This work was inspired by and most of the characters come from George RR Martin's A Song of Fire and Ice book series. I gain nothing from this. Nothing I say.

If you upload it elsewhere, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will... be angry with you.


When the Doom came to Valyria many believed the reign of the dragonlords was at an end.

Yet not all the dragons perished in the destruction of the freehold. A hundred years after the Doom a new dynasty did rise.

Aegon the Conqueror, First of His Name, Highest King, returned to the land of his forebears and built an empire out of the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold.

With the might of their dragons the Targaryens conquered much of the freehold's former territories, establishing the Targaryen Empire which soon became the most powerful and wealthiest realm in the known world. At the height of its power the empire stretched from the headwaters from the Rhoyne to the Shivering Sea, from the hills of Andalos to the grasslands of the Dothraki Sea. Their might enough to cause the most fearsome of rulers tremble.

Yet three hundred years later those glorious days are long passed. The dragons are gone and the empire's enemies grower bolder. With the fate of his dynasty in the balance, Rhaegar Targaryen, First of his Name, High King of the Empire, must name an heir.

To the Seven Kingdoms, which continue to war as they have for since the coming of the Andals, the politics of the empire matter little. Two heirs vie for control over the Vale, the Dornish stand isolated and outnumbered by their enemies and the Reach wallows in the grandiose ways of the Gardeners.

For the first time in its history the Kingdom of the North rules over parts of the riverlands. That expansion stands in the way of King Tywin Lannister's goal of creating a grand kingdom of the south, one with a Lannister king.

All this means a time of upheaval on both sides of the Narrow Sea. A time where a war weary prince and a beleaguered princess hold little hope for the future.

And little knowledge of each other…

THE FOREST OF QOHOR

Fires burnt here and there, the feast of flames continuing long after the battle was done.

The dense forest of pines and spruce, once a sea of deep brown bark and thick green canopies, had been devastated by the fighting. Swathes of this hinterland had seen their ancient trees felled for use by the defenders. Many of the trees that still stood were now blackened, bare husks of their former selves. Burnt by the hundreds of flaming arrows and burning pitch fired to and fro. Others suffered from the boulders flung by catapults, branches and greenery cleaved away or trunks torn to shreds. Some leaned against their brethren like wounded warriors, not yet ready to join their comrades already littering the ground.

The number of fallen trees could not compare to the hundreds of very real corpses spread out across this immense battlefield. Men and horses sprawled amongst the tree stumps, others crushed beneath the branches of trees collapsed during the fighting. Not all were fresh, for the fighting here had lasted more than a week, and in some places the freshly killed now piled high atop the rotting dead.

The dead buried by the dead, Jon thought grimly, amidst all this madness that makes a sense of sorts.

The dark rider took in all this with a grimace, for he had an excellent view of the lands around from this ruined fort. Built upon a small hill in the midst of the forest, the timber fort held a commanding position overlooking one of the main trails through forest. Hence why the Dothraki had fought so hard to take it.

And killed so many in doing so.

The timber palisades and ramparts of the fort were thick with the dead. A glance to the sharpened stakes surrounding its edges showed dead Dothraki and horses impaled upon them. There were more about the breech the horselords had forced in the palisades when they'd torn them down with rope and the strength of their mounts. This fort was but one of many hastily built to throw back Khal Drogo's advance through the forest to Qohor.

The Qohorik who manned this fort knew what would happen if the Dothraki reached their city and had died to the man to prevent such a thing. Arrow riddled bodies were common, a few had arakhs buried so deeply their wielders had abandoned the weapons in their victims. A last stand had been made towards the center of the fort, the Qohorik dead laying atop one another at the base of one their shrines. A goat sacrifice still rested on the altar, rotting and riving with maggots. Offered perhaps in hope of salvation from their gods.

For some help to arrive before the Dothraki broke though. For Jon do to as he promised.

It was a sad thing to watch his men riding through the gates to join him here, for the men of Qohor had likely hoped for such a sight only yesterday.

"Poor bastards." Ser Brynden Tully spoke in his smoky voice, the elder Westerosi warrior shaking his head as he dismounted. "One more day. If those palisades had only held out one more day. Reminds me of the Sack of Harrenhal."

"These are foul times indeed to think such horrors so common." Thoros of Myr added, the warrior priest urging his steed around another dead mount. "May the Lord of Light greet these men with the favor they deserve."

"They deserved more than that." He said quietly, his men ignorant to his words.

Jon turned away from bloody mess around him to take in the sight of his men. He didn't care for how Thoros's bright red cloak suited the bloodletting that had been done here. The red priest stood out among those riders entering the fort, for most were garbed in a much darker way. The Blackfish lived up his moniker, his cloak and boots as black as the dark chainmail all in this company wore. Jon wore such mail himself, though beneath a heavy chest plate engraved with the images of dragons and wolves.

This was how the Dark Order had dressed since its founding two hundred years ago. For while the Targaryen Empire brought light to all it ruled the Dark Order ensured its enemies could find no shelter in the shadows. Other imperial legions sworn to the High King were usually ten thousand strong, a mix of cavalry and infantry. The Dark Order was far smaller, numbering only a few thousand, yet what it lacked in numbers it made up for in other ways. Unlike some other legions, those within the order did not need to be born of the empire and thus many foreigners, chiefly Westerosi, came to find their way to serving the High King. The order was entirely mounted, its reach and speed far greater than other legions, able to meet foes far and wide in defense of the empire.

Such was how Jon had even come to be in the midst of yet another slaughter.

He'd been in Braavos, negotiating with the Sealord alongside his great uncle, Prince Aemon, only a month ago. A welcome respite from the near constant warfare Jon had seen in the last five years. He could no longer count on his hands how many campaigns they'd waged across the realm and it exhausted him as much as the empire itself. It was a fine thing to come to the Free City of Braavos to use words rather than swords.

That all ended when word arrived from Qohor of impending doom. A Dothraki khalasar, forty-thousand strong and led by the dread Khal Drogo, was heading their way.

The High King commanded the Dark Order to aid the far flung city and Jon, as its Lord-Commander, had heeded the call of the empire once more.

What is one more campaign to me? Another pile of dead at my feet? More blood on my blade?

In the three weeks since they'd joined Qohor's defenses he'd seen the most brutal warfare of his twenty years in this world. Thousands had died in the Forest of Qohor, the imperial armies doing their best to bleed the Dothraki rather than meet Drogo in outright battle. The outcome was far from certain when, only yesterday, the Dothraki had suddenly left the field.

Allowing Jon the chance to finally answer the calls for aid he'd received while battling the Dothraki elsewhere. So he could see the terrible cost his strategy had wrought upon the Qohorik. As he walked about the bodies, young and old alike, he cursed himself for sending these men here in the first place.

"This wasn't your fault Jonarys." Thoros came to his side, speaking his given name as the red priest often did during darker moments. "You are much like the High King, your shoulders slump with the great burdens you place upon them."

"Aye my lord." The Blackfish stepped over a Dothraki body, spitting upon it. "Qohor would be a burning ruin right now if it wasn't for your plan. These men came here to save their home, they knew the risks and died for a good cause."

