trees, searching for the source of the scent.

And there he found it. His friend's companion that beat sticks together, she was here in the woods alone and hurt next to a fallen tree.

Shaggydog ran up to her and pressed his nose at her face, feeling the lingering warmth of her breath. The girl twitched and opened her eyes at him, startled to see.

"Shaggydog…" She smiled at him.

He had to let his friend know she was here and hurt. He sat down and craned his neck back, howling greatly through the snow.

Rickon blinked his eyes open from his dream, only to hear the echo of a howl from Shaggydog. He lay still for a moment, frozen by the realization that it was no dream. He did it. He was a warg.

His mind snapped to focus when he remembered who Shaggydog had found out in the woods.

"Lyanna," he hissed, scrambling to his feet and running out into the woods as fast as he could. Two more howls echoed from the east, not far away. The hasteful hike through the weather was hard, but Rickon's determination gave him strength to press on without slowing down.

Finally, he found Shaggydog lying down next to Lyanna Mormont.

"Lyanna!" he called, rushing over to Shaggydog. "What happened? Why are you out here?"

"Mmm," she groaned, "looking for you, but my horse threw me off and ran. I never liked riding…"

"Shush," Rickon reached under her arm and pulled her up, "You need to get warm." Rickon practically carried her through the woods while Shaggydog led the way back through the unrelenting snowfall. Rickon had never traversed this harsh of weather before, discovering just how difficult backtracking was when only after several minutes were his tracks already covered to the point of nearly being invisible.

Finally, they arrived back at his makeshift shelter. The fire was getting terribly low, nearly embers now.

Setting Lyanna next to the fire with care, Rickon grabbed his dry kindle and sticks, nurturing the flames until they grew back once again. He was going to need some heavier logs soon. Thankfully Osha showed him where to look long ago.

"That feels good," Lyanna said, sitting up and holding her hands out to the flames just as Shaggydog crawled inside and laid at the entrance, blocking out the cold. "Got to say I'm impressed how rooted you made yourself here."

"Thanks," Rickon said in surprise at the first compliment Lyanna had ever given him. "Why are you out here?" The gaze returned to him was that of someone wondering why question the obvious.

"You really think anyone was going to just obey your little note and let you wander around in the cold? Bran ordered hunters, soldiers, and even some of the Wildlings to go out and look for you."

"I figured that would happen," he confessed, "but that's not what I meant. Why are you out here without an escort? You've no tracking skill and not once did you ever go on one of the hunts since you've been at Winterfell. What made you think you could have found me alone?"

"I didn't. I got separated from my men when a damn shadowcat came out of nowhere and spooked our horses. Mine went out of control and before I knew it I was lost, thrown off, and then found by Shaggydog." She reached over and stroked Shaggy's mane.

Rickon nearly rolled his eyes. "I'm surprised you were allowed to even leave the castle grounds with this weather. Must be nice having followers who actually listen to you." He expected a scowl, but instead Lyanna looked at him with apologetic eyes.

"I wasn't going to just sit by the fire and knit myself a scarf while you were out here, was I? You're my friend, and that's enough reason."

Rickon scoffed. "If that was true then tell me one thing we've done besides train, or attend lessons, or be at court. When have you ever voiced your support for anything I've tried to do that Lady Dustin keeps rejecting? The only friends I have are the Wildings, and I can see why Jon trusts them more than his own people now."

Lyanna's composure fell to a certain tone of shame. "I'm sorry, Rickon. A lot of us are. We're both quite alike, but completely different. I've given up my childhood to be Lady of Bear Island. It was not easy, but I had to-"

"It's not about that!" Rickon exclaimed.

"Then tell me!" Lyanna said back. "Or tell someone, anyone. What is it then?"

Rickon took a moment to calm down, gathering his thoughts so things didn't become just a shouting match between them. "I'm scared, Lyanna. Being Lord Stark, becoming a soldier, having to fight the dead soon. I want to be brave but the only things I think I know how to do that can help are just a distraction for everyone else. How can I be the Lord of the North as I am now?"

Lyanna was dead silent. His words swept over her like an avalanche and it was clear that there was an air of guilt that she was feeling.

