jboras

"No, I have not," the lady chuckled. At his invitation, she had been joining them in the vanguard, which was the only time the king really saw the lady. Which also meant that each day he had to listen to hours of Aurane's attempts to charm the she-wolf. Dae had to give her due - she was witty and quick with her answers, humoring the lord from a safe distance.

Waters cursed in faux dismay. "What a pity, my lady," he went on with a sly smirk. "Is it true then you married a wildling and slew him the same night?"

Lady Lyarra laughed lightly, "I am afraid I must disappoint you once again, my lord."

Lord Aurane snickered and tsked, "My lady, my lady. Do not tell me all the heroic tales of you; I have heard they are naught."

It was Brienne the Blue who answered, "Not all, my lord. She indeed climbed the Wall up and down." 

"You mean climbed as in -"

"Bare hands and feet." Brienne continued.

"We were not much bare, we had tools that aided us," Lady said softly.

A wave of surprise traveled through the listeners. 

"What forced you to climb it, my lady?" Ser Barristan inquired, "It’s been quite a few years, but I still remember the monstrosity the Wall is."

"Lord Jeor had fallen sick, so Allister Thorne was in charge, a sour, insipid man. I knew he would put an arrow to me the moment he saw me on the horizon."

"Did he not know who you are?" Ser Barristan was appalled.

"Of course, he did. That is why he hated me... He was a Targaryen loyalist, banished after the Rebellion."

"So he hated your father."

"Aye, good ser. He also hated that I associated with the wildlings. He claimed I had become a turncloak. Anyway, I knew the only way to go to Castle Black was if I went from the South. There was a group of wildlings who intended to climb the Wall. I joined them."

"Surely those savages did not simply allow you to be their companion." Lord Waters continued.

"Nay, they did not. They passed south to attack the Watch. I was their captive. I escaped." Not her first time being a captive, then. The king mused, keeping his gaze ahead.

"I have heard of a battle in the Wall, or was it a folly, too?"

"It was not. Wildlings, almost thousands strong, attacked from the North of it, while around 100 of them attacked from the South, the same ones that I climbed the Wall with." 

"How tall is the Wall?" Daeron's curiosity got the best of him; his gaze kept ahead.

"A foot or two shorter than the Great Pyramid of Meereen." His loyal knight answered. "And fully made of ice. It melts from time to time, cries like a mourning crone. The big chunks of it often fall off. Climbing it," he huffed in disbelief, "a quiet ordeal."

Lady Lyarra only shrugged it off. 

"And, my lady? Please, do not hold it on me now. Tell me how the battle went."

"It went on for six nights and five days. It was harsh, bloody, but we held the Wall until my king brother arrived with the Northern army..."

His companions continued pestering the lady about the tales of the North. Daeron made a conscious effort not to listen or join, as he had in the past few days. He had more pressing matters to contemplate than the lady who oft thought the worst of him in every situation. Dae recalled their last conversation when she had sought him for one of the wildlings he had freed. The king remembered the trace of disbelief on her face when the truth of the wildlings had been revealed. The Dragon King had been misunderstood, undervalued, and disdained most of his life. Thus, it was not rage he felt, it was more of a bafflement, a shadowy reminder of his earlier days as ruler when he had been questioned and dismissed like a boy. A treacherous voice in his mind kept telling him the lady's ill disposition was simply a misjudgment of his character, as his conversation with Rhaegar came to him. His brother had left on Viserion a day before to join his main strength in Stormlands. The prince was going to lead them westward into the Lion’s den, while Daeron united with a smaller part of his troops, led by Ser Davos.

"Skore gaomagon ao iotāpagon dubāzma, lēkia?" What busies your mind, brother? Rhaegar had asked him while they were walking up to the dragons. 

"Daoriot ofos realmos, lēkia." The matters of the realm. Dae had said, eyes focused on his slumbering children. At the sight of the men, the creatures lifted from their rest and greeted them with excited screeches. 

"Iksā daor iā sȳz pirtirys, Dae." You are not a good liar, Dae. The young man scoffed and glanced sideways at his brother. Rhaegar did not humor him. "Rual nyke naejot gīmigon," Allow me to guess. He looked back in the direction of the camp. "Issa se zokla." It is the wolf.

Dae did not answer. "You should be able to hold civility." Dae opened his mouth to reply, "Not for now. For the days after we defeat the lions and their allies."

"I tried, Rhaegar."

"Perhaps, you should try more with a true effort from your heart." He said in his usual iron tone, joined by his glance carrying countless reminders. 

"If my Hand says so." 

"Invite her for a cyvasse match. The lady told me she is fond of the game…"

As the sun began its descent, the Targaryen army broke camp. The king had sent an invitation to the lady through Missandei, and she had accepted. Right on time, the guard announced her arrival. Lady Lyarra entered the tent dressed in a brown wool dress that covered her skin, hugging her figure. Her hair was held half up in multiple twisted braids. 

"Good evening, Your Grace. Thank you for your invitation." Her eyes were steel grey in the candlelight. Unrevealing yet uncruel. 

"Welcome, my lady. I have heard you are an enjoyer of the game. I hope I was not mistaken."

"You weren’t."

"Excellent. My lady, would you have a cup of wine?"

"Thank you, I would."

As they settled around the table, a queer silence fell between them with the board of cyvasse standing on the table.

"I have never seen a scarlet and jade combination of cyvasse pieces." She was the first one to break the silence, starting to arrange her jade figures on the ivory board.

"This was a gift from the Pureborn of Qarth. One of the earlier gifts I received that I still carry with me." He moved his own scarlet pieces. The king loved the game, mostly playing with his brother, who never shied away from challenging the young man. Cyvasse was an intriguing game of war; the strategy began even before the play, with the replacement of the figures. With this in mind, the king placed the pieces in his favorite strategic way. 

"Shall we begin?" He asked. 

"We shall."

"Your move, my lady." The first minutes of the game passed quietly as the players concentrated on their games with careful civility. 

"Heed caution now, my lady," Dae said with a smile, eyeing the opportunity to snatch one of her elephants.

"Oh, no need to worry, Dragon," she replied with a laugh in her tongue. She moved her heavy horse ahead and snatched his two elephants. Dae's next move was to put his rabble around her elephant and snatch two of hers. A smug smile grew on her lips as she raised her eyebrows.

"My lady?" Dae inquired with an arched brow.

"Your Grace," Lyarra said and put the jade trebuchet right in front of the scarlet dragon, trapping his most powerful piece between catapults and heavy horses in the next two moves - a maneuver he had not anticipated. Seeing the surprise on the king's face, the lady giggled, covering it quickly behind her hands.

Daeron recovered fast. With his next move, he entrapped her king with his spearmen. "Now, my lady, what will you do?"

She hummed, focused, and finished her cup. "I'd like another cup, Your Grace," she put, her face a perfect mask once again, revealing naught.

"Then you shall."

 A minute stretched feeling longer than it was while her hand hovered over jade rabble. Brows drawn together, she changed her mind and placed her light horse left to his trebuchet, directly blocking his shot at her dragon. 

"Where have you learned to play the game, my lady, if I may ask?"

"From a Dornish acquaintance, Your Grace."

"Not a friend?"

She hesitated. "It is hard to make true friends in our times."

Dae sighed, feeling the truth of her words in his chest as he pushed forward the scarlet crossbowmen. "Don't I know it." He mumbled.

"You seem to have true friends among your ranks," She had heard him. Daeron took a moment to consider the statement. He had loyal captains, devoted soldiers, but they were his followers at the end of the day. Could someone be a friend to another without being an equal? He wondered as she made her move.

"I have loyal people among my ranks." 

"They say the higher one stands, the lonelier one gets. I have seen it with my brother."

Dae hummed, realizing this was their most civil moment yet, except for the rushed conversation after the storm in the healer’s tent. "What about you, my lady?"

"I’d like to believe I have true friends."

He hummed, "Yet you are not quick to trust," the king said, removing her rabble. 

"Neither are you," she removed his crossbowmen.

"True. But I rather believe in people, give them a chance before condemning them to an iron judgement."

"That’s a dangerous habit for a king. Suspicion brings protection."

"Over suspicion brings misjudgment." He knocked over her catapult.

"I’d rather be safe than right." You’d rather hate me for my name than see me for who I am, he mused bitterly. 