"It's a wonder more aren't dead." He shook his head, moving back towards the breech and gazing out at the Dothraki dead at the base of the hill. "Half the forts were overwhelmed, we were being pushed back on every approach, Drogo was winning. So why do we stand here victorious?"

"Might be we bled him more dearly than he expected." Pello the Greenbeard said, the Tyroshi warrior pulling at his dyed whiskers. "Or he caught wind of the reinforcements coming from Norvos…"

"Or our prayers were merely answered." Thoros added and the older knight laughed.

"Considering how many gods we all pray to it's about time one listened."

"We'll know more soon enough." Jon pointed down to the forest trail, at a small number of black riders approaching along it. "Gendry's patrol returns. Let's learn what Khal Drogo is up to."

He hoped his friend would bring word the horselords were heading back to the plains of the Dothraki Sea. That this most recent invasion of the empire's frontier was already at an end. Before all this he was meant to report back to his father's council and share what progress had been made with the Braavosi. His mother more than any had urged him to make a swift return, for their adversaries at court had been emboldened of late.

Lyanna Stark was many things but fearful was not one of them. Jon was her only child and best defense against those in the empire who disdained the High King's spirited second wife.

Especially when she champions unpopular causes, he thought, only my mother would attack a blight on the empire's honor even Jaehaerys the Good could not overcome.

While his father's empire was truly the finest realm in the known world, filled with great works of beauty and splendor, it was built on the back of slaves. When Aegon the Conqueror returned to Essos with the might of his dragons he rebuilt the former Valyrian Freehold for better and worse. Within the Targaryen Empire toiled thousands upon thousands of slaves from all corners of the world. Slavers travelled far and wide to fill the empire's hunger for servants, even raiding the lands of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon's mother had been taken in such a way. She'd been travelling aboard a ship bound for the Kingdom of the Storm to marry its king when the slavers attacked. Her brother, Prince Brandon, heir to the King of Winter, fell in defense of his sister. Princess Lyanna was so vengeful in her grief that when the slaver captain came to her she bit his ear clean off. The slight was not forgiven, his mother made a slave rather than being ransomed as was customary.

Mother spoke little of her time in captivity, save with pride at how she and her fellow slaves bided their time to stage a revolt aboard the ship. The bloody rising of the slaves against their masters was successful yet served to cripple the vessel, leaving it at the mercy of the seas or whoever else stumbled upon it.

Father said a strange wind blew that day and still believed it was the gods themselves guiding his imperial dromond to the drifting ship. By law any escaped slave found on the seas was subject to the will of whomever discovered them. Yet when father's men boarded the vessel they found the surviving prisoners armed and defiant, his mother at the fore.

"She was a vision, a dark beauty with a fierceness I'd never thought to find in one so lovely." Father had told him. "From the moment she threatened my life she became a part of it. I cannot say who captured who that day, for I have been under your mother's power ever since."

Although father decreed that all the slaves could remain free and arrangements would be made for their safe journey home, Jon's mother had declined to leave him. Spurning the betrothal arranged by the Starks and her home itself, Lyanna Stark would become his father's wife only a month later. His second wife that is, for Prince Rhaegar was already wed to Princess Elia Martell of Dorne at High King Aerys's behest. The Targaryens had long taken multiple wives and were free to choose their brides, unless the groom happened to be an heir.

His father had been pronounced heir only half a year earlier and his marriage to Lyanna caused upheaval at the imperial court. Even now, more than twenty years later, Jon still felt the effects of his parents' defiance.

As child he was infamous. The product of a union between a Targaryen prince and a Westerosi slave. The second born son of a king who only gained the throne following the murder of his father. Many even whispered Jonarys had been born the same day Aerys was brought low though his mother swore it was a lie. Wherever he went that reputation preceded him. Some nobility turned up their noses at Lyanna Stark's son while slaves bowed, out of respect for his mother's status among the downtrodden.

One of those who held his mother in such esteem met Jon at the foot of the hill, where the majority of his men and horse awaited. The scouts were led by a large, well-muscled man with coal black hair and bright blue eyes.

"My lord." Gendry hailed him, climbing down from his horse, pressing a fist to his chest. His dear friend only ever acted so formal when they were in front of the men, for the two were as close as brothers. They'd surely been raised as such.

"Sergeant." He nodded. "What did you learn?"

"We followed their trail to the edges of the forest." Gendry replied, looking about as many others hung on his words. "They are not regrouping like we feared, the khalasar has left the frontier. Heading back east into the Dothraki Sea."

"Khal Drogo defeated!" The Blackfish shouted to a raucous cheer from the men. "The order prevails! The order prevails!"

"The order prevails!"The men chanted boisterously. "The order prevails!"

"Glory to the empire!" The Summer Islander Black Balaq roared and his words too were echoed.

Yet he could not join in the cheering, for they had not truly defeated Khal Drogo. Something about their sudden departure filled him with unease. Nor did he much feel like cheering while those he'd sent to his death rotted nearby.

Gendry put a hand to his arm then, his eyes scanning the fort before offering him a sympathetic look.

"Jon, brother, let me see to the burying of the dead. We shall honor them like the good men of the empire they are. Let it trouble you no more."

"That's just the problem my brother." He answered. "That they were good men. We bury far too many good men these days."

"It's getting so only the vile and corrupt stand to inherit my father's realm."

"We must have peace… a lasting peace."

"If only for the sake of good men."

WINTERFELL

Every eye in the castle watched the party enter. The guardsmen and servants lined the battlements and yards did so. As did loyal retainers and the royal family itself, all staring silently as their king was returned to them.

The wagon rolled through the gates, pulled by a team of horses and flanked by an escort of mounted warriors.

All held spears with the banners flying limply, the grey direwolf of House Stark on a snow white backing. The men holding the banners were grim faced and somber, even by northern standards. From where Sansa stood with mother and the others, the line of riders seemed endless. The wagon was halfway across the courtyard and still the men came on.

Sansa spotted many she recognized among their number. Helman Tallhart, Ronnel Stout, Halys Hornwood, Galbart Glover, Medger Cerwyn and his son Cley.

Yet she saw few of the men who had left with her father months ago.

No Martyn Cassel. No William Dustin. No Mark Ryswell.

It was only when the wagon drew close did she get a glimpse of her father. Or what they carried him within, a coffin of the darkest oak.

For Eddard Stark was dead.

The King in the North. Lord of Winterfell. Her beloved father. Murdered.

Cersei swore I'd never be safe from her wrath, she thought bitterly, Joffrey told me there was no end to the pain he would cause me.

Father tried to protect me from all that… so they killed him… oh father…

"Father!" Rickon sobbed, her eight year old brother making to run to the wagon before mother took hold of him.

"Hush sweetling." Mother whispered, pressing Rickon's weeping face into her middle, embracing him as tightly as Sansa wished to be held herself. "We must be strong now… strong for your father. Strong for Robb."

Rickon continued to weep, his bushy red hair shaking back and forth as he tried to deny what they all had known for weeks now. Arya bore it far better, her little sister's face as cold as block of ice, her grey eyes as hard as men twice her ten and five years. Bran was trying to act the same, yet even the lanky young man he'd become struggled to hold his chin high, a single tear rolling down his cheek. No matter how strong they tried to act Sansa saw the pair holding each other's hands.