"Ahah," came a man's voice just outside the shelter.

"Hm?" Rickon began to crawl out of his shelter and saw that the snow had lightened to almost being done. But who in the North could have approached them so closely without alerting Shaggydog. When he poked his head out, he found a man wearing a heavy brown cloak clasped with a bronze sigil of a familiar looking creature standing just outside.

"Glad I found you, Rickon."

Rickon crawled all the way out and stood up. "Who are you?"

"Lord Howland Reed." He dipped his head as though it was meant to be a bow. "I have some food with me if you'd like, but by the smell of things you just finished cooking a fine rabbit."

Lyanna was crawling out behind Shaggydog in the open.

"How did you find us?" Rickon asked.

"I didn't," Lord Reed said before his eyes flashed white and seconds later a dark shape swooped from the sky and landed silently on the mantle of Lord Reed's cloak. Lord Reed's eyes returned to their normal color and he stroked at the neck of his black and brown owl. "This is Orc, one of my dearest friends. If you were to ever find yourself in want of a companion for hunting, there's none better than an owl." He smiled. "Most hunters like falcons, but owls are spirits of the night, flying silently to catch their prey. Much better."

Rickon squinted his eyes as he focused on Orc. He recognized it as a Rat Owl, but the coloring was wrong. The main feathers should be white, not brown. He must have been like Ghost, a bastard among his clutch.

"He's very lovely," Lyanna said, reaching out to stroke the bird's feathers. Getting a gentle hoot in response.

"My lady," Lord Reed dipped his head again, "good to see you are not in danger, both of you. My horse is not far. He drinks at the creek down the hill. If you would like to return with me, I would be happy to assist." He clicked his tongue and Orc took off from his shoulder and into the trees.

"What?" Rickon asked. He must have misheard the Lord. Was he just offered to be taken back or did the Lord know how to say his words right so that it sounded like one thing but meant another?

"I will take my leave, if that is what you wish. But if you want to accompany me back to Winterfell I am glad to oblige." He walked over to a snow covered rock and sat upon it. "I do apologize for my absence in Winterfell's court."

"Aye, that's right," Rickon began, remembering Meera's father more. "You were at Moat Cailin when Jon left, pushing out the last of the Freys and Ironborn snooping in the Neck."

"And less than a fortnight ago I fought with him and his aunt against a battalion of his dead creatures while the dragons fought the corpses of their kin."

"What do you mean?" Rickon asked urgently. "How'd the dead get there, what happened?"

"Everything's alright, Rickon," Lord Reed said with a raised hand. "Unfortunately the wight that the King sent for from Winterfell escaped. We met him and the Dragon Queen's hunting parties and tried to end the creature but we were late. There has never been anything more intense that I have laid my eyes upon or crossed swords with. The dead are fearsome indeed. I was glad to hear that the King has recovered from his wounds."

"Wounds?" Rickon asked. "Jon got hurt?"

Lord Reed held up a hand again, stopping Rickon's racing mind. "As I said, he's alright, Rickon. I'm happy to see that you still care about him. Word reached us that the Lord Stark was rageful at his absent family."

"I-" Rickon's jaw clenched. "I wouldn't know what's been happening, alright?" he admitted, "It's been days since I left. Whatever's been happening in the matters of the realm, I haven't the faintest. There's a relief to life that way."

"Aye, there is. Why do you think we crannogmen seclude ourselves?" Lord Reed asked with a smirk. "But we can't be absent from things for much longer, I'm afraid. Sooner or later there will come a time in everyone's life when they must make a choice between honor, duty, or desire. Your father had to make that choice time and time again when we fought in the rebellion."

That's right, Rickon remembered now. Lord Howland Reed was the one who went with Father to the Tower of Joy with the other Northmen against Arthur Dayne and the other Kingsguard, and they were the only two who came back alive. "You were good friends with my father?"

"Well, not best of friends like he was with King Robert. But after the tourney at Harrenhal, we became pleasant in each other's company. And when war broke out, I was at his side for every battle."