The next hour passed with easier conversation, mostly about the army’s recovery after the retched storm. Daeron, with a surprise, realised he quite enjoyed playing with the lady, for she matched nail to nail with the king, maneuvering and playing him smartly. Yet at the end, it was the young man who took down the opponent’s jade dragon.

"Well played, my lady. You did not hold back."

"You sound surprised."

"I am ... only slightly. Most people would rather lose to me so they’d sing me praises. But I should have expected the difference from you."

"Well, expectations can be a tricky business, Dragon. And a dangerous one." 

"Perhaps," He smiled kindly. "Yet I expect we are to play again."

Lady Lyarra scoffed, "Of course. I have a score to settle, Your Grace."

The next day's march was fast and efficient under the relatively warm autumn sun. When the moon hung high, they settled around the table as on the night before. The young nobles changed the colors this time: Lady Lyarra played scarlet, while the King played jade. 

"You were very witty on the board yesterday, Dragon. I mean to repay the gesture."

Dae laughed lightly, "Be my guest, wolf." 

The wolf kept her promise: the first hour of the game passed fast as she came at him with all the vigour. It was thrilling to play against a true match, the king realized as the lady trapped his dragon between her spearmen.  

"Do not fret badly, Targaryen," her voice was full of smugness, "you have played well so far. Your loss will not be humiliating." She pushed her elephants ahead.

"The game is still on, my lady." 

Her laughter was formal, not reaching her eyes. Placing his heavy horse right before her catapult, the king watched her reaction to be rewarded by her surprise. She had missed the opening. Lady Lyarra hummed. "It seems we will still be here for a while."

"Yours was a clever strategy."

"But you figured it out."

He pulled his light horse back, "The Battle of Redgrass, was it not? "

She paused, hesitating, "It was."

"You were going to smash my pieces between your spearmen and crossbowmen like the Anvil and the Hammer." He chuckled. "Do not be so surprised, my lady. I know my history."

"Not many people do."

"I am not many."

"Oh, believe me," she placed her rabble in front of his trebuchet, "I know."

"My brother has mentioned you are fond of reading. I did not know you were a lover of history." 

"I learned what I can, Your Grace. To serve my house with the best of my abilities."

"As I know, you have. Your brother tricked Lord Tywin in Riverlands, did he not?"

"Oh, that was all my brother. He is a good commander." She did not say it as a praise; she stated it simply as a fact. 

"The realm needs good commanders."

The silence that followed was loud as Dae could practically hear her thoughts. The wonder engulfed him. What was she thinking? And why did he need so desperately to know? She looked like a statue carved of finest marble in the candlelight. Her raven hair in braids poured on her back like a molten obsidian. She was draped in brown attire, a perfect contrast to her milk-pale skin. Her cheeks and claw scars across her forehead and eyes had reddened slightly - wine was to blame, Dae believed, observing her blush the last two nights. Her eyes, however, he had a hard time swaying his gaze each time…

"Your people sing praises to your command." Her voice brought him back to the moment," I have heard many boast of your Battle of Fire."

"It was a brutal fight." Daeron resumed playing.

"Are they all not?"

"This one was… more," they both paused playing, attentions lurching onto one another instead of the game. 

"One of your Dothrakis said it was the first time you charred into battle on a dragon's back."

Dae heard the unspoken in her words, "If you mean to ask me whether I burned my enemies on the ground, yes, I did. I do not claim absolute rectitude, my lady. I never have…" He paused, inhaling deeply. "There is way too much blood in my hands for me to claim so... When I united the Dothraki, I killed thousands of screamers. I first killed their khals before they could kill or sell me as they had intended… Most of their followers joined me after their deaths. The rest refused to bend the knee and forgo their ways of pillaging, slaving, raping. They chose to fight me. They gathered and waited for me in the outside gates of Vaes Dothrak. The lands are considered holy; it's forbidden to carry steel, but they figured out a way to spill blood. Battle went on for three days and nights... By the end, 14 Khalasars had been wiped out altogether... That means almost 100,000 screamers fell." The king saw her breath catch. "But that day, I freed 900,000 slaves."

"For every life you took, you saved 9," She said after a moment. 

"Yet I still took those lives. And many, much many more in my path to end slavery in Dragaon's Bay, Volantis, and Qarth."

"Yet you saved more lives than you took." It did not sound like an assurance. The words were laced with more unsaid meanings. 

"You have never held out on your words before, my lady. Do not begin now."

Lady Starks paused briefly; Dae observed a storm brewing in her eyes. "When you alter or take millions of lives, when you claim and conquer while you fly above them all, it is easy to forget you are a man. Targaryens, even when they had lost their dragons, always believed themselves to be above men. Even above Gods."

Dae hesitated as the words hung between them and soon broke into bitter laughter. "You fear I believe myself to be a God, my lady."

"They say you walked into roaring fire with stoned eggs and came out unscathed with three dragons."

"They say true." She raised her eyebrow to indicate this proves her point. "I never had the luxury to feel invincible, Lady Lyarra. I do not know what you reckon of my upbringing, but allow me to tell you that, unlike my ancestors, I did not grow up as a prince of my House. In the humiliating life that Viserys and I led, our title often damaged us more than aided us. My brother failed to humble his arrogance throughout it all. He believed himself to be the dragon." Dae had to momentarily break eye contact, remembering all the times he had accidentally woken the dragon. "For that, he faced an end I do not wish on my enemies…” The amethyst eyes found the greys, “I am... conscious of the weights of my deeds. I carry them alongside the burden of my name... Have you ever seen 100,000 people gathered in one place? It's hard to fathom to-"

"I have," she cut in. "There were more than 100,000 wildlings who attacked the Wall. I stood on the top of it for days, holding them back... They tried to climb it and break the gate. We had to -" she cleared her throat. "It was not a simple battle - we had to use different means to hold them back." She lowered her gaze to her folded hands on the table. 

"I do not enjoy killing," he said earnestly.

"Neither do I."

"I equally dislike fighting itself."

"I, as well," she said softly but firmly. "I wanted to be a healer. I was trained to be one by our Maester Luwin until the war… There are not many opportunities for a bastard girl. Father was content I was pursuing such a valuable craft." Shaking her head, she resumed playing.

He smiled slightly, hoping the change of topic would ease both of their nerves. "Do you still wish to become one?" he pushed his heavy horse ahead.

"If I survive the wars." She mumbled. "I shall bear my sword for now." She said louder.

"I hear you are rather skilled with arms, my lady." 

"I hear the same for you."

"Some even call you 'Visenya Come Again'"

Lyarra scoffed. "Well, I lack a dragon."

"Yet you carry Valyrian steel as she did," Dae snatched her catapult from the board.

"Oh, please," with her next move, she removed his elephant, "I assure you, Your Grace. I have no notions of becoming a queen."

The conversation soon died as the game got more heated. They were too occupied with their pieces to initiate further inquiries. A handful of minutes later, Daeron found his king trapped between her heavy horses and ramble, while her dragon was in direct fire line of trebuchet and catapults.

"We seem to be equally at another's mercy," the lady said with a small smile.

"That we do. A draw perhaps?" He suggested expecting her to refuse and opt to continue the game until they have a concrete winner.

"A draw it is." His brows rose high, "Do not be so surprised, Dragon. I am not a simple savage who only fights. I know when to put down my sword."

"I never thought you were."

She chuckled humorlessly, "You are not a good liar," she said, getting to her feet.

That night, when the King fell to his bed, sleep failed to find him as it usually did. He kept replaying his conversation with the lady. She was right, maybe he did believe her to be… rougher. In the same way, she believed him to be cruel and fearsome. He was fearsome; Dae had to accept this about himself a long time ago. People who had looked at him with adorned eyes were in Essos. Here in Westeros, the adoration was scarcely given. All he could hope for was acceptance, and perhaps in time, his people would find it in their hearts to spare a prayer for him.

Cruelty, however, was not a face he could digest to wear. Dae grew up knowing cruelty. His childhood, innocence, and all had been taken away with cruelty. So were his child and his wife. He had picked up a sword to escape the cruelty. He had walked into the burning pyre to cease the cruelty that followed him since his birth.

Yet when his children were born, more violence had found him and the ones who followed him… Red Waste… Qarth… Astapor… Yunkai… Meereen… Volantis… and now Westeros. She reckons I believe myself to be a God. What sort of God is often as lost as I am? Or as lonely as I am? What sort of Gods fear the winter coming? Feels crippled for the end is approaching? What sort of Gods crave a drop of warmth from the eyes of a loved one?