No one held Robb's hand, nor could any if they wanted to. Her brother's powerful hands were clenched into fists at his side. With his strong jaw set and his auburn hair and beard cut as it was, save for the Tully coloring, Robb was every bit father's son. Draped in the furs and wools of the north the softest thing about her older brother were his eyes. For nothing could hide the anguish in them when father's wagon came to a halt before them.

Father's bones were just steps away and it was a struggle to hold her place.

Once she might have bawled like Rickon did, perhaps even faint. Yet that time was long gone. She'd been through enough torture and pain to learn how to control her emotions. Or at least how to hide them.

Your father's dead, you must show grief, she thought, but some of these visitors could be traitors.

Show no feeling and they won't know how to hurt you. Show nothing at all.

Her clothing showed little of anything. Sansa held a wolf skin cloak tight around herself, hiding her figure from the lecherous eyes of men. Beneath it was a simple grey gown that hid every bit of skin it could save her face. If there was one truth Sansa had learned it was that her body brought out the beast in men. At times she wished her breasts would shrink away or hips would grow thin or too wide, or that she was a haggard crone of eighty rather than a maiden of ten and eight.

Those selfish thoughts fell away as two men broke off from the escort, both dismounting in front of them. One was a weasel faced young man wearing a tunic with a quartered coat of arms bearing twin blue towers on grey and three red chevronels. The other man was a far more familiar and welcome sight.

Jory Cassel, her family's trusted shield, held something in his hands hidden by a pelt of wolf's fur. He carried it straight towards mother and Robb, dropping to a knee at their feet, showing no concern for the mud he sank into.

"Queen Catelyn." Jory rasped. "I served your husband. I fought for your husband. I failed your husband."

"You did no such thing Jory." Mother shook her head, gently moving Rickon towards Sansa so she could take her little brother in hand. She pulled Rickon to her side, drying his eyes with her sleeve while Jory held up the fur-covered object.

"I couldn't save my king, but I wouldn't let those scum claim his body. Or his crown."

A ripple of whispers and quiet words went through those watching as mother reached out to pull aside the furs. Beneath them was a thick circlet of hammered bronze, dented and scratched here and there. The runes of the First Men were etched along its length and rising from its sides were nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of swords.

This was the crown the Kings of Winter had been wearing for time untold. The crown her father had worn since she could remember. The crown he'd died for.

Sansa remembered how mother would lift it from his brow to rub her fingers over his worried head. Whether touching her father or handling his crown, mother had always done so with gentleness and care. She did the same now, her hands trembling only the smallest bit to take the crown in hand and hold it before her. Mother's own crown was a slimmer band of bronze lacking any decoration save a wolf's head of the blackest iron.

"My husband is dead." Mother spoke loud enough for all to hear. "The King in the North is dead but his line survives."

"The pack lives on!" The Greatjon bellowed, his face red with anger. "The Starks endure!"

"The Starks endure!" An echoing cry came from the crowd, Arya and Bran joining it. Sansa merely clutched Rickon all the tighter.

How much more can we endure? How much more suffering can my family take?

Can I bear anymore?

"King Eddard left an heir." Mother spoke as she turned to face Robb, crown in hand. "Winterfell is yours, my son. The Kingdom of the North is yours, its troubles are yours. Winter is coming Robb, if you have the strength to face the cold winds and the winter snows, speak so now."

"On my vow I do." Robb answered, voice gruff and loud despite his low tones.

"If you mean to honor the legacy of the Stark kings come before you, your father's legacy, speak so now."

"On my honor I will."

"If you are worthy of the weight of this crown, bend to accept it."

Robb did not hesitate, kneeling in front of mother and bending his head forward. With a summer chill in the air Robb's breathing came up as clouds of white mist. When mother lowered the crown through those clouds they became steam in Sansa's eyes, the bronze a fiery brand.

The sounds of a terrible sizzling and her own screams filled her ears as a pain from years ago came back all at once. A horrible pain and shame, a cruel laugh haunting her memory.

Her grip on Rickon tightened so that he hissed in pain, pulling her back from the past to witness Robb being crowned here in the present. The crown sat well upon her brother's brow, his auburn hair like a field of fire the bronze was being reforged within.

"The crown is yours." Mother stepped back. "Rise and let all see you carry its weight. Rise and begin the reign of Robb Stark, King in the North."

When Robb stood, back straight and chin raised high, the Greatjon pushed his way to stand before him. The gigantic Umber lord pulled free a monstrous greatsword, holding it upwards and kneeling down.

"The King in the North!" The Greatjon roared, causing Rickon to jump in her arms. "The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!" Jory echoed and a hundred others did the same, all drawing swords and kneeling too.

"The King in the North!"

Hundreds now shouted and knelt, Ser Rodrik Cassel joined the lords Hornwood, Karstark and Cerwyn in offering up their blades. Every rider of the escort and guardsmen in the castle did the same. Even young Bran drew his blade, which had never seen battle, and held it up to Robb after while his place in the mud.

"The King in the North!" Arya and Rickon took up the call but Sansa could not find the voice to do so.

For she had been paying attention to her mother's words. The crown gave Robb more than just a kingdom, it gave him its enemies as well.

The Greyjoys. The Gardeners. The Lannisters. The Durrandons.

Joffrey and Cersei are bad enough. Tywin Lannister is a man all Seven Kingdoms fear.

My father could not stand against all of that, how can Robb?

When the cheering died away and everyone was on their feet again the man who'd rode in with Jory pulled something from his saddle. A large sheathed blade Sansa recognized as her father's Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice. Carrying the sword forward with a lowered head and hesitant steps, the mysterious southron man was introduced by Jory.

"My king, here stands Olyvar Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey. He and his brother Ser Perwyn were among your father's party when we were ambushed. Without their efforts I would not be standing here today, King Eddard's bones and sword lost. The brothers Frey defended us in our efforts to rescue all, Ser Perwyn falling in service to his king."

Robb crossed the rest of the distance between the Frey and himself, grasping Ice but not moving to take it from the man's hands. Instead he bid Olyvar to meet his gaze, which Sansa found full of sympathy.

"Your brother's name shall be known to all northmen." Robb said. "His sacrifice does honor by House Frey. That you stood for my father when I could not means I owe you a great debt Olyvar. I shall bestow upon you a knighthood. If there is any more I can do for you, good man, speak to it and surely I will see it done."

"I ask for nothing your grace." Olyvar spoke quickly, clearly unready for Robb's gratitude. "My brother died as a subject of the Starks. I only ask to honor his death and my fealty by serving as your man, however you'd have me."

"Then my man you shall be." Robb nodded, looking down to Ice and tightening his hold upon it. "But I shall offer you a vow as well, Olyvar Frey. The same I swore my mother, my brothers and sisters and I swear now to my father."

With that Robb took the sword handle and while Olyvar held the sheath he pulled the greatsword free. The dark and smoky color of the steel made Robb's hair and eyes look all the brighter.

"On the blade of my ancestors I so swear to have vengeance on those who have wronged us." Robb spoke through gritted teeth. "Justice for all those killed by Lannister treachery. I shall not rest until Ice is red with the blood of lions."

He looked to Sansa then. "And stags."

