cp11

Chapter 11

I was embarrassed to acknowledge my concern for Arya's return. I knew it was to happen, knew that she would return someday soon enough after Bran's own come back had happened, and though the thought was bothersome, I knew that she was a threat to my crown. With Nymeria by her side, her legitimacy would be unquestioned regardless of my assurance to her identity, and as a proven and skilled fighter she might be more desirable to the northern lords.

Obviously, this was not to be.

Arya had little interest in ruling anything, more inclined towards fighting and strategy and secrecy compared to the day-to-day politics that my throne brought me. If anything, her and Nymeria returning only strengthened my rule. Another Stark back home, another direwolf made pack again, and by the voracity of her coupling with Ghost it was thought that there would soon be more direwolves to come.

My northerners took it as a sign that things were getting better, that just as those first six pups were meant for the Stark children, so too would the next litter be meant for the next batch of Starks.

What followed was not subtle. Those long ignored inquiries into marriages at the understanding that there were more important things to do had finally begun. For myself, for Arya, for Sansa and even for Bran. We warded them off as best we could, noting Bran's status as a cripple to Sansa's status as the current Lady of Winterfell and own my young age.

Arya, however, had none of those protections.

That being said, she had showcased a savageness in a public spar with Brienne of Tarth, Valyrian steel versus Valyrian steel, and taunted those lords that wanted her for themselves or their children that they'd need to at least best her in combat before she would even consider to entertain such a proposal.

She likely expected them to back off. Brienne was among the most gifted fighters available and Arya had brought her to a draw. Northmen were an overly proud lot, and some felt that a man that could not dominate his wife was no man at all. Our father was not like this, but then our mother had been bred into the subservience expected of a highborn Riverlands lady. Had she been different, who knows what might have happened?

Regardless, her prowess with a blade would be seen by many as a slight, and my sister thought few would be willing to try at all.

What Arya had not expected was the fervor that followed, the desire for her body in a marriage bed only heightened. The training of our people intensified as the desire for her hand grew. Fantastically tall tales were told of how Arya Stark would be swooning for their growing muscles and skills at arms. How their children would be the greatest fighters in all of Westeros, boy or girl it mattered not. Proud though my northerners were, they were more interested in the betterment of their noble houses. A wife that taught their children battle was fanciable indeed.

Arya had not been amused to learn how misinformed she'd been by our mother on this topic.

Sansa and I had nearly bust a gut, however.

Just the thought of her face had me snuggling into my bed, bear pelt covers thick and warm against the cool breeze sneaking through my closed window. I pressed my face further into my duck feather pillow to stifle that growing smile sprouting over my head, and dreamt not of my sister's horrified face at the sight of a wedding gown, nor of the rambunctious lords competing in increasingly over-the-top events for her favor, but of the salty Narrow Sea and the bleak islands it housed.

I dreamt of what Weiss saw.

As a warg, realized or not, I shared a mind with my animal companion, just as all wargs did. When Shaggydog lived I dreamt of his hunts and the taste of his kills and his want to fight, and now that I had bonded to Weiss I too dreamt of her. She was carefully bred with the sole duty of travelling between the Citadel to Winterfell, but with our bond she learned to do more. Much more.

With my instruction she could not only fly as she wanted, she could also fly as I wanted. Only a week after Bran had arrived did I come up with my plan. I sent her south from Winterfell as I slept with a letter attached to her leg, Sansa's rejection of her engagement to our cousin Robert. After delivering that letter, Weiss would continue south, slowly but surely flying closer and closer towards my goal. But she was- is a smart bird and she wanted to be with me. We shared a mind, a soul even. Souls did not like to stay parted for long. She would make to fly back to Winterfell and touching though it was, it was also annoying. That meant I had to fly her even farther south with each new dream.

Who would have guessed that checking in on Dragonstone would be so troublesome?

The castle was as stark as my surname even in the veil of the night, its great towers of fused black stone wrought over a cliff riddled island of grey sand and harsh waves. I saw an army of lit torches and dancing Dothraki, I saw the orderly guards of the unsullied patrolling each and every corner of the castle, and, had I been able to sigh as a raven I would have done so, for I saw northmen camping along the edge of the beach with crates of dragonglass and various pieces of mining equipment strewn about.

Jon had not written back since he'd come south. Sansa and I had worried for him, worried for what might have happened to him. Stark men did not do well in the south, and Jon was most definitely a Stark now. Seeing my men and seeing their tools brought much relief in my mind.

Relief that was quick to be changed into something more impressive, more important.

For I saw those three gargantuan dragons sleeping along the edge of a cliff.

No descriptor could do them justice. Fire made flesh was but a paltry examination of their majesty. Drogon with his coarse black scales and great bulky body, Rhaegal with those sleek green colorings accented with bronze trim, and Viserion's cream plates and golden adornments and curved ivory horns. Few things could hope to even near their splendor, and I understood then and there that regardless of Daenerys Targaryen being mad or not she had brought genuine greatness into the world.