As the sleep claimed him, the prophecy of Others and princes haunted the young king’s dreams till the morning. 

On their third night of playing, they once again flipped the colors. Starting the game with his scarlet light horse, it was the king who initiated the conversation.

"I hear you received… a letter from your brother. Delivered by an owl, I believe."

"I did, yes."

"I hope it carried good news."

"Oh, the best," a genuine smile bloomed on her face, catching Dae off guard. "My sister Sansa has been found in Gulltown."

"Wonderful news, my lady. I hope she has not been harmed?"

"No, Your Grace. My brother says she was unharmed. It was she who gathered the guards and opened the gates of Gulltown so that Blackfish could take the city." Her voice dripped with pride.

"That was brave of her." She nodded with a small smile and played her jade piece. "Will she join your brother?"

"Oh, no. She is already on her way to the North. Lady Stark will be awaiting her in the Neck from there; they will finally go home." A quiet sadness laced her words.

He smiled. "May I ask you a question, my lady?"

"Since when do you seek permission to ask?"

He chuckled. "The letter I was told was delivered by an owl." She nodded. "I did not know they could be trained."

"Owls can not be trained, wargs can."

"I am afraid I do not know what that is…” The next few minutes passed as Lyarra told him various legends of skinchanging and wargs without giving much or any real detail about the process.

“Does this mean,” Daeron moved his dragon ahead, “the tales of your brother turning into a wolf during the battles are true?”

She chuckled, her eyes trained on the board, “Mayhaps, Your Grace.”

“You have a wolf yourself,” he stated more than asked.

She raised her gaze from the board and crooked her brow, “Are you worried I will turn into a wolf?”

“Not much. Shall I?”

The lady hummed, holding her jade dragon, “Mayhaps, Your Grace,” she echoed. “Dragons rule the skies, yet in narrow paths and thick woods, it’s the wolves who determine who keeps life,” she moved her dragon, “and who does not.”

The light threat amused him, “Paths can be ruined and woods burnt.”

“Aye, next to every other thing on the ground. Fires do not choose and pick when they rain, but fangs target what they tear.” She snatched two of his spearmen off the board.

He chuckled lightly, amused further at being so openly challenged, “How did you become with wolves, my lady?”

“We found them in Wolfswood. Their mother had been killed by a stag, yet managed to give birth.”

“Did your other siblings have one?”

“Aye, all of the Stark children. Mine, Robb’s, and Rickon’s are full-grown. Bran’s disappeared with him.” Her voice thickened with each word, “the girls – Nymeria, Arya’s wolf shall be still alive. Lady, Sansa’s wolf, was executed because of Joffrey. Sansa had cried for weeks. Every letter she had sent me, her words were smudged with her tears.” Lady Lyarra did not meet his gaze.

"As I know, it has been years since you last saw her."

"Yes," the sadness reached her grey eyes, brightening them so earnestly it almost hurt Dae, "she was two and ten when they departed for King’s Landing. A child… Ser Barristan said she was by our father’s side when Joffrey took his head." Her voice hardened as the steel in her eyes. "We know they… hurt her. Lannisters humiliated and beat her in the court and did worse… before the realm."

"At least, she is safe now, my lady."

Her hum was full of distrust. "What about Tyrion?" Her eyes drilled into his, a pair of grey ice chips. "He has been noticeably absent by your side."

The king inhaled deeply. They had relative peace for two nights. A delicate truce they both knew would come apart. "I understand your hatred -"

"How much do you know of the Red Wedding?"

"I believe a little."

"We were invited to a wedding. Guest right is held holy in the North. We had eaten their salt and drunk their water, Dragon. Robb had married Lord Frey’s daughter, yet it was not enough before the gold of the Lannisters. My brother’s wife, Roslin, was with child," she breathed in deeply as the grim began in his heart; he knew where the tale was going to take him. "They were going to kill off my brother, me, and Rickon, leaving Roslin’s child as the heir. Tywin was going to get broken North, Walder was going to get a Warden grandchild… the Gods are funny sometimes, it was his second son Emmon who conspired with his bastard brothers and Boltons against his father’s plot and… went for Roslin. They stabbed her belly, killing Robb’s child before our eyes. They put many arrows in my brother, and an axe on my shoulder… Guest right is one of the holiest virtues in the North,” she repeated, her face hardened. The lady moved her jade piece and clutched her fingers together on the board. “They broke it. If it were not for Lord Reed and his crannogmen, we would all be dead." The ice laced her words. “Turns, while Tywin was giving promises to Walder, he was promising Twins to Emmon in exchange for the end of Robb’s line.” Her eyes pierced into his.

“There is no excuse or justification for what they did. I am sincerely sorry, my lady. I lost a child and wife to a betrayal. I share your brother’s pain.” He said through his rage. He had heard of Red Wedding; however, the details had changed and varied from one mouth to another.

 “Oh, that is not all, Your Grace. Do you know what they said while they put knives to Roslin’s unborn babe? They said, "Lannisters send their regards". Now tell me, Dragon, what would you do if it were your brother and your brother’s who faced the betrayal mine did?" She shook her head with a pitying smile, "But it was your brother, was it not, and your brother’s children."

“You forget yourself, Lady Lyarra.”

“And you forget your own words, Your Grace. Was it not you who kept demanding that my house remember our ancient history?”

“You know very well my request of your fidelity is not comparable to your wish for revenge.”

“I must disagree, Your Grace. We do exactly what you ask us – ” 

“By claiming that I forget how the end of my family was brought?! I grew up with the tales of Usurper and his dogs, Lannister and Starks.” Lady winced at the words, “Who stole our throne, murdered, brutalized my family.”

None of them was speaking quietly now. “Then why do you still ally with a Lannister?”

"Because each time someone looks at me, the first thing they see is Mad King’s son. I know what is to be judged for the crimes and sins of your family. The reason I had aligned myself with Tyrion was that he had so far proved loyal,” she opened her mouth to argue. The king raised his hand in the air to continue in a calmer tone. “However, what you brought to my attention about Lord Tyrion’s devotion to his family changed my stance on the opinion I had of him. I cannot and will not dismiss a man for the crimes of his past when he begs for change –“

“You are being naïve –” she bit back.

“I am being reasonable. If my memory serves me well, it was you who told me you used different means to win against the wildlings.” Her face hardened more as her jaw clenched.

“I was at war.”

“So was he when he stood by his family’s side.” She shook her head, discontent dripping from her every inch.

“What did you do to the murderers of your child and wife?”

“I avenged them without punishing their family for it.”

“My dislike of Tyrion is due to his actions, Your Grace. The things he did in the name of House Lannister. The things he is capable of doing.”

“To be truthful, my lady,” he said, sharper. “What you have informed me about him has draped a shadow on the trust I have for Tyrion. Yet I refuse to dismiss or punish him unless he wrongs me directly. Similarly, how I refuse to judge him simply for his family name.”  A mixed group of emotions passed across the young woman’s face in the split second her mask was cracked, from surprise to disapproval to estimation.

“I am not blinded by revenge.”

“You sound as if you are.”

“My family is all I have. Not my name, not my sword, not my prospects. It’s my family that I have, and I will protect them.”

“No one expects otherwise.”

“I am a daughter of Eddard Stark, Dragon. I know honor and righteousness. I also know that honor did not help my father in the steps of the Sept. Neither did the same righteousness protect my brother from Freys and Bolton’s betrayal.” She paused, “Ser Barristan says you oft found yourself in trouble because you did not spare your mercy only for the worthy but for the unworthy, too. It seems to me you are yet to grow out of it.”

“I thought I was a God who believed himself above all men, not a faulty man who spreads mercy.”

“Gods spare us mercy, do they not?” She said, getting up to her feet.

"Where are you going? We have not finished the game."

"We have. Look down, Dragon. I have your king.” She curtseyed half-heartedly and left.

She moved on to the cradle closer to the fire. Her little girl loved the warmth, always edging to be closer to the fire. Arra knelt next to the babe. My beautiful pup. Skin glowing as bright as the moon above. She started taking off some layers of clothing. The night was not cold enough to be buried in these furs, even though her girl would have loved it. She lastly removed the hat. In an instance, Arra froze. Unable to move, she stared. At her daughter's hair. A bucket of cold water was poured on her, then a bucket of hot. She stood and she stared.