Robb meant well but her face burned. That her family all looked to her then was bad enough. When countless others did the same she lowered her eyes and released Rickon to pull her cloak all the tighter. Trying in vain to hide her shame.

It was horrid to feel thankful when Robb commanded father's journey continue on to the crypts, for it stole the attention from her. This was a far less public honor, for while her family led the procession to the crypts only the highborn and dearest servants of House Starks were permitted to follow.

This was not how Sansa wished to welcome father home. He was meant to ride back through the gates and find her there, thankful and happy. She was to embrace him and feel safe in those strong arms once more.

Nothing good ever comes of us going south,she thought, I told father that… I told him not to go…

Once Sansa had felt much differently. Years ago, when she was young and naïve, her mind filled with songs of southron knights and romantic songs. It was her dream to one day be a queen of a kingdom in warm, flower-filled lands. A dream she thought had come true when the Durrandons came to visit. Her father and the Robert Durrandon were old friends, having fought side by side to drive the krakens from the riverlands. Ever since the North had ruled a swath of the riverlands, joining the kingdoms of the Storm and the Reach in dominion over parts of those rich lands.

While mother described the south as a place of great beauty King Robert was not much to look at. Fat and sweaty as he had been Sansa was unimpressed by the southron king, yet his heir had been the very image of a prince. Joffrey Durrandon took after his Lannister mother in all ways, golden hair, bright green eyes and a handsome face. To hear of her betrothal to Prince Joffrey was a sweet thing, that she would be going south with the Durrandons the answer to all her prayers.

Yet the gods were cruel.

Things had gone well at first, her prince acting kind to her while a tad harsh towards smallfolk and his own siblings. Those were the first signs of the monster Joffrey truly was yet Sansa was blind to it. That all changed when King Robert died in a hunting accident and Joffrey took the crown himself. War had been brewing, the Durrandons and Starks set to ally against the Kingdom of the Reach and take full control of the riverlands. Sansa knew Queen Cersei preferred Robert ally with the Lannisters instead and disdained how much land he meant to share with the Starks.

Joffrey went back on all Robert's pledges, demanding nearly all the land they were set to win and parts of the riverlands already held by the North. Still not content, Joffrey commanded the Starks to fight for him, to help crush his uncles Stannis and Renly, who had raised up claims to his throne.

Father's stern refusal of Joffrey's demands led to her first ever beating. Joffrey had his sworn swords take out his wrath on her body.

It was merely the beginning of her torment. Every loss or setback Joffrey suffered in his mad rule was visited upon her through beatings and worse. The small retinue mother had sent with Sansa to Storm's End were murdered before her eyes. Joffrey had forced her to stare up at Septa Mordane's head on a spike twice. Once when it had only just started to rot and the crows had been at it. The second after a storm had stripped half the greenish flesh from one side.

Nothing was too sadistic for Joffrey. She was beaten until her body was a tapestry of bruises. Stripped naked to the jeers of men. Taunted with lies about her family being murdered.

The war went so badly for Joffrey she feared he would kill her before any rescue would come. For two years that hell dragged on and her hope struggled to survive. It was at her worst that a hero saved her, the most unlikely of men. Now, years later, Sansa believed Sandor Clegane had been a hero all along. The Hound might have served Joffrey, his life one of violence and cruelty, yet he never struck her.

In the end, it was he who showed her mercy. Sandor Clegane who showed more nobility than any of the knights who witnessed her torment.

Sandor who rescued her. Sandor who cared for her. Sandor who showed her there were still good men in the world.

And how unforgiving the world is towards them.

There was no denying that as she watched father's remains sealed within his tomb. While scores of torches had been brought down with them into Winterfell's crypts somehow the darkness persisted. It hid along the edges of the granite pillars holding the earth above their heads, behind the nearest statues carved into the likenesses of dead Starks. The shadows loomed behind her grandfather Rickard and uncle Brandon, father's statue now joining them in this damp, chilly place.

Words were said, rites observed, yet all Sansa could think of was once it was all over the darkness would be back. They would leave and father would stay, buried here in this cold, dark place.

Such was why, when everyone else made to leave, she stayed put. Mother was too bereaved to remain any longer, Arya and Bran each holding one of her hands when they left. Jory enfolded a weeping Rickon into his arms, leading her little brother away. One by one the Starks and their allies made to leave the crypts until only the king's two eldest children remained.

"It doesn't look like him." Robb spoke hoarsely. "The statue… that's not father. Not the one I knew."

He was right. While the stone mason had certainly done a good job in capturing a strong, stern looking king, one with direwolves curled at his feet and a bronze sword laid across his lap, Sansa could never name it her father. His stone grey eyes too unfeeling for the king who had shed a tear to be reunited with her. His face too hard for the father who kissed a daughter's head when it was full of worries. His skin too cold for the man who embraced her before leaving Winterfell for his trip south.

"It's just a statue." She replied, wiping away a tear. "Just some stone thing father rests beneath. It can never be what he was to us… what I remember him as…"

Robb grunted and made to run his hand along the bronze blade on the statue's lap. She watched as his shoulders slumped, his head shaking as he did so.

"This is my fault." Robb choked out. "It should have been me to go. Me who died, not him."

"The Boltons needed to be dealt with." She reminded him. "Their rebellion had to be put down and father trusted no one more than you…"

"No, no you don't understand… father didn't just go south to treat with the river lords. He went there for me." Robb turned to face her then, anguish etched across his face. "Father was going to treat with the Gardeners. Trying to secure a peace between us, an alliance of both of our kingdoms. It was a secret, at least it was meant to be..."

"That doesn't make sense." She said. "Father held nothing but disdain for King Mace. Ever since the war when he let Tywin Lannister march through their lands to ambush our army…"

"That's true." Robb nodded. "But he hated Tywin and Joffrey more, we both did, for what they did to you. We both wanted justice for you and everything points to the Lannisters and Durrandons preparing for war again…"

He made fists at his sides and cursed beneath his breath.

"It was my idea, the alliance with the Gardeners. Princess Margaery was unpromised and I suggested to father that I marry her. It was me who pushed him into seeking allies in those soft flowery bastards…"

It wasn't that much of a surprise to hear this. All knew father's southron bannermen stood between Tywin Lannister and his goal of uniting the Rock and Storm kingdoms. Pinkmaiden, Raventree Hall, Seagard, the Twins, all begged for men the Starks just didn't have. Even her uncle Edmure, Lord of the River Marches, warned that if the Lannisters marched Riverrun could fall.

Which was believable since her father was killed while travelling through their own southern holdings. Such was the power and reach of the Lannisters.

Yet Robb's admission spoke to something more sinister.

"The Gardeners betrayed him." Her hand went to her mouth. "That's what you're saying isn't it? They told the Lannisters father would be coming."

"They swear they didn't." Robb spoke through gritted teeth. "As Maester Luwin tells it the raven proclaiming father's death barely arrived before one came from Willas Garderner. The Greenhand prince swearing up and down they were outraged by all this."

"Not so outraged they called off Margaery's betrothal to Joffrey." She felt a cold creep up in her, for that arrangement had followed father's murder as well.

"The bastards." Robb trembled with rage. "Prince Willas pledges peace between our families now but what's that mean to me? Two kingdoms set against us instead of three? Is that the great feat I sent father to his death for?"