Rickon's fingers fidgetted. "Did he ever tell you how he felt about becoming Lord of Winterfell? He wasn't supposed to. How did he handle it?"

"It wasn't easy for Ned. He was a good soldier, but real command was new to him. I will admit that his adulthood did give him more presence than your uncle Benjen would have had he become Lord at the time." He sighed, gazing out into the snow. "But when the time came, Eddard Stark led his men without a second guess to himself. He knew the responsibility on his shoulders wasn't just to his home or his House, but his people. Every choice he made affected every one of our lives in the North. Every battle he fought, he had to make decisions that sent men to their death for the sake of others. And in times of court, he upset many men to settle disputes that pleased others. But he was true to his word, and himself, and for that he gained the greatest amount of respect the North could give."

"You make it sound easy to pick up."

Howland shook his head. "He was terrified most of the time. But he always strove onward. If you start to look back, you'll become lost." He patted his knee and stood up. "I've heard that your leadership hasn't been present because of others, so I'll simply say this. I'll wait for you in Winterfell, and if you return, I will listen."

Rickon's chest tightened. He looked at Lyanna.

She gave him a small smile. "Whatever you do, I'll stick with you."

Would two voices be enough to help raise his own though? Or would the rest of the people at court just look at them like they did at him, as children who weren't where they belonged?

"Wait," he said, stopping Lord Reed from returning to his horse. "I'm coming with you."

Jon

Moving his wrists up and down, Jon tested the maneuvering and condition of the steel plate of the gauntlets he just put on. Out of the many leftover pieces of armor that were stored in the depths of the castle, Jon was able to choose from many for the parts that fit best. The gauntlets, cops, and gorget settled just a hair tight on his body, but better too tight than too loose. He couldn't use spaulders at the cost of raising his arms up when he was to ride Rhaegal soon and neither could he take a breastplate because it too would obstruct his movement that he needed. The best he could do was to use a brigandine of Northern armor that one of the miners gladly gave to him. Altogether, he was dressed as best he could be for battle. But the problem was he didn't need to be, not yet at least.

Bran's spying did well and he was able to discover that Euron was planning to attack Driftmark and then Dragonstone before he would sack King's Landing. In a few hours, the battle that would tip the scales between men would begin. There could not be another blood filled battle with Ironborn after today. It had to end. Euron had to die.

The anticipation was killing him. But the only consolation of the moment was that the call for war had been answered and all the ships were gathering. Tyrell, Targaryen, Mooton, Baratheon, and a dozen other sigils were gathered together off the shores of Dragonstone with Yara's fleet.

It was just after midday and yet the world was darkened by the coverage of dark, thick clouds. A great chill settled in the air. It will snow tonight.

Around the Painted Table, all gathered to discuss the battle ahead, Jon stood with Yara and Theon across from Grey Worm and Varys. Davos and the Kingsguard had just landed, bringing with them the Royal Fleet.

"If it weren't for you coming," Jon said to Theon and Yara, "Gulltown could have been lost completely. How many ships did you capture?"

"Twelve," said Yara, "and we hung the captains to set an example to our new crews. Among the captured were Marlon Harlaw and Ser Dale Stonetree."

Theon added his opinion on the matter as well. "Having the heirs might be enough to either ransom for more ships or get Harras and Theomore to stay out of the next raid."

"Not likely," Yara corrected, "At the pace Euron's at, there won't be any time to make any negotiations. And he commands as much fear and respect to the Ironborn as Tywin did to Westeros."

"Once perhaps," Varys said, "however with the loss of a dragon, the hold he has over such respect and fear could very well begin to slip."

Jon took a breath. "We won't know for certain. Getting a message to the Harlaws and Stonetrees fast enough to make a decision is impossible, not to mention a death sentence to anyone who goes…"

Entering the room at that moment was Davos with Ser Beric, Ser Marcus, Ser Wallace, Ser Loras and even Lord Tyrion. But behind Tyrion was one Jon didn't expect to be here.

"I thought I put you in a cell, Ser Jaime."

"You did, your grace," Ser Jaime said bluntly.