She was not standing in the tent anymore. She was back into her mother's arms, being carried to her bed. She smelled the storm and rain… The dark walls of the fortress… the crinkling light of the torches… and laughter… so much of it…

Murmuring something to Willa, like a bullet, she left the tent. Started running or going. Or was she walking? She wasn't sure. She wasn't even aware of reaching the end of the camp until Tormund stopped her.

"What's wrong, crow? You're shooting ‘roun the camp. Where at this hour?"

"Godswood"

Tormund stared worried. Arra sighed, trying to look tired, not at the edge of a breakdown.

"I need to pray. I have Ghost with me. Do not fret."

She left without waiting for his response. True to her word, Ghost appeared the same minute. She took off once more. Running as fast as she can. For minutes. Maybe for hours. Until she saw the Godswood.

Getting closer to the biggest tree, she knelt and began to weep. She wept, and wept more. Prayed and sobbed. Prayed a little more and sobbed much more.

Arra felt Ghost's nudge in her hip. As if waking from a dream, she looked around her, taking notice of her surroundings. How long was she there? She did not know. She slowly became aware of the silence of the Gods, slow winds, and bone-clenching freeze of air. Turning back to Ghost, her heart filled with guilt. Ghost was looking at her with deep, sad eyes.

"Do not worry, my friend. I am alright."

As she said the last word, she remembered why she ran, why she wept. Her body started to tremble, shaking more every moment. Fear. Pure horror filled her every sense. Her daughter… did not take after her father. Her blond is not as honey as Val's was. Her girl took after Arra's own father, sire. Valia's hair was shining silver beneath the moon.

"Gods… help me. Fear for my girl. For my children. I beg. I beg do not let them have my fate… my uncles' fate… I will persevere. I will fight. I will survive. I will do what I shall and more to give them a home. Help me, my Gods. Give me the strength to make it through. Show me the path. I have lost my way. I am ready to fight. Yet I am lost between fights."

She thought back to her recent years. All the struggle. Loss. Pain. Fight. The loss of her family, her purpose, her fight, her love… all she has now is her two babes and fights centuries old, battles millennia deep.

Ghost snuck closer as of shielding her from the world.

"I will bear it all, Ghost. I will endure. I am the blood of the Kings of Winter, First Men. I am the daughter of She-Wolf and Last Dragon. I am the blood of Old Valyria and Dragons. I will endure. So will my children."

She thought back to her girl. Her hair shining as silver as the moon itself. Silver that is only seen in the moonlight. Many thought of Val's blonde when they saw her girl’s pin straight hair. But she knew better. It was the same silver as her best friend's. The subject of her warmest memories. Her Dae… Her Daeron.

Now she was taken back to Dragonstone once again. Her mom was carrying her to her bed. Dae, running and giggling after her, jumped on the bed. Without a word, the kids snuck closer as Lyanna gazed at them with the warmest eyes. Laughing:

“What have you done to Viserys again?”

Daeron’s only response was his giggles. So was her own.

“Children.” Lady Lyanna chastised them. Yet Daeron jumped in before she could continue further.

“He deserved it, Lya. He was calling Vissie a bad word.”

After a moment of hesitation, Lyanna argued.

“He is your older brother, you should show him respect…”

“Viserys is right then, mama? I am a dragonspawn?” She had uttered in a small voice.

“Of course, not.” Her mother said fiercely with a hint of anger. “You are the princess of House Targaryen, the daughter of the Last Dragon. You are Visenya Targaryen. And you will be just as fierce and as brave as the first Visenya was once. I will speak to Viserys and teach him his mistake. Yet you shall remember we are a family. When the snows fall and the white winds blow…”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” the children said in unison.

And that night, Lady Lyanna told them the tale of the quiet and wild wolf from Winterlands.

Visenya Targaryen. That was her true name. A name that she hasn’t uttered in 12 years since she was torn from her mother and her home. She had been Arra Snow too long to know the Visenya. Wrath of winter has shushed and drowned her dragon blood. The secret was buried with her father, Eddard, her uncle in truth. Yet the Gods were playing their games. Decades of burying her grief, pain, and rage, just to bury Princess Visenya Targaryen. Years of forgetting, not allowing herself to remember, just to give Bastard Arra Snow a life.

And life had played its worst trick on her. As their Stark blood was not enough for their lives to be under danger every moment, now her children were at the risk of being hunted as Targaryens.

And all she could do was stand and leave the Godswoods.

And persevere.

"No, I have not," the lady chuckled. At his invitation, she had been joining them in the vanguard, which was the only time the king really saw the lady. Which also meant that each day he had to listen to hours of Aurane's attempts to charm the she-wolf. Dae had to give her due - she was witty and quick with her answers, humoring the lord from a safe distance.

Waters cursed in faux dismay. "What a pity, my lady," he went on with a sly smirk. "Is it true then you married a wildling and slew him the same night?"

Lady Lyarra laughed lightly, "I am afraid I must disappoint you once again, my lord."

Lord Aurane snickered and tsked, "My lady, my lady. Do not tell me all the heroic tales of you; I have heard they are naught."

It was Brienne the Blue who answered, "Not all, my lord. She indeed climbed the Wall up and down." 

"You mean climbed as in -"

"Bare hands and feet." Brienne continued.

"We were not much bare, we had tools that aided us," Lady said softly.

A wave of surprise traveled through the listeners. 

"What forced you to climb it, my lady?" Ser Barristan inquired, "It’s been quite a few years, but I still remember the monstrosity the Wall is."

"Lord Jeor had fallen sick, so Allister Thorne was in charge, a sour, insipid man. I knew he would put an arrow to me the moment he saw me on the horizon."

"Did he not know who you are?" Ser Barristan was appalled.

"Of course, he did. That is why he hated me... He was a Targaryen loyalist, banished after the Rebellion."

"So he hated your father."

"Aye, good ser. He also hated that I associated with the wildlings. He claimed I had become a turncloak. Anyway, I knew the only way to go to Castle Black was if I went from the South. There was a group of wildlings who intended to climb the Wall. I joined them."

"Surely those savages did not simply allow you to be their companion." Lord Waters continued.

"Nay, they did not. They passed south to attack the Watch. I was their captive. I escaped." Not her first time being a captive, then. The king mused, keeping his gaze ahead.

"I have heard of a battle in the Wall, or was it a folly, too?"

"It was not. Wildlings, almost thousands strong, attacked from the North of it, while around 100 of them attacked from the South, the same ones that I climbed the Wall with." 

"How tall is the Wall?" Daeron's curiosity got the best of him; his gaze kept ahead.

"A foot or two shorter than the Great Pyramid of Meereen." His loyal knight answered. "And fully made of ice. It melts from time to time, cries like a mourning crone. The big chunks of it often fall off. Climbing it," he huffed in disbelief, "a quiet ordeal."

Lady Lyarra only shrugged it off. 

"And, my lady? Please, do not hold it on me now. Tell me how the battle went."

"It went on for six nights and five days. It was harsh, bloody, but we held the Wall until my king brother arrived with the Northern army..."

His companions continued pestering the lady about the tales of the North. Daeron made a conscious effort not to listen or join, as he had in the past few days. He had more pressing matters to contemplate than the lady who oft thought the worst of him in every situation. Dae recalled their last conversation when she had sought him for one of the wildlings he had freed. The king remembered the trace of disbelief on her face when the truth of the wildlings had been revealed. The Dragon King had been misunderstood, undervalued, and disdained most of his life. Thus, it was not rage he felt, it was more of a bafflement, a shadowy reminder of his earlier days as ruler when he had been questioned and dismissed like a boy. A treacherous voice in his mind kept telling him the lady's ill disposition was simply a misjudgment of his character, as his conversation with Rhaegar came to him. His brother had left on Viserion a day before to join his main strength in Stormlands. The prince was going to lead them westward into the Lion’s den, while Daeron united with a smaller part of his troops, led by Ser Davos.

"Skore gaomagon ao iotāpagon dubāzma, lēkia?" What busies your mind, brother? Rhaegar had asked him while they were walking up to the dragons. 

"Daoriot ofos realmos, lēkia." The matters of the realm. Dae had said, eyes focused on his slumbering children. At the sight of the men, the creatures lifted from their rest and greeted them with excited screeches. 

"Iksā daor iā sȳz pirtirys, Dae." You are not a good liar, Dae. The young man scoffed and glanced sideways at his brother. Rhaegar did not humor him. "Rual nyke naejot gīmigon," Allow me to guess. He looked back in the direction of the camp. "Issa se zokla." It is the wolf.