"Robb you couldn't have known-"

"I should have!" He yelled, his cry echoing throughout the crypts like the ghosts of old agreed. "I have to know these things! I'm the king now, I have to protect all of you! The kingdom itself! The prince who got his father killed!"

"They killed him Robb, not you." She tried to take hold of him but he backed away, half hidden in shadows now. "You heard the lords out there, all the people, they believe in you."

"Belief doesn't mean victory Sansa. Else I would've broken through the gates of Storm's End myself and saved you before Joffrey…" Robb's face lowered and the darkness hid his expression, just as she tried to block out what he spoke of. "It makes me furious to think that monster is set to marry and lords turn up their noses at you…"

Let them, she thought, better still have them ignore me altogether.

All men can smile but they can be monsters all the same… I cannot bear to be given to another…

"There must be war." Robb's voice came from the darkness. "Against Tywin and Joffrey both. Our bannermen north and south scream for it. With the Boltons rebelling and the Arryns fighting amongst themselves father felt a war coming, that's why he listened to me. Mother says I should make peace, offer our enemies all our lands south of Riverrun but I can't do that. We'd look weak. Those families we'd be giving away have fought hard beside us, against the Durrandons and Lannisters both… I can't betray good men.

"Good men are betrayed every day." She looked to father's statue. "They die long before their time… and I don't want you to be among them Robb. The last time father and you fought against the Lannisters you had the Arryns to help. Stannis and Renly to distract Joffrey's armies…."

"And now that's all gone. Gods Sansa, you do take after mother." Robb sighed, leaving the shadows to behold father's statue at her side. "She said the same thing so let me tell you what I told her. Surrender is not an option. Neither is defeat. We win or we die."

"We can't win. Not alone." She pleaded. "Two years Robb. Two years I spent alone with those people. Surrounded. Outnumbered. I escaped because of a good man. A friend. I'd be dead and buried if not for him… and we all will be if you try and stand alone…"

Robb suddenly took hold of her arms and jerked her about to face him. "You will never be alone again Sansa. Never again. I won't let you or any of the others die because of me. I'm not being proud, I know if I try and fight the bastards alone we're doomed. That's why I've asked for help."

"From who?" Sansa asked as she remembered being held by Sandor once in such a way. Though she'd felt smaller in his arms, for he had towered over her while Robb and she could look eye to eye. "The Martells?"

He shook his head. "They're in a bad way too. No, it's the Starks in danger so it's a Stark I reached out to."

"What can Uncle Benjen do?"

Their beloved uncle was in White Harbor with his wife Wynafryd Manderly and their children. While always welcome guests here at Winterfell Sansa saw little Benjen could offer, for his command of the Stark fleet amounted to only two score galleys.

"Not our uncle." Robb corrected. "Our aunt."

"Aunt Lyanna?!"

It was Sansa's turn for her words to echo through the corridor, as if the name Lyanna was a shock to the spirits as well. Many here in the North spoke her name in hushed tones but to Sansa her aunt had always been a magical figure. Saved from slavers to wed the most powerful and famed prince in the known world, it was safe to say Sansa had aspired to living a story as romantic as her aunt's. She'd even played at being Lyanna as a child.

Yet none of them had ever met the High Queen of the Targaryen Empire. Truly all they had knew of her were stories told by father and Uncle Benjen.

When Sansa left the crypts alongside Robb she had more than stories to go by, and more than fears to haunt her.

Robb had to host a morose feast in the Great Hall for their visiting lords but didn't force Sansa to attend. She was thankful for that, the dampness of the crypts had found its way within her gown so now the garment felt wet and heavy against her skin.

The mood of the castle was more somber than usual. Every servant or guard she passed on the stairs of the Great Keep looked glum or offered words of condolences. When she opened the door to her chambers a welcome sight greeted her, the first one in hours. Upon her bed, filling the entire breadth of it, was a large grey direwolf.

"Lady." She smiled, for no matter her mood, the wolf could always make her smile. "Oh you lot chose a horrible day to stray from our sides."

The wolf cocked her head, those golden eyes locked on Sansa as she came to sit upon the bed and wrap her arms around Lady's neck. The beast responded by sniffing and licking at her face, whining some as her desperate hold dragged on. Sansa couldn't help it, for the direwolf never failed to give her strength. All her siblings had been wroth to find their wolves disappeared a few days past. It wasn't unusual for the five to leave the castle, they often did so whenever the sixth of their number appeared outside Winterfell's walls.

The Ghost the smallfolk called it. The albino direwolf that never fit in at Winterfell like the others had. The runt who went unclaimed by any of the Stark children and had run out the gates as soon as it was old enough to. Father predicted it would die without its pack yet sightings persisted and every few moons the white wolf would appear. Each time the silent spectre somehow bid his brothers and sisters to join him for a run about their lands which lasted for days.

Such was what happened only days earlier yet Sansa was happy enough to find Lady returned to her.

"I always feel safer with you here." She kissed Lady's snout as she rose from the bed. "If only you'd come to me before I'd gone south. You would've smelt the rot on Cersei and Joffrey from the start."

Lady whined at that, almost in sympathy, yet she could not blame the wolf. The pups had been found after her return to Winterfell so there was nothing Lady could have done to protect her. Not like she did now, for the wolf was one of two people Sansa could ever undress in front of.

With her gown covering so much of her skin its dampness made it to uncomfortable to bear. Once Septa Mordane or others would've helped her undress but that was a time long gone. Only mother had ever viewed what Sansa now displayed to Lady as she stripped.

Sansa's body was slender but her hips were wider and rear full enough that men turned their heads to watch her pass. Her breasts more than filled her hands, round and firm as they were, topped with light pink nipples she thought matched the hue of her lips. In the dark Sansa could pretend this was all she was.

She knew better though and the light of her chambers left no mistake of the painful truth. The scars were few and small but there nonetheless. Three thin lash marks upon her back, a handful of pale marks where blades had cut upon her chest and stomach.

"Nothing that mars your beauty." Mother had said of those marks. "Nothing a good man won't be able to ignore."

Yet even mother had struggled to speak kindly of the worst of her scars. The one burned into the back of her right shoulder. The dark image of a stag, etched deep into her flesh by Joffrey with a red-hot brand. Three men had held her down for Joffrey to scar her in such a way, the vile creature laughing through her screams and the sound of her searing flesh. A fourth man had been among their number but his protests had earned him a rebuke and dismissal from the cruel occasion.

She'd been lost to a world of pain and burning for days afterwards, for her golden tormentor had forbidden the maester from dosing Sansa with milk of the poppy. That time had been a haze of agony, cruel green eyes and sickening laughter.

Yet when she regained her senses she found herself free of all that torment.

For her protector, the only man in Joffrey's service never to strike Sansa and the only one to oppose his branding of her, had somehow spirited her away from the castle.

"Quiet now little bird." The Hound had warned when she awoke upon a small rowboat to find the scarred warrior rowing them along the shoreline. "You save your strength. We've a long way to get you away from the flames."

Sandor hadn't lied. Their escape from Storm's End began a months long flight through the south. Always heading north in hopes of somehow finding the northern army. She'd been fearful in Sandor's clutches, for he was often gruff and harsh with her in speech. Yet when it came to cleaning her wound or carrying her through rough terrain, his tenderness betrayed Sandor's true self.