"And I suppose you have your brother to thank for getting out," Jon said, crossing his arms and glaring at Tyrion who actually looked just as upset as he was.

"No," Davos said, "that was my doin'." he said as he came next to Jon. "He was assigned to guard Stannis during the Greyjoy Rebellion. He knows the tactics that beat Euron and any detail that might give us an edge is needed."

Yara chuckled. "The Lannisters where shattered in the Rebellion-"

"And you were only a fat little girl who hadn't even bled her sheets yet when we stormed Pyke," Jaime shot back. "You might know your uncle as a man, but I have met him as an enemy on the sea. It was only because of Stannis that we sent him cowering away."

Looking back at Jaime, Jon's jaw clenched with frustration. These were desperate times that called for desperate measures. He walked over to Jaime and reached up to his shoulders, stripping him of the white cloak. "You can keep the armor." He returned back to his place next to Davos. "I'm sorry about yesterday-"

"Later," Davos said, "more time wasted not plannin' this is just makin' the odds bigger that we're fucked."

Shaking his head of his personal feelings, Jon turned back to the battle at hand. "Thank you all for coming," he said, "I wished this alliance was under better circumstances. But nevertheless, we're fighting together."

"Any news from Driftmark?" Yara asked, voice still bitter from the insult.

It was Tyrion who produced a raven scroll and set it on the map table. "Aurane informs that the Velaryons are taking arms, five thousand strong and ready. He's sailing to rendezvous with his fleet at the utmost haste."

Jon nodded, taking heed how much stronger the world could have been the first time around, if there had been peace long enough to look for friends. "What's our disposition?"

Yara moved over to Dragonstone's place on the painted table and set five tokens of ships at the island and two at Driftmark. "As of now, we have under four hundred ships, including the Velaryon Fleet on standby at Driftmark…" She tapped her knuckles on the table. "There's not a single chance we'll be able to overpower Euron's Iron Fleet, but if we can cut off the head and the captains who support him, then his thousand ships will break to either surrender or flee." Fifteen tokens were set off the coast of the Vale near Gulltown.

"I don't think there's ever been a naval battle this size since the Rhoynish Wars," Tyrion mused. "The gods aren't making things easy."

"Euron only has one dragon left," Jon took out two of the dragon tokens and set them on their respective sides, "and he cannot be everywhere. I think he'll keep his fleet together."

Yara nodded. "Aye, one thousand ships makes for a powerful force, while any division of them stands a chance at being picked off piecemeal before he can realize either we're doing it or you are from dragonback."

Tyrion's lips pursed and he cocked his head. "We could have used my Blackwater strategy if you hadn't sent all the Wildfire to the Wall. I don't suppose there's any in King's Landing you missed?"

"No." Jon said firmly, both answering the question but also rejected the battle strategy. Wildfire was not dragonfire, it burned long to torture and make the pain last until even begging for death was impossible to do. It was an evil substance that no man deserved to die from.

"We have no choice but to attack," said Theon.

"It'll be a disaster…" Davos said flatly. "What about the bronze dragon?"

Jon shook his head. "We've lost track of Viserion. Wherever he is, I don't know. But he's not with Euron at least. We'll have to make due with one dragon." Jon had meant to press Bran or the Raven for answers about Viserion, but neither were available to him now. The situation made him worry if the dragon had also been shown his memories of before, how he died and became the mount of death. Dragons were intelligent creatures, so what kind of trauma would that inflict on one?

"According to our scouts, Euron's strung the Iron Fleet out in a long line, bulging in the center like a bird with its wings outstretched."

Yara grumbled when Davos arranged the tokens accordingly. "My uncle's favorite, making sure that he can envelop any force that attacks him, like jaws snapping shut." She grinned. "Since the Velaryons haven't yet joined up with our fleet, I suggest we take advantage of my uncle's formation before he reaches Driftmark."

Jon's brow rose. "What do you have in mind?" Yara's explanation quickly gained his approval when she moved around the tokens to present her strategy.

Ser Jaime came around next to Yara. "If his assault is to envelop, then we should detach a small squad of ships to sweep the end of the line to the north and flank from the rear. The Silence will be at the head of the attack and those furthest from it mean nothing to Euron. Stannis did a similar move that eradicated Euron's force."