Dae did not answer. "You should be able to hold civility." Dae opened his mouth to reply, "Not for now. For the days after we defeat the lions and their allies."

"I tried, Rhaegar."

"Perhaps, you should try more with a true effort from your heart." He said in his usual iron tone, joined by his glance carrying countless reminders. 

"If my Hand says so." 

"Invite her for a cyvasse match. The lady told me she is fond of the game…"

As the sun began its descent, the Targaryen army broke camp. The king had sent an invitation to the lady through Missandei, and she had accepted. Right on time, the guard announced her arrival. Lady Lyarra entered the tent dressed in a brown wool dress that covered her skin, hugging her figure. Her hair was held half up in multiple twisted braids. 

"Good evening, Your Grace. Thank you for your invitation." Her eyes were steel grey in the candlelight. Unrevealing yet uncruel. 

"Welcome, my lady. I have heard you are an enjoyer of the game. I hope I was not mistaken."

"You weren’t."

"Excellent. My lady, would you have a cup of wine?"

"Thank you, I would."

As they settled around the table, a queer silence fell between them with the board of cyvasse standing on the table.

"I have never seen a scarlet and jade combination of cyvasse pieces." She was the first one to break the silence, starting to arrange her jade figures on the ivory board.

"This was a gift from the Pureborn of Qarth. One of the earlier gifts I received that I still carry with me." He moved his own scarlet pieces. The king loved the game, mostly playing with his brother, who never shied away from challenging the young man. Cyvasse was an intriguing game of war; the strategy began even before the play, with the replacement of the figures. With this in mind, the king placed the pieces in his favorite strategic way. 

"Shall we begin?" He asked. 

"We shall."

"Your move, my lady." The first minutes of the game passed quietly as the players concentrated on their games with careful civility. 

"Heed caution now, my lady," Dae said with a smile, eyeing the opportunity to snatch one of her elephants.

"Oh, no need to worry, Dragon," she replied with a laugh in her tongue. She moved her heavy horse ahead and snatched his two elephants. Dae's next move was to put his rabble around her elephant and snatch two of hers. A smug smile grew on her lips as she raised her eyebrows.

"My lady?" Dae inquired with an arched brow.

"Your Grace," Lyarra said and put the jade trebuchet right in front of the scarlet dragon, trapping his most powerful piece between catapults and heavy horses in the next two moves - a maneuver he had not anticipated. Seeing the surprise on the king's face, the lady giggled, covering it quickly behind her hands.

Daeron recovered fast. With his next move, he entrapped her king with his spearmen. "Now, my lady, what will you do?"

She hummed, focused, and finished her cup. "I'd like another cup, Your Grace," she put, her face a perfect mask once again, revealing naught.

"Then you shall."

 A minute stretched feeling longer than it was while her hand hovered over jade rabble. Brows drawn together, she changed her mind and placed her light horse left to his trebuchet, directly blocking his shot at her dragon. 

"Where have you learned to play the game, my lady, if I may ask?"

"From a Dornish acquaintance, Your Grace."

"Not a friend?"

She hesitated. "It is hard to make true friends in our times."

Dae sighed, feeling the truth of her words in his chest as he pushed forward the scarlet crossbowmen. "Don't I know it." He mumbled.

"You seem to have true friends among your ranks," She had heard him. Daeron took a moment to consider the statement. He had loyal captains, devoted soldiers, but they were his followers at the end of the day. Could someone be a friend to another without being an equal? He wondered as she made her move.

"I have loyal people among my ranks." 

"They say the higher one stands, the lonelier one gets. I have seen it with my brother."

Dae hummed, realizing this was their most civil moment yet, except for the rushed conversation after the storm in the healer’s tent. "What about you, my lady?"

"I’d like to believe I have true friends."

He hummed, "Yet you are not quick to trust," the king said, removing her rabble. 

"Neither are you," she removed his crossbowmen.

"True. But I rather believe in people, give them a chance before condemning them to an iron judgement."

"That’s a dangerous habit for a king. Suspicion brings protection."

"Over suspicion brings misjudgment." He knocked over her catapult.

"I’d rather be safe than right." You’d rather hate me for my name than see me for who I am, he mused bitterly. 

The next hour passed with easier conversation, mostly about the army’s recovery after the retched storm. Daeron, with a surprise, realised he quite enjoyed playing with the lady, for she matched nail to nail with the king, maneuvering and playing him smartly. Yet at the end, it was the young man who took down the opponent’s jade dragon.

"Well played, my lady. You did not hold back."

"You sound surprised."

"I am ... only slightly. Most people would rather lose to me so they’d sing me praises. But I should have expected the difference from you."

"Well, expectations can be a tricky business, Dragon. And a dangerous one." 

"Perhaps," He smiled kindly. "Yet I expect we are to play again."

Lady Lyarra scoffed, "Of course. I have a score to settle, Your Grace."

The next day's march was fast and efficient under the relatively warm autumn sun. When the moon hung high, they settled around the table as on the night before. The young nobles changed the colors this time: Lady Lyarra played scarlet, while the King played jade. 

"You were very witty on the board yesterday, Dragon. I mean to repay the gesture."

Dae laughed lightly, "Be my guest, wolf." 

The wolf kept her promise: the first hour of the game passed fast as she came at him with all the vigour. It was thrilling to play against a true match, the king realized as the lady trapped his dragon between her spearmen.  

"Do not fret badly, Targaryen," her voice was full of smugness, "you have played well so far. Your loss will not be humiliating." She pushed her elephants ahead.

"The game is still on, my lady." 

Her laughter was formal, not reaching her eyes. Placing his heavy horse right before her catapult, the king watched her reaction to be rewarded by her surprise. She had missed the opening. Lady Lyarra hummed. "It seems we will still be here for a while."

"Yours was a clever strategy."

"But you figured it out."

He pulled his light horse back, "The Battle of Redgrass, was it not? "

She paused, hesitating, "It was."

"You were going to smash my pieces between your spearmen and crossbowmen like the Anvil and the Hammer." He chuckled. "Do not be so surprised, my lady. I know my history."

"Not many people do."

"I am not many."

"Oh, believe me," she placed her rabble in front of his trebuchet, "I know."

"My brother has mentioned you are fond of reading. I did not know you were a lover of history." 

"I learned what I can, Your Grace. To serve my house with the best of my abilities."

"As I know, you have. Your brother tricked Lord Tywin in Riverlands, did he not?"

"Oh, that was all my brother. He is a good commander." She did not say it as a praise; she stated it simply as a fact. 

"The realm needs good commanders."

The silence that followed was loud as Dae could practically hear her thoughts. The wonder engulfed him. What was she thinking? And why did he need so desperately to know? She looked like a statue carved of finest marble in the candlelight. Her raven hair in braids poured on her back like a molten obsidian. She was draped in brown attire, a perfect contrast to her milk-pale skin. Her cheeks and claw scars across her forehead and eyes had reddened slightly - wine was to blame, Dae believed, observing her blush the last two nights. Her eyes, however, he had a hard time swaying his gaze each time…

"Your people sing praises to your command." Her voice brought him back to the moment," I have heard many boast of your Battle of Fire."

"It was a brutal fight." Daeron resumed playing.

"Are they all not?"

"This one was… more," they both paused playing, attentions lurching onto one another instead of the game. 

"One of your Dothrakis said it was the first time you charred into battle on a dragon's back."

Dae heard the unspoken in her words, "If you mean to ask me whether I burned my enemies on the ground, yes, I did. I do not claim absolute rectitude, my lady. I never have…" He paused, inhaling deeply. "There is way too much blood in my hands for me to claim so... When I united the Dothraki, I killed thousands of screamers. I first killed their khals before they could kill or sell me as they had intended… Most of their followers joined me after their deaths. The rest refused to bend the knee and forgo their ways of pillaging, slaving, raping. They chose to fight me. They gathered and waited for me in the outside gates of Vaes Dothrak. The lands are considered holy; it's forbidden to carry steel, but they figured out a way to spill blood. Battle went on for three days and nights... By the end, 14 Khalasars had been wiped out altogether... That means almost 100,000 screamers fell." The king saw her breath catch. "But that day, I freed 900,000 slaves."

"For every life you took, you saved 9," She said after a moment. 

"Yet I still took those lives. And many, much many more in my path to end slavery in Dragaon's Bay, Volantis, and Qarth."