"You're a hero." She'd said one night, Sandor nearly choking on a squirrel he cooked for them. "You're my hero… a true knight…"

"I'm a man cooking a squirrel." He'd grumbled back. "A hero would've kept you from being burned."

"But you saved me." Sansa had answered back and the man grimaced again.

"For gold. Your family will pay me most like." Sandor lied, for he often demanded payment of another kind from her. "Sing for me, little bird. Sing me a song that makes me forget how ugly I am."

Sansa liked to think she'd never sung more beautifully. For she spent weeks singing her dear protector to sleep each night. Willing that her lyrics would somehow reach the kind man who cared for her so dearly. That he could accept them where he rejected her words.

Or her body.

They had found an inn near the Blackwater during a stormy night. After two months together it was the first time the Hound had not pretended Sansa was his daughter when they took the last room. Their clothes had been soaked through. The fire small, its meager flames offering little warmth. Both had stripped themselves down yet only Sansa lay upon the bed. The Hound resting his naked body on the floor, claiming with enough wine he'd survive the night.

She offered him blankets and he rejected them. She offered him the bed itself and he rejected it. She became so desperate to save him from a chill he'd awoken to find her laying beside him on the floor. A blanket thrown over top of them both, their naked bodies pressed together.

Sandor had been so lost to the drink it felt like an eternity to her before he finally opened his eyes. For she'd been alive with a feeling deep within her, one that kept her hips pressed against his side and her heart pounding in her chest.

"Little bird… what the fuck are you doing?" Sandor had asked in a raspy tone, yet as soon as his eyes found hers she'd done what she'd wanted to do for weeks.

She kissed him. His unshaven cheeks were rough and his breath stunk of wine but Sansa kissed Sandor with all the love she could bring to bear. While lightning crashed without and thunder boomed above the man who could've broken her in two accepted her kiss. Again and again Sansa had kissed him, her lips and cheeks raw and her skin on fire, yet the most Sandor did was steady her shoulders as she did so.

Until her leg rose up and brushed against his manhood. A hard, thick thing which sent a shiver through her body. As soon as she'd done that Sandor came alive, nearly throwing her aside like he did the blanket. He lifted her up in his powerful arms and laid her down in the bed, leaving her naked body open for his eyes to take in. When lightning flashed without she was given the same opportunity.

Sandor's massive body had bulged with muscle and his chest was thick with dark, coarse hair. His manhood had the same thick thatch of hair about it though her eyes were locked on the size of the staff which stabbed out at her. Once Joffrey had a team of stable boys enter her chambers at night, naked and stiff in such a way. Her screams of terror to find them standing over her had amused him and thankfully he'd derived as much delight from denying them her body as tormenting her with the threat.

Something Sandor had tried to deny himself as well.

"I can't." Sandor had rasped as he looked down at her. "I'm a monster but not this kind of monster…."

"You're no monster." She'd answered, reaching for him, tears in her eyes at how much she wished to be with him. "Please Sandor… love me… love me like I love you…"

The man who denied his true self did not deny her then. It had hurt, she knew it would, yet it was a hurt she was willing to take for him. Sandor was soft and gentle with her, refusing to move without Sansa urging him to. The pain never truly went away but it dulled, which made seeing and feeling Sandor's great pleasure all the better for her.

When he reached his release Sansa nearly wept to see the look of unfiltered happiness on her love's face. Never had his scarred eye opened in such a way that she saw joy in it and Sansa had kissed him hard to ensure that moment lasted as long as it could.

Yet their time together was not to last much longer. Not a day after Sansa and Sandor made love, her head full of names for their future children, Joffrey's men had come upon them.

That was when the Hound appeared again. He was one against six and Sansa could do nothing but scream in terror as he met their challenge. Sandor Clegane was a hero, she'd known that for some time before watching him overcome such numbers. Yet even a hero could not survive the wounds he took. She was no healer and he said it wouldn't matter, he was doomed. All that mattered to him was getting her as far as he could. Sandor held on for three days after the fight, each day more agonizing than the next.

Until the morning they awoke and neither Sansa nor Sandor could lift him onto his horse.

"This is it then." Sandor had winced as he collapsed against the base of an oak tree. "Time for the little bird to fly free."

"I can't." Sansa wept, burying her face in his neck and making to lift him again. "Please I need you… you saved me… we're in love and are going to be married…"

"Never." He'd pushed her away. "I'd never wish that on you… if I was all you make me to be you'd not have that mark on your back… I'd have given you that mercy…"

With that he'd kissed her, a soft, tender kiss. One that ended with him pressing a dagger into her hands.

"And now I beg you for a mercy little bird. A song and some mercy. A good end to a bad life."

She'd argued of course. She'd wept and screamed but it was all for naught. Sansa was not strong enough to lift him. Nor was she strong enough to deny him.

It was a cruel thing. Hundreds of times before Sansa had imagined killing Joffrey. In the end though she killed the man who saved her from that monster. To spare the man she loved any more pain she found the strength to press a blade into his heart.

A day later Lord William Dustin, who knew Sansa from birth, found her filthy and weeping next to a recently dug grave.

Such was how Sansa came to be returned to her family. It was also why she remained unmarried to this day.

For while none knew she gave up her virtue to a good man, all knew an evil man had branded her as his own.

And as Sansa gazed at her naked body in the looking glass of her chamber she felt content to accept such.

Joffrey may have branded me but I gave myself to Sandor.

A good man… of a kind I'll never see again…

With a hand to her heart Sansa willed it the beating thing to turn cold. For it could never beat as powerfully for a man as the one she had already lost.

For Sandor Clegane had been a man like no other.

THE HEARTLANDS

The Targaryen palace of Summerhall was a beacon of beauty and power unlike any other.

That was truly saying something, for these lands were already splendid in their own right. The Heartlands were called such for good reason, for they laid between three of the empire's greatest cities. Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, the three daughters of Old Valyria, all sitting along the edges of this fertile region. Once, in the anarchy following the Doom, those cities had fought bitterly for control of the lands separating them. That time had long passed though, in the peace to come during the Targaryen reign the so-called Disputed Lands proved to be the richest and most fruitful of the imperial domains.

Such was why the Heartlands were chosen to build the new home of House Targaryen in Essos, Summerhall. While the High Kings ruled the empire from its capital in Volantis it was at Summerhall they raised their families. The magnificent palace had been built using dragon flame and white stone quarried from far away lands. Three tall towers rose high into the skyline, the Towers of Visenya and Rhaenys being shorter, the tallest being the Aegonspire. Dotted with wide windows and balconies, each was topped with massive stone dragons. Their wings spread apart while their mouths snarled into the sky, beacon fires burning bright within those massive jaws

Below the towers were a number of pale keeps and spires of various purposes, many with terraced gardens and reflecting pools jutting out from their sides. To Jon it was a mark of vanity to have private pools and gardens in such a place. For Summerhall sat along the shoreline of a wide, tranquil lake. Surrounding it were green fields and lush orchards that stretched so far that Jon had been riding through them for the better part of an hour before finally reaching his family's home.