Yara cleared her throat. "Ser Davos, you also sailed with Stannis during the Rebellion, didn't you?"

"Aye. There were a few of your ships I recognized even when we arrived today."

Yara nodded. "Think you can manage thirty off my ships?"

Jon's eyebrows arched and he looked over to Davos. Such an offer was not easily extended by Ironborn.

Davos eyed Yara. "It would be a pleasure, my lady." He walked over to the battle being set and started arranging the tokens. "If we strike at the northern flank, we can give the Velaryon fleet room to maneuver as well."

"Since Euron will be on a dragon, the Silence will be under poorer command." Yara set a ship token in the middle of the krakens. "It'll be leading the fleet at the center. If Daenerys is aboard, then we'll capture the ship first, get her off, and burn it into the sea. When Euron sees that happen, he'll break."

At that moment the chamber door opened, a figure entered. Jon felt a sense of relief and familiarity at the man. "Ser Jorah, I am glad you made it."

The Bear Knight was dressed in a new set of armor as well as sporting a new sword at his side, one decorated with dragons that must have belonged to a son of House Targaryen years ago. He came forward to join the meeting, taking his place next to the Greyjoys.

"It's good to see you survived, Ser." Tyrion said with honesty and not blatant courtesy. "I made sure to bring what you had left behind." He walked over to the burning hearth and leaning against the frame was Longclaw. Tyrion retrieved and offered it back to Ser Jorah who looked reluctant as he took it back.

Ser Jorah's eyes found Jon. "I heard that Blackfyre was ruined by Drogon's fire. You'll need some good steel if you're fighting."

"Jorah," Jon started but the Bear Knight did not let him finish.

Jorah held out Longclaw before Jon. "My father gave you this sword because he knew that among the men who swore their vow, you were the only one worthy to lead them all and protect the realms of men when he was gone, no matter the trial ahead. I believe in his choice, now more than ever."

Slowly reaching out, Longclaw felt… at home in Jon's hand. It had been his first victory, earning it, and to him it was his last victory, the white wolf pommel constantly reminding him that he wasn't a Stark like the ones he left behind in his time that Ned Stark would have been ashamed of. But now it was different to him, back to what it first meant. This was his blade, a true companion as Rhaegal and Ghost. "Thank you, Jorah. I shall do this blade proud."

"You already have, your Grace." Ser Jorah's brows furrowed. "Before we proceed with the battle, there was something I endured on my way here that we can't ignore."

Jon didn't feel right about his tone. "What is it?"

A sigh escaped Ser Jorah, showing his hesitancy and hurt to speak. "I encountered groups of men speaking of Daenerys. Speaking in shock that she attacked Gulltown." Jon's fists clenched, while Tyrion and Davos winced. "The Smallfolk seemed scared and confused, while a group of knights referenced the Mad King."

Yara leaned on the table. "Upfront, it is as they say. She burned a city with her dragons. There's no way to sweeten that tale favorable for her."

"It wasn't her choice," Jon reminded them. "Euron's magic controlled her and the dragons. It was all him. She was just a puppet."

Varys shook his head. "The common people won't see it that way, especially those who suffered from the attacks. Making good light of Daenerys will be as difficult as it would have been convincing Cersei to forgo her name and become a faithful Septa."

Tyrion added in his own words. "And the people are as likely to accept the truth as they would accept me as King of the World. But my father's court was the same way when the first reports of Daenerys hatching dragons reached King's Landing."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jon cleared his throat. "Talk of this is premature until Daenerys is back. The dark magic holding her enthralled was broken in the last clash. Only Drogon is still under Euron's clutches. I will keep him away from the fleet on Rhaegal. The rest is up to you all." Jon was done talking at the moment. He stormed out of the chambers just as they had begun discussing which troops would be aboard which ships. He was eager to make for his solar to brood until he had to leave.

Someone followed him, though. "Jon?" came Theon's voice.