I did not want them to die. I do not.

I will not let that happen to them.

The thought of that alone had made racing throughout castle exterior, searching for Jon. It was a rainless night, calm winds dominating the air. I scurried around the castle for what felt like hours, searching and searching, and only stopped when I came across a smaller room in which an older man scoured over a desk and book, mumbling words as he read.

"Dah–Vos." I croaked, thanking all the gods that existed for a raven's ability to mimic sound. I pecked at the closed window glass, hoping to grab his attention.

He jerked his head up and eyed the window where Weiss was perched. "…Huh?"

"Dah–Vos." I croaked again. "Warg." I poked at the glass once more.

He blinked, then made an ah sound and walked over to open the pane. I glided into the room, observing the area. It was a small space, with only a bed and some candles and that desk in the corner, but it suited well enough and did not appear uncomfortable.

"Was worried no messages would come, though I'd thought it would be a standard raven or maybe a courier," he mused, sitting down once more. I perched myself atop his book and stared him right in the eye. "Better magic that a demon shadow, at least. Whose bird are you?"

"Ric–Kon–Stark." I answered. "Where–Is–Jon?"

Davos appeared nervous. "How do I know you're the king? Tell me something only he'd know- ah, wait. No. I don't share any secrets with Rickon, do I? Um… Something only a few folk might know, then. Trusted folk."

I wracked my head trying to think of something. Only one came to mind, and though it was cruel, it was something shared only with us Starks and Davos. Something only we were trusted to know. "Red–Witch–Burn–Shi–Reen." I told him. "On–Ly–Stag–Left."

He grimaced. "Aye. That's you then. Apologies, your grace. We can't be too careful."

"Where–Is–Jon?"

"He's safe." Davos assured me. "Safe and well. But, ah… Queen Daenerys did not take kindly to him not being a king. She took even less kindly to him asking to have her march her army to the North when she's in the middle of a war with Cersei Lannister. Jon's in a guest cell for highborn prisoners."

I squawked in aggravation. What the hell? "He–Is–Im–Pris–Oned?" 

Davos shrugged. "In a way, aye. The pair of us are. Only reason we aren't sharing a cell is because I'm not highborn enough to warrant it. We aren't doing anything about it is because they're letting us mine dragonglass, mind you. And it's not like we're not being allowed our freedoms. We can walk the island under guard and read and speak with whomever we like. Aye, we can't hold our weapons, and aye, we can't send letters. Things could be worse though. Much worse."

I fluttered Weiss's feathers and hopped around, chirping in clear frustration. The very human emotions coming from a bird had Ser Davos laughing a little. "Why–Im–Pris–On–Jon–And–Not–Tell–Me? No–Ran–Sum? No–Threat? Make–No–Sense."

"We came to Dragonstone with the wind against us, for not only were we later than we wished, we had also arrived at a poor time. From what I gathered, Queen Daenerys, just the day before we had met had, had lost her fleet of ships and her Greyjoy vassals in one fell swoop. Then Jon- he..."

"What?" 

He sighed. "Jon got a bit mouthy. Called everybody that didn't help fight the Night King squabbling children. Queen Daenerys took exception to that. Words were said, actions were taken. She had him made her prisoner and it was only Lord Tyrion that was able to make her amenable to mining the dragonglass on our behalf. Then they decided to bar us from ravenry and lettering. Figured it better to win the war to the south before dangling Jon at the North, I'm thinking."

Would this beak allow it, I would have grimaced something fierce. "What–Hap–Pened–To–My–Let–Ter–For–Queen?" 

"I'm afraid it was ruined." Davos admitted shamefully. "I tried to show it to her as we were being escorted out, tried to make her take it. Her guards would not allow me the chance and burnt it with a torch while it was still in hand. I told her that those were your words, the writ of a king meant for a queen. She didn't say anything back."

I crowed and stomped my talons against the wood of the desk, raking lined over its finish. That went against the rules of decorum. Enemies of equal rank must read words brought to them from one another, even if they be unkind. To not do so meant they would never know the intentions of their foe. That was the height of stupidity.

Often enough, houses at odds with one another wouldn't send anything in any case. The only reason they would do that would be to either taunt or to offer some form of compromise. It didn't make sense to burn my missive. None of this made sense in my mind.

But then, Daenerys was not raised in Westeros. Customs of common sense here were not the same in Essos. Especially not from the mind of a revolutionary chain-breaker.

I pecked my beak towards a fresh roll of parchment and dragged it over to Davos. "Write–Slow. Write–Nice."

"Pardon?" Davos asked, his hand ghosting over towards an ink pot and a cup of quills.

"My–Let–Ter–Is–Gone." I told him. "Need–New–Let–Ter. I–Will–De–Li–Ver–It–My–Self."

We were up the better part of the night penning that letter. Davos had the reading capability of a growing child, and his writing was even less. Rough draft after rough draft was penned, and after hours of work, grueling to Davos and boring to me, it was finished.

Come the morning, Daenerys Targaryen would have no choice but to read my words.