A month after leaving Qohor he was finally able to heed his parents' summons. He rode with only a score of his most loyal retainers, for no army was allowed within five leagues of Summerhall without the High King's invitation. His friends rode the closest, Gendry and Greenbeard to his right, the Blackfish and Thoros to his left. They made quite the impression on the field tenders they passed, many rising up from their work to stare. When some recognized Jon they smiled widely and cheered.

"The Free Queen!" They shouted. "The Free Queen!"

He raised his hand up and wondered how many of these folk were free due to his mother. For mother had long ago convinced father to free all the slaves tending these fields. In truth his father no longer owed any slaves himself, unlike other members of House Targaryen.

As his horse clattered upon the smooth Valyrian road leading to the palace gates he wondered which of his family might be gathered within. There were some Jon hoped to find there, others he wished far away.

When they passed through the gates and into the wide, cobbled courtyard of Summerhall its splendor took him aback. After years of harsh living the many golden statues and tall fruit trees made him feel like he was unworthy of such a place. That was until he noticed the beauty who was waiting to welcome him.

Queen Lyanna wore a blue gown of silk bound together by a pair of bronze rings, her skirts trailing far behind her. She treated her hair much the same, for it fell well below her shoulders in a cascade of dark brown, the color of the rich earth of these lands. Some said mother's grey eyes were cold but Jon had only ever found warmth in them.

It felt good to see little had changed.

"My boys!" Mother cried out happily, arms open wide at the sight of Jon and Gendry. "I shall have Rhaegar strip you both of all your glories for staying away for so long."

"It was not by choice your grace." Gendry sounded abashed. "I swear it."

"The Dothraki don't bend to the will of mothers." Jon added, quickly dismounting so Gendry could do the same, an act of courtesy he had told the sergeant to forego.

When their feet hit the ground the queen gathered both into a warm embrace, as she had done since they were young boys. Gendry's cheeks turned red, for his friend was as embarrassed by mother's display as Jon was. Mother knew this yet hugged them all the tighter.

Gendry had come to them when he and Jon were just about eight years of age. Mother had been leading him through a slave market at Volantis, showing him the crippling suffering of the poor souls, when they'd come upon a young boy being beaten mercilessly by a slave master. Mother had watched it with a mix of disgust and rage, for even queens had no right to interfere in such matters. Yet when the boy began pleading for mercy in the Common Tongue of the Westerosi she'd been driven to act.

Sending the slaver off with sheer ferocity mother had tended to Gendry herself. She'd paled to take note of his appearance, proclaiming she'd known a king once of such features. Gendry's story came out soon after, for he was the bastard born son of the Storm King himself, Robert Durrandon. He'd lived a life of relative peace as a blacksmith's apprentice until he drew the ire of the Storm Queen, Cersei Lannister. One night her agents came and took Gendry away from the blacksmith he apprenticed for, putting him on a ship to be sold into slavery.

In exchange for his cheap price the Storm Queen had attached only one condition to Gendry's sale.

"Please m'lady." Gendry had wept from the pain of his beating. "I've done nothing to no one save be an apprentice… they won't let me be one here… they say I'm pretty enough for the pleasure houses… I don't know what those are…"

"Hush child." Mother had gathered Gendry up into her arms, earning the protests of the slaver. "I have never let gold pass between myself and the vile flesh traders. Yet I shall do so now, if only to pay a debt I owe to Robert Durrandon. No matter if he never knows it."

Such was how Gendry came to join their family, for mother refused to simply have him sent away. She'd bought his freedom and felt responsible for him, thus Gendry had been raised side by side with Jon, becoming the brother he always wanted.

Even though he already had a brother by blood. A fact which bid him to interrupt his mother's gushing kisses upon Gendry's and his face.

"Mother, please, we're warriors not children." He broke away, his face growing stern. "Who else is here? I heard tell the Golden Legion was camped south of the lake."

Mother's good cheer fell away and the face she wore for dire matters took its place.

"They're all here. Every dragon there is to speak of, for either good or ill." She sighed, waving forward some servants to see to their horses. "Come, your father has called together the Council of Heralds to hear your reports of the frontier. Your men should come as well, Viserys and Aegon have brought theirs."

"As you will it." He nodded to the Blackfish and the others. "Prepare yourselves for a stare off with the Golden Legion."

"Splendid." The Blackfish grinned. "Been a boring ride."

As his mother led them along the marble walkways and silk curtained halls of the palace he noticed something different in her. He'd missed it in the joy of the reunion yet now there was no missing the dark circles beneath her eyes. When she caught him looking, her smile appeared forced.

"Mother? What has happened?" He asked and immediately saw her forming excuses. "Don't hide things from me. We've been apart too long for that."

"I wanted to wait." Her words barely above a whisper, her hands wringing in worry. "Word came from across the Narrow Sea. The Winter King is dead… my brother Ned has been killed."

"Eddard Stark?" He felt his mouth go dry for he knew the name well.

My Uncle Eddard, mother's favorite brother,he recalled,whenever she spoke of the North's strength, of northern honor, it was his name she invoked.

"Eddard Stark was a good man." The Blackfish spoke gravely. "I only met him twice but there were few men better your grace."

"I'm so sorry mother." He stopped their steps, taking hold of the queen and kissing her brow with care. "You called him a great man and I always thought to meet him… I hoped to at least…"

"He would've loved you Jon." She said, cradling his face, blinking away tears. "I blame myself for not visiting years ago, I only hope his children can forgive the lateness of my arrival."

"Arrival?" He pulled away in surprise. "What are you-"

"Nevermind." Mother interrupted, clearly done with the topic and urging him along once more. "It is something we shall discuss later, it is unwise to keep the Council of Heralds waiting."

He wished to comfort his mother but there was no arguing against her reasoning. The Council of Heralds had been a power unto itself since the end of the Dance of Dragons. Appointed by the High King for life, and composed of the most powerful and wise men of the empire, it was the council and only the council that could name the heir to the Targaryen crown. No title existed in the empire save one bestowed by the High King himself, even that of princes and princesses. The king could propose any Targaryen he wished as heir but unless they gained the approval of the Council of Heralds, the king's favor meant little.

In his father's reign the council had only grown more powerful, for it was they who had ushered in Rhaegar Targaryen's reign in the first place. When his heir married a freed slave High King Aerys had declared Prince Rhaegar's life forfeit, promising to kill not only his son but his wives and all their children. In this Aerys ran afoul of the council, for it was in Rhaegar they put their faith in. That council had seen the prince as the most capable to right all the wrongs Aerys's madness had wrought in the empire.

The die was cast after Aerys had Rylar Rogarre, a member of the council, burned alive for speaking in Rhaegar's defense. During their next meeting, with Aerys feeling imperious, the council members drew their blades and cut the king down. It spoke to Aerys's unpopularity that none of his sworn shields raised a blade to avenge him.

When they arrived at the council chambers it was the white-cloaked warriors of the Highguard who permitted them entry. His men were forced to join the press of other armed men gathered in the corridor, a score of Highguard warriors keeping watch over the different factions. He and mother were only allowed one companion each and so it was that Gendry and Ser Brynden who joined them in stepping through the doors.