A ghost of the past swept through Jon's body, remembering the scene that he shared the last time with Theon Greyjoy. He had almost forgotten how things ended between them, and he had to repeat his actions again. Just like when he returned Longclaw to Ser Jorah, this disingenuous feeling gripped him, but he had to do it for Theon's sake. He turned around but instead of seeing a confused and troubled man, Jon saw Theon looking at him with concern instead.

"The broken sword… Melisandre kept talking about a prophecy and-"

He shook his head, not wanting to hear it. "I don't care what her prophecies say anymore. It was all just an idea to give hope to people who had none." He said bitterly. Why all the subtlety? Why all the riddles? Why not just a straightforward answer?

Theon was silent for a moment, watching him carefully. "I've never seen you like this before."

"Because I'm tired of it all!" Jon shouted at Theon. "I'm tired of fighting, I'm tired of chasing riddles, and I'm tired of the choices I have to make!" His words actually made Theon take a step back. "I never wanted to be who I am."

"I just meant…" His former foster brother wrung his hands, wincing awkwardly. "Everything that's going on… we need you, Jon. The way everyone was talking… Daenerys needs you."

He clenched his fist and stepped forward until he was an arm's reach away. "If it weren't for me, Daenerys wouldn't be in harm's way. It's my fault. I betrayed her." That was no lie, in this life or the last one. "She gave me her heart, and I betrayed her."

"You avoided matters of the heart while we were boys, but you are no longer the bastard you were. You're a King." That Theon was correct only made things worse.

"I'm always going to be Jon Snow the Bastard."

After a moment of silence between them, a little life returned to Theon's eyes. Not the arrogant, cocksure prick he had been but clearly stronger than he had been. "Do you know what was the greatest agony of Ramsay's torture of me?"

Jon's brow rose, not entirely unsympathetic. Waiting for Theon to speak.

He didn't have to wait long. "It wasn't the blood drawn, or becoming his pet, Reek, or even watching Sansa at his mercy… It was before Sansa and I parted ways. She knew me as Theon, treated me as Theon, even as all others did so as Reek. I… didn't know who I was." Jon was silent. "I see you as stuck as I was. Not a Stark, not a Targaryen, not even a Snow."

"Theon…"

"Listen." A firm voice, one that silenced Jon. "You are the best of both of them, Jon… but right now. You must be a Targaryen."

"Why is that?"

Theon smiled whimsically, a small one. "In all my time with you Starks… I've finally come to know what it means to be one. They survive. They endure and emerge out of things that would destroy all others."

Jon would've given anything to hear his uncle's wisdom again. "And the Targaryens?"

Theon nodded. "The Targaryens work miracles. Beyond the realms of gods and men, taming creatures thought unable to be tamed. They forge something unimaginable out of nothing, through fire and blood they make the future." Reaching out, Theon clasped Jon's shoulder. "You are a Targaryen and a Stark. But the time for being a Stark will come later. You can't save Daenerys by being one. Leave the wolf behind, and be the dragon you were born to be."

It was a powerful silence that overtook Jon as the words of a man he would have beheaded without second thought or regret years ago had been said in a way that almost made him believe that Ned Stark was here in front of him.

"Theon… I can't forgive you for everything you did. But what I can, I do. You're Greyjoy and you're a Stark, and you're a brother. Thank you."

Varys

Rhaegal took swiftly to the skies after leaping from the cliffs of Dragonstone, soaring over the allied fleets of each Targaryen Faction. Oh what a sight it would have been if that many ships were heralded into King's Landing by the dragons when Cersei had Tommen in her claws.

Varys watched with a feeling of dread from the balcony outside of the castle's War Chamber, isolated from everyone else as he preferred to be now. He had such high hopes that the realms would finally see a King and Queen deserving of them would finally would and usher prosperity. Aegon was the sword and shield that only a few have ever matched upon the throne, but Daenerys was the heart and vision that those men did not have that was needed.

And now, by tomorrow, there could very well be the chance that both of them will be gone. Euron still had Drogon, the strongest of his brothers. Without Viserion to aid in the battle, Rhaegal could very well perish and Jon Snow with him. And all would be lost when the White Walkers and their army march across the lands.