"Yet you saved more lives than you took." It did not sound like an assurance. The words were laced with more unsaid meanings. 

"You have never held out on your words before, my lady. Do not begin now."

Lady Starks paused briefly; Dae observed a storm brewing in her eyes. "When you alter or take millions of lives, when you claim and conquer while you fly above them all, it is easy to forget you are a man. Targaryens, even when they had lost their dragons, always believed themselves to be above men. Even above Gods."

Dae hesitated as the words hung between them and soon broke into bitter laughter. "You fear I believe myself to be a God, my lady."

"They say you walked into roaring fire with stoned eggs and came out unscathed with three dragons."

"They say true." She raised her eyebrow to indicate this proves her point. "I never had the luxury to feel invincible, Lady Lyarra. I do not know what you reckon of my upbringing, but allow me to tell you that, unlike my ancestors, I did not grow up as a prince of my House. In the humiliating life that Viserys and I led, our title often damaged us more than aided us. My brother failed to humble his arrogance throughout it all. He believed himself to be the dragon." Dae had to momentarily break eye contact, remembering all the times he had accidentally woken the dragon. "For that, he faced an end I do not wish on my enemies…” The amethyst eyes found the greys, “I am... conscious of the weights of my deeds. I carry them alongside the burden of my name... Have you ever seen 100,000 people gathered in one place? It's hard to fathom to-"

"I have," she cut in. "There were more than 100,000 wildlings who attacked the Wall. I stood on the top of it for days, holding them back... They tried to climb it and break the gate. We had to -" she cleared her throat. "It was not a simple battle - we had to use different means to hold them back." She lowered her gaze to her folded hands on the table. 

"I do not enjoy killing," he said earnestly.

"Neither do I."

"I equally dislike fighting itself."

"I, as well," she said softly but firmly. "I wanted to be a healer. I was trained to be one by our Maester Luwin until the war… There are not many opportunities for a bastard girl. Father was content I was pursuing such a valuable craft." Shaking her head, she resumed playing.

He smiled slightly, hoping the change of topic would ease both of their nerves. "Do you still wish to become one?" he pushed his heavy horse ahead.

"If I survive the wars." She mumbled. "I shall bear my sword for now." She said louder.

"I hear you are rather skilled with arms, my lady." 

"I hear the same for you."

"Some even call you 'Visenya Come Again'"

Lyarra scoffed. "Well, I lack a dragon."

"Yet you carry Valyrian steel as she did," Dae snatched her catapult from the board.

"Oh, please," with her next move, she removed his elephant, "I assure you, Your Grace. I have no notions of becoming a queen."

The conversation soon died as the game got more heated. They were too occupied with their pieces to initiate further inquiries. A handful of minutes later, Daeron found his king trapped between her heavy horses and ramble, while her dragon was in direct fire line of trebuchet and catapults.

"We seem to be equally at another's mercy," the lady said with a small smile.

"That we do. A draw perhaps?" He suggested expecting her to refuse and opt to continue the game until they have a concrete winner.

"A draw it is." His brows rose high, "Do not be so surprised, Dragon. I am not a simple savage who only fights. I know when to put down my sword."

"I never thought you were."

She chuckled humorlessly, "You are not a good liar," she said, getting to her feet.

That night, when the King fell to his bed, sleep failed to find him as it usually did. He kept replaying his conversation with the lady. She was right, maybe he did believe her to be… rougher. In the same way, she believed him to be cruel and fearsome. He was fearsome; Dae had to accept this about himself a long time ago. People who had looked at him with adorned eyes were in Essos. Here in Westeros, the adoration was scarcely given. All he could hope for was acceptance, and perhaps in time, his people would find it in their hearts to spare a prayer for him.

Cruelty, however, was not a face he could digest to wear. Dae grew up knowing cruelty. His childhood, innocence, and all had been taken away with cruelty. So were his child and his wife. He had picked up a sword to escape the cruelty. He had walked into the burning pyre to cease the cruelty that followed him since his birth.

Yet when his children were born, more violence had found him and the ones who followed him… Red Waste… Qarth… Astapor… Yunkai… Meereen… Volantis… and now Westeros. She reckons I believe myself to be a God. What sort of God is often as lost as I am? Or as lonely as I am? What sort of Gods fear the winter coming? Feels crippled for the end is approaching? What sort of Gods crave a drop of warmth from the eyes of a loved one?

As the sleep claimed him, the prophecy of Others and princes haunted the young king’s dreams till the morning. 

On their third night of playing, they once again flipped the colors. Starting the game with his scarlet light horse, it was the king who initiated the conversation.

"I hear you received… a letter from your brother. Delivered by an owl, I believe."

"I did, yes."

"I hope it carried good news."

"Oh, the best," a genuine smile bloomed on her face, catching Dae off guard. "My sister Sansa has been found in Gulltown."

"Wonderful news, my lady. I hope she has not been harmed?"

"No, Your Grace. My brother says she was unharmed. It was she who gathered the guards and opened the gates of Gulltown so that Blackfish could take the city." Her voice dripped with pride.

"That was brave of her." She nodded with a small smile and played her jade piece. "Will she join your brother?"

"Oh, no. She is already on her way to the North. Lady Stark will be awaiting her in the Neck from there; they will finally go home." A quiet sadness laced her words.

He smiled. "May I ask you a question, my lady?"

"Since when do you seek permission to ask?"

He chuckled. "The letter I was told was delivered by an owl." She nodded. "I did not know they could be trained."

"Owls can not be trained, wargs can."

"I am afraid I do not know what that is…” The next few minutes passed as Lyarra told him various legends of skinchanging and wargs without giving much or any real detail about the process.

“Does this mean,” Daeron moved his dragon ahead, “the tales of your brother turning into a wolf during the battles are true?”

She chuckled, her eyes trained on the board, “Mayhaps, Your Grace.”

“You have a wolf yourself,” he stated more than asked.

She raised her gaze from the board and crooked her brow, “Are you worried I will turn into a wolf?”

“Not much. Shall I?”

The lady hummed, holding her jade dragon, “Mayhaps, Your Grace,” she echoed. “Dragons rule the skies, yet in narrow paths and thick woods, it’s the wolves who determine who keeps life,” she moved her dragon, “and who does not.”

The light threat amused him, “Paths can be ruined and woods burnt.”

“Aye, next to every other thing on the ground. Fires do not choose and pick when they rain, but fangs target what they tear.” She snatched two of his spearmen off the board.

He chuckled lightly, amused further at being so openly challenged, “How did you become with wolves, my lady?”

“We found them in Wolfswood. Their mother had been killed by a stag, yet managed to give birth.”

“Did your other siblings have one?”

“Aye, all of the Stark children. Mine, Robb’s, and Rickon’s are full-grown. Bran’s disappeared with him.” Her voice thickened with each word, “the girls – Nymeria, Arya’s wolf shall be still alive. Lady, Sansa’s wolf, was executed because of Joffrey. Sansa had cried for weeks. Every letter she had sent me, her words were smudged with her tears.” Lady Lyarra did not meet his gaze.

"As I know, it has been years since you last saw her."

"Yes," the sadness reached her grey eyes, brightening them so earnestly it almost hurt Dae, "she was two and ten when they departed for King’s Landing. A child… Ser Barristan said she was by our father’s side when Joffrey took his head." Her voice hardened as the steel in her eyes. "We know they… hurt her. Lannisters humiliated and beat her in the court and did worse… before the realm."

"At least, she is safe now, my lady."

Her hum was full of distrust. "What about Tyrion?" Her eyes drilled into his, a pair of grey ice chips. "He has been noticeably absent by your side."

The king inhaled deeply. They had relative peace for two nights. A delicate truce they both knew would come apart. "I understand your hatred -"

"How much do you know of the Red Wedding?"

"I believe a little."

"We were invited to a wedding. Guest right is held holy in the North. We had eaten their salt and drunk their water, Dragon. Robb had married Lord Frey’s daughter, yet it was not enough before the gold of the Lannisters. My brother’s wife, Roslin, was with child," she breathed in deeply as the grim began in his heart; he knew where the tale was going to take him. "They were going to kill off my brother, me, and Rickon, leaving Roslin’s child as the heir. Tywin was going to get broken North, Walder was going to get a Warden grandchild… the Gods are funny sometimes, it was his second son Emmon who conspired with his bastard brothers and Boltons against his father’s plot and… went for Roslin. They stabbed her belly, killing Robb’s child before our eyes. They put many arrows in my brother, and an axe on my shoulder… Guest right is one of the holiest virtues in the North,” she repeated, her face hardened. The lady moved her jade piece and clutched her fingers together on the board. “They broke it. If it were not for Lord Reed and his crannogmen, we would all be dead." The ice laced her words. “Turns, while Tywin was giving promises to Walder, he was promising Twins to Emmon in exchange for the end of Robb’s line.” Her eyes pierced into his.