The room was wide and circular, with open windows and tall pillars around the edges. At its center stood a table carved in the shape of the Valyrian Freehold, a table the royal family joined its councillors in standing around. Chief among them was the tall, black garbed High King. A golden crown sat upon his father's heard, a long mane of silver-blonde hair flowing beneath it. His dark indigo eyes flashed to spot their arrival.

"Jonarys." His father smiled to see him, a rare thing. "Thank the god Balerion you are well my son, I feared so to send you against Khal Drogo."

"I serve you and the empire, no matter the foe." He answered, which earned a scoffing laugh from another at the table.

His uncle Viserys looked much like the king, save being shorter and slighter of form. Where Rhaegar exuded power and authority, Viserys oozed vanity and disdain. It said something about his uncle's character that Viserys commanded no legion of his own. He'd been forced to raise his own company from the slaving elements of the empire, the Brave Companions they were called. Though Jon found little bravery in hunting down escaped slaves or raiding other lands to enslave others.

If any here captured the strength of the High King it was Aegon, Jon's brother. Powerful in bearing and displaying most of the Targaryen features, Aegon set himself apart from their father by keeping his own pale hair cut close to his head. His brother was clad in black and gold silks and offered a curt nod in Jon's direction. Beside Aegon stood his wife, and their sister, Rhaenys. Black haired and olive-skinned, the princess took after Queen Elia in looks yet differed from her mother in other ways. Her gown was bright red, an amber pendant shaped into that of a flame hanging about her neck. Rhaenys's conversion to the red faith of R'hllor had driven a rift between Aegon and his wife, so that even now there was notable gap between them.

None caught the eye more than the young woman now striding Jon's way. His father's sister was of an age with him and their relationship had never been one of aunt and nephew. While he took notice of the Daenerys's bright smile his eyes drifted to take in the rest of her beauty as well. She wore a revealing purple gown, her lovely hair unbraided and bouncing along with her bust as she came to embrace him. Far shorter than Jon, he was able to rest his chin upon her head as he held her tight.

"It's been far too long." Daenerys whispered. "I missed you Jon."

"I missed you too Dany." He kept himself from kissing her head, for they were already acting shamefully enough in front of the others. "I think you've shrunk."

She slapped him across the face, light enough to spare him harm but loud enough to draw a snort of laughter from his friends. With a hand to his cheek he gaped as Daenerys returned to her place at father's side, shooting him a look over her shoulder full of mischief.

Compared to Daenerys the councilmen were drab, uninteresting figures yet Jon took note of them nonetheless. There were the usual noblemen representing the great cities of the empire including Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos and Lysardo Rogarre of Lys. The great fleet admiral Sallador Saan shared a whispered word with Varys, the eunuch seneschal, all while his ancient great uncle Aemon moved his sightless eyes all about the room.

"Jon, your arrival is fortuitous." Aemon nodded shakily. "The Sealord of Braavos sails to Volantis, to conclude the peace we worked so hard to reach."

"And gave too much away for." Viserys spoke haughtily. "Aegon the Conqueror wished to rebuild the Freehold, not let parts of it slip his grasp."

"Braavos was never under the sway of Old Valyria." Aemon noted. "Founded by the enslaved in defiance of our ancestors, they take pride in their independence."

"A slave is forever a slave in my eyes." Viserys looked to mother as he said such. It was a foolish thing to do with Jon so near and he was already advancing on the bastard when his father acted first.

"Watch your tongue younger brother, else I will have it out." The king snapped, bidding Jon to halt his advance with a raised hand. "We are here to discuss Aegon and Jon's victories, not bicker like children."

"Truly uncle, I'd thought you'd be in better spirits." Aegon let his shoulder knock Viserys some as he walked to shake Jon's hand, doing his best to crush it in his grasp. "The toad had his men follow my march, picking the flesh from my conquests like the vultures they are. Good to see you Jon, I take it you've heard of my exploits?"

He had. During the long journey back from Qohor all he heard about was Aegon and the Golden Legion's victories. While the Dark Order defended the empire's northern borders Aegon had expanding their borders to the south. The Ghiscari cities of Slaver's Bay were the empire's chief rivals to the south and had been slowly encroaching on their territory for years. When Aegon learned Meereen was going to war against Yunkai, for some foolish reason, he took advantage of it. Marching his Golden Legion up the Demon Road, Aegon brought the truculent rulers of Mantarys to heel before seizing the port of Tolos and ruined city of Bhorash as well. Not content with merely gaining new territory, Aegon went on to crush Meereen's defenses and sack the city and its great pyramids.

"One of our greatest rivals brought low." Aegon smiled while some of the councilmen clapped. "Hundreds of wagons of wealth to add to our coffers, thousands taken prisoner and the pyramids of the Great Masters themselves set to flame!"

"A worthy offering to R'hllor." Rhaenys clutched at her necklace and prayed as mother scowled.

"And to the slave markets."

"No need for harsh tones Lyanna." Aegon reached out to take up a cup of wine. "Your son held strong against the Dothraki, acting honorably. Yet it should fall to the first son to achieve glory. Two victories are better than one."

"Or none." He said solemnly, garnering the attention of all. "Father, I fear I know why Qohor was spared Khal Drogo's wrath. It was not the Dark Order that drove him away, but the prospect of far richer spoils elsewhere."

He shot a glance towards Aegon. "Far to the south."

"What are you talking about?" His brother crossed his arms. "Make sense Jon."

"Word travels fast on the Dothraki Sea, from khalasar to khalasar. The Ghiscari have been weakened, their cities and the lands of the Lhazarene open to attack. Every walled stronghold between Meereen and the Sea of Sighs left broken, the empire vulnerable to attack-"

"How dare you?!" Aegon yelled, throwing aside his wine and putting a hand to his blade. "Behind that mask of carved ice you call a face hides a jealous sot! Leave the warring to me and go back to treating with slaves, that's where you belong!"

Jon's hand went to the pommel of his sword as well and he tensed, not because of Aegon's threat but what his words implied.

"Why do I belong with slaves?" He asked, stepping forward. "Insult me all you want but any slight towards my mother will be met, brother."

"Jon!" Mother tried to take hold of him as Dany put herself between the brothers.

"Aegon say you meant no such thing!"

"Let him come!" Aegon waved Jon on. "Let's settle who's to be heir here and now-"

"Enough!" Father's voice boomed like an iron ram against a gate. "Lower your hands from those blades! You are sons of the dragon! Blood of the Conqueror himself! Act it!"

Despite father's orders Aegon and Jon squared off still, his brother's purple eyes doing their best to beat down his own. Yet he could feel father's gaze upon him as well, his mother and Dany's too. So Jon did as he was told, pulling his hand away from his sword and placing it upon his heart, a salute to his king.

Aegon required a touch more to do the same, namely the touch of Daenerys's hand upon his arm. His resolve weakened as the pair looked to each other, the princess whispering a command of her own that forced Aegon to abandon his threat. He soon turned to salute their father as well while Rhaenys watched all this with fury.

"Forgive me father." Aegon mumbled. "I was only defending my victory against slander."

"There was more wisdom in Jon's observations than slander." Father shot a glance to Varys, who nodded. "Though less candor than I would've preferred."

"The Lord-Commander is quite right." Varys slipped between the other councillors in his soft slippers and billowing silks. "The little birds fly far and wide, even in the cities of the Ghiscari and