Striding over to one of the finely made chairs next to the burning hearth, Varys took a seat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire.

It was getting harder by the day to hold onto hope for the future. So many bad things happening all at once. His Little Birds in Dorne had sent word that the Martell fleet was on its way to King's Landing. But whether or not to lay siege and sack the city or to wait for the victor of the battle and pick off the remnants, that remained to be seen. It was incredibly doubtful they were sailing to join the fight for the man who executed their leader, even if it was every bit justified.

If only he caught wind of Ellaria's plan sooner, he could have stopped it. But he was no Brynden Rivers. His little birds could not compare to the thousand and one eyes of the legendary Bloodraven.

All his efforts throughout his life for the realms… would they truly mean nothing in the end? Was all of it to be in vain?

Varys' thoughts were broken by the faint sound of footsteps coming from the corridor. He looked to see and found Lady Melisandre coming inside.

"Am I interrupting your solace, my Lord?" The Red Priestess asked.

"I'd be happy that you did. Time alone is proving to be worse for me than I hoped. Allowing my fears to fester in my mind does not bode well."

Melisandre took a seat across from him and stared intently into the fire. "I've never truly understood it," She said softly, "why is it that my Lord would grant me sight to see beyond the flames but not the mind to understand what I see."

Varys had it in him to smile sympathetically. "That is the curse of all mortals with or without gods to guide us. We hardly understand our own minds and intentions. How can we manage to understand another's?"

A sigh escaped the Red Priestess. "I saw Stannis standing on the brink against the army of the dead, I saw the red star forged into a sword of light… and I saw Aegon fall before the Night King." She held his gaze firmly. "I long for the voice of my lord, so that he can help me understand." Silently, Melisandre produced the broken blade that was Theon Greyjoy's until Aegon inspected it with disappointing results. "Is this what we are? Just a broken hope that is only meant to delay the inevitable?"

"May I?" Varys asked, gesturing to the broken sword. "The Queen and Lady Sansa studied diligently of the other half, following onward where Rhaegar left off in his studies."

Melisandre silently passed the blade over to him, the weight surprised Varys despite having held the lightness of Valyrian Steel before.

Varys eyed the blade, brushing his fingers over the engraved runes of the First Men, pondering Aegon's translation of them. 'The dragon shall herald the king.' What kind of riddles were these that the ancients tried to pass on to those after them? He recalled the studies that Daenerys and Lady Sansa had done together in the library of the Red Keep, picking up where Rhaegar had left off. They found the other half of the broken sword in that book of Ancient Valyria that Lady Missandei was helping to translate. So many words had their meanings evolved into High Valyrian while others remained as they were. Such a complicated thing, languages were.

How many variations had Melsiandre's prophecy gone through? The Prince who was promised shall bring the dawn. The Prince or Princess who was promised shall bring the dawn. The Prince and the Princess shall bring the dawn. Who knows what it could have been originally…

A flicker of light from the gleamed from the reflection of the blade into Varys' eyes. He looked back to Melisandre to return the blade, but found her gazing deep into the fires again, but her eyes were fixated with such focus, and the ruby of her necklace was glowing bright red.

"What is it you see?" Varys asked.

Melisandre took in a breath. "I see a young boy, held against his will by a warlock amidst a fire."

Varys' jaw tightened, as did every other muscle in his body.

"I see the warlock casting the boy's manhood into the fire… a voice speaks out to him, but I cannot hear."

Looking into the flames, Varys somehow allowed his gaze to be just as fixated, perhaps out of stubbornness to speak after the regaling of his most traumatic day. But as he looked at the flames, there was something more that filled him. The same presence that haunted him the hour his balls fed the flames of the warlock's spell before the voice came to him and spoke the words he would never forget.

Lifting the blade up, Varys studied the runes of the sword again as though they were perfectly legible than anything else he had read in his entire life. His breath became warm, filing him up with understanding and intuition to the point that he wanted to weep in sorrow and gladness.

"You found it," Melisandre whispered, "the answer."

Varys exhaled and looked into the fires, seeing beyond and finding his purpose and everything in place exactly as it was meant to be. "I believe."