“There is no excuse or justification for what they did. I am sincerely sorry, my lady. I lost a child and wife to a betrayal. I share your brother’s pain.” He said through his rage. He had heard of Red Wedding; however, the details had changed and varied from one mouth to another.

 “Oh, that is not all, Your Grace. Do you know what they said while they put knives to Roslin’s unborn babe? They said, "Lannisters send their regards". Now tell me, Dragon, what would you do if it were your brother and your brother’s who faced the betrayal mine did?" She shook her head with a pitying smile, "But it was your brother, was it not, and your brother’s children."

“You forget yourself, Lady Lyarra.”

“And you forget your own words, Your Grace. Was it not you who kept demanding that my house remember our ancient history?”

“You know very well my request of your fidelity is not comparable to your wish for revenge.”

“I must disagree, Your Grace. We do exactly what you ask us – ” 

“By claiming that I forget how the end of my family was brought?! I grew up with the tales of Usurper and his dogs, Lannister and Starks.” Lady winced at the words, “Who stole our throne, murdered, brutalized my family.”

None of them was speaking quietly now. “Then why do you still ally with a Lannister?”

"Because each time someone looks at me, the first thing they see is Mad King’s son. I know what is to be judged for the crimes and sins of your family. The reason I had aligned myself with Tyrion was that he had so far proved loyal,” she opened her mouth to argue. The king raised his hand in the air to continue in a calmer tone. “However, what you brought to my attention about Lord Tyrion’s devotion to his family changed my stance on the opinion I had of him. I cannot and will not dismiss a man for the crimes of his past when he begs for change –“

“You are being naïve –” she bit back.

“I am being reasonable. If my memory serves me well, it was you who told me you used different means to win against the wildlings.” Her face hardened more as her jaw clenched.

“I was at war.”

“So was he when he stood by his family’s side.” She shook her head, discontent dripping from her every inch.

“What did you do to the murderers of your child and wife?”

“I avenged them without punishing their family for it.”

“My dislike of Tyrion is due to his actions, Your Grace. The things he did in the name of House Lannister. The things he is capable of doing.”

“To be truthful, my lady,” he said, sharper. “What you have informed me about him has draped a shadow on the trust I have for Tyrion. Yet I refuse to dismiss or punish him unless he wrongs me directly. Similarly, how I refuse to judge him simply for his family name.”  A mixed group of emotions passed across the young woman’s face in the split second her mask was cracked, from surprise to disapproval to estimation.

“I am not blinded by revenge.”

“You sound as if you are.”

“My family is all I have. Not my name, not my sword, not my prospects. It’s my family that I have, and I will protect them.”

“No one expects otherwise.”

“I am a daughter of Eddard Stark, Dragon. I know honor and righteousness. I also know that honor did not help my father in the steps of the Sept. Neither did the same righteousness protect my brother from Freys and Bolton’s betrayal.” She paused, “Ser Barristan says you oft found yourself in trouble because you did not spare your mercy only for the worthy but for the unworthy, too. It seems to me you are yet to grow out of it.”

“I thought I was a God who believed himself above all men, not a faulty man who spreads mercy.”

“Gods spare us mercy, do they not?” She said, getting up to her feet.

"Where are you going? We have not finished the game."

"We have. Look down, Dragon. I have your king.” She curtseyed half-heartedly and left.

"The meeting is adjourned, my lords." The prince’s firm voice disturbed yet another squabble about grains. He would have indulged them more if his patience were not thinning swiftly, the more his body pained. My days are numbered, and I am yet to do a thing valuable for my people. He would often find himself thinking such thoughts, only adding to his gloom. 

Baelor left the chambers first. The red walls had become another offender to the prince, pulling his tolerance as tight as a bow. Taking sharp turns, he opted for the kennels. Not before he was stopped multiple times by various courtiers, lords, ladies, and knights.  He yearned for the skies, the more he walked through the red walls. He did not remember much, reaching the kennels or mounting his horse or riding to the Dragon pit. 

Baelor gave out breath he had unknowingly kept since morning only when he walked through the charred walls of the Pit. The air was hotter than the city, smelling of ash, burnt meat, and molten metal… smelling like freedom, escape. 

"My friend," He said, still far enough for the dragon to hear yet close enough for the Old Fury to raise his glorious head and give an even more glorious roar of welcome. The prince did not bother with propriety and rushed to the beast with all the need he felt. "Vermithor," he said softly, scratching the hot scales. "Take me to the skies, my friend."

They flew away from the city over the Kingswood and Narrow Sea. High enough to feel the air cold, long enough to numb his body and senses. That was the only time the prince did not ache – when he held onto the ancient dragon, who was still fast and smooth like any youngling dragon. 

Most importantly, Vermithor was only being he could touch without feeling suffocated or on the edge of death. Ever since his marking, he could not even hold his only son, let alone anyone else. 

They flew for hours until the chaos of his heart dimmed enough to return to being the perfect heir. Yet, riding back to the castles, all he saw in the faces of his people reminded him he was far away from the truth; there was nothing perfect about him. He was a Dornish with wrong coloring for a Targaryen, a fact they never allowed him to forget since his childhood. He was a marked with a dead mate. In his religion, being marked meant being blessed by the seven gods themselves. The ones who were marked were beloved, respected, and held in the highest regard. Even to some, they were seen as higher than kings as the vessels of the Gods. The markeds were made of one divided into two. The Faith believed every pair was chosen by a God: Maegor and his first black bride, Ceryse Hightower, were credenced to be sent by the Stranger, Old King Jaehaerys and Alysanne the Good by the Mother, Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon by the Maiden. 

Conversely, marked ones with a dead mate who could not survive the marking – being blessed by the gods were the cursed ones. The ones the Gods chose specifically, to punish, to torment, to make an example of for all the ones who refused the true Faith. Baelor was one of them now. He had never thought that one day people would look at him and see anything other than a Targaryen who looked wrong. He had never thought they could despise him more. He was mistaken. Faith had gone as far as to demand his father release him from his duties and renounce him as his heir. His father had raged so much that the realm had frozen in surprise to see their Good King such. They had forgotten Daeron the Good was a Targaryen. They had forgotten the fire in blood. Baelor had not witnessed much, for he was recovering from marking, but still the tales of his father’s rage reached the prince. Since then, nobody dared to openly voice their dislike or their disapproval of him. This did not spare the prince from seeing them on the downturned mouths, deep frowns, or scrunched noses, all conveying one thing… repulse.

As he rode to the castle, smallfolk in the streets hurried away, hiding away in their houses, markets, away, away from him. People always ran away from him, not bothering themselves with pretense, unlike the nobles. Even the ones he did not wish away ran. They were all away, leaving him in a cage nobody could reach or touch. At least, it won’t be forever. He would say to himself, to his deteriorating body. Deep in his mind, a sweet voice would interrupt the flow of such thoughts, begging him to find hope.

Baelor found his son in the yard training with Ser Quentyn Ball, who had taught arms to himself and his brothers among his infamous uncles in their youth. Taking a place in the shadows, the prince watched his son’s face crunch in concentration as he drilled. His boy was nine years old, carrying a little of his mother. Valarr’s dark hair and mismatched eyes were all his father’s. So was his deeper skin and height. 

Ser Quentyn knocked the wooden sword out of the boy's hand and began fixing his stance, explaining the nuances to the boy.

Baelor oft found himself in this same position, hiding in the shadows and watching his son spar, read, sleep, or just be, with the gloom in his heart, with the knowledge that he would never see his boy grow tall, carry a steel, ride tall. He was not going to see his son grow into a man, father his own sons.

All alone his boy was going to be, he thought as his heart throbbed deep in the abyss it had turned into. His mother had gone with his baby brother at the mere age of five. His father was to pass away when he was a boy of nine. Or would the gods be kind enough for Baelor to see his son turn ten?

Valarr huffed quietly and fell into position, his scowl deeper with focus. 

Baelor rubbed his chest over the heart, wishing the pain away. It was for naught, for the pain was coming from a cavern inside his chest. He wished to run to his son in such moments, take him into his arms, and hold him until his arms could not.

He could not, however. He could not caress his son's hair, let alone hug him, without pain shooting through his veins, paralysing him in ache.

Away from the skies, a familiar call came. Vermithor, his ever loyal dragon, had become his grounding force ever since the marking. His connection to the creature had been the strongest in his entire life. He did not know whether his mark woke more magic in him or his dragon was taking pity on him. Dragons were wise oft beyond men. They knew the smell of death well. Baelor was sure Vermithor could smell it on him.

Valarr managed to keep his sword longer this time, impressing Ser Quentyn. "Well done, my prince. Well done. You take your skills after your sire."

Baelor wished he could leave more than that to his son. More than a dead family, an infamous reputation, and the burden of the realm.

Vermithor's call rang in the skies, softened by the winds. Valarr stopped his moves and listened, mouth half open, eyes fixed to the clouds.

The prince closed his eyes and tugged on his connection with Vermithor. "I know I have no place to tell you what to do after me. For you are wiser, older, mightier. But if I could, I beg you to choose my son when I am gone." The prince begged the dragon for this as he had many times before. 

When he had claimed the oldest dragon alive, half the pressure of looking so Dornish and not being Targaryen enough had lifted. He wanted the same acceptance for his son. Baelor had his father standing tall behind him, claiming him as his heir. He had his mother easing his heart, aiding him to accept himself. Who will Valarr have? Please, Gods, he begged more, at least let him have Vermithor.

That noon, the father and son had a lengthy meal. His son, with the curiosity of his youth, had never-ending questions. Baelor fought through his exhaustion and answered each inquiry to the best of his abilities. His tethering patience was a river when he was with his son. Whenever he could put his doomed thoughts away, it was the only time he could enjoy himself a nudge. It was the news of his brother's arrival that ended their luncheon.

An hour later, the Dragon Prince was standing in the yard with his family, watching his youngest, the Prince of Summerhall, ride in atop a black mare. Maekar's face was twisted in a grimace as usual. His heir, Daeron, rode on his black pony, the air of melancholy felt even farther away. The carriage followed soon. Dyanna got out with the most elegant little Aerion in her arms. Prince Maekar grumped something under his mouth and dismounted. The family fell to their knees before the king and soon broke into a warm embrace. Valarr and Daeron were already making plans for their mischiefs, their excited giggles ringing around the yard, bringing dread to their Kingsguards.

"Brother," Maekar said almost cheerfully, stepped forward with open arms before freezing, remembering. He dropped his hands as sadness coated his eyes.

"Brother," Baelor said, sounding much happier than he felt. He did not want his brother's sadness or pity. There was nothing to be done. "Welcome home. I hope the journey was not tiresome. Dearest Dyanna," his good sister snaked her arms around her husband’s once near them," I hope my brother treats you well."

"Oh, don't you worry, brother. I know how to handle him." Maekar scoffed, yet his reddening cheeks betrayed how much he liked the words. They have been married for years now, still blushing around each other like two maidens. “How do you fare, good brother?”

“Busy keeping the realm and preparing for the arrival of Starks,” he managed another smile.

“The city is buzzing,” she added with a gleam in her eyes.

“Hopefully with excitement,” The heir said and led his brother’s family to the dining hall.

The silver shining moon found the Targaryens in the Tower of the Hand, with wine in their hands. Maekar and Dyanna were sitting opposite to Baelor, limbs tangled. The welcoming feast was not a big affair, the preparations for the Starks being a priority. Yet it was enough to tire them and not allow them to converse properly. 

"Now what the fuck is going on with Starks?"

"Whatever you mean, brother?" It had been a long time since Maekar had left the capital. The prince had missed his youngest brother and teasing him.

"The hell I mean, Baelor?" he leaned over, "why the fuck are they coming? Why the fuck is Father gathering the entire realm? I asked Father and Brynden about Blackfyres, they both said Daemon nor his Cannibal has not been spotted in moons.”

"Yes, you know as much as we do of them."

"Then, what is this?"

"You know what it is. We need allies. Father wants stability," Baelor shrugged. "It's worth trying."

"Have Starks ever been to King's Landing?" Dyanna asked.

"Never. Not even when Jaehaerys invited them did they come," Baelor supplied.

"Then why do they come now? What is in for them?" The entire Red Keep, the city, perhaps the South had been on the edge since the King’s invitation and Starks’ acceptance of the visit. Everyone had the same questions but different answers.

"Peace, trade, alliances. The same things Dorne got. The maesters of the Citadel predict the upcoming winter to be harsh."

Maekar scoffed, "Their winter is always worse as the pompous Lord Locke likes to tell us." Lord Locke of Oldcastle lived in King's Landing as the ambassador of the North, chosen due to his trading business. He was a loud man, cunning under all that noise. "What do you think?"

“A stronger allyship with the North will bring prosperity for our realm,” Baelor said diplomatically and sipped his wine.

"I am not in your fucking court, Baelor. Stop bullshitting me."

The prince chuckled, soon sobering, "In the Dance, disrespect to them was big." To Dyanna’s questioning look, he said, "Aegon II, in order to prove himself better than his sister, had tried to conquer the North. Long story short, it ended horribly. He humiliated himself and the North, undoing the little progress Jaehaerys had planted."

"I see."

"When Dagon Greyjoy rebelled against the Throne, he also attacked the North. The king fought side by side with Beron Stark, you know the rest.” Dyanna nodded. “Both sides saw how powerful they could be once they united their strengths. How advantageous the alliance could be.” Both kings were crown princes during the rebellion, commanding their respective armies. Many songs were born of those days, some even sing that a friendship had bloomed between the dragon and the wolf. “Why do the Starks come now? After all these years?" Baelor hesitated a moment, not wanting to admit the next words, "it’s because they think House Targaryen is weakest it has ever been." He sighed, "Even during Dance, it was us against us. Now we are challenged by bastards and half-bloods who ride dragons." While most of their family remained dragonless, Baelor left that part unsaid. "Thus, the North comes now. They know we need them. And they know the king pries for peace."

“They think our hand is weak and they can take whatever the fuck they want from us.”

“What they reckon, most like.”

Apprehension passed on Maekar’s face, “Are they right?”

“As long as our dragons soar the skies, no.” Yet unsaid words passed between brothers. Maekar liked to pretend, but he was knowledgeable in matters of state and knew how to read the game.

“Enough with the matters of the realm, my princes,” Dyanna interrupted the brothers’ grim thoughts, “You shall have weeks before Starks land in King’s Landing to discuss at length.” She moved closer to her husband, snuggling him. Baelor watched his headstrong brother melt like ice under the sun. His brother was a rough man, hard spoken, with a short temper and endless obstinacy. Yet whenever with his mate, Maekar would be stripped out of all of his armour, and Baelor would see a glimpse of his brother’s younger days. “Valarr is growing strong, good brother. He shall make a fine knight and a great prince. Jena would be proud.”

The prince swallowed the lump that the mention of his late wife created, “Thank you, sister. But it’s all him… Jena left much of her goodness with him.”

A sad smile grew on Dyanna’s face, her eyes gained a sheen. They had been good friends with Jena before she was gone. Baelor never ceased feeling guilty about her death. She might not have been his mate, but she had been his companion, a kind wife and a great mother to his sons. He had loved her and their life – a satisfactory life he would have been happy to grow old in.

Maekar brought his arm around Dyanna’s shoulders, pulling her closer. He must have sensed her sadness, Baelor mused. Another grief, next to many, throbbed in his jaded chest. The fate had cruel designs and ludicrous ironies. He had spent years in marriage with a woman who was not her mated, yet he had not known his mate even for a day. He did not know her face, her voice, her smile… All he knew of her was that she was the last daughter of House Farman of the Westerlands. The shame of losing a daughter to the marking had been too much for them – they had refused even her name to Baelor, let alone any other thing about her. A ghost she was to him with no name, no face. Still deep in his heart, all he had for her was warmth. The prince did not curse or despise her for passing away, for he believed it was his curse falling upon his mate.

Maekar and Dyanna had fallen into a hushed conversation, gazing upon one another, oblivious to the other man.

Baelor diverted his gaze away from them into the burning embers, willing to be oblivious to himself and to his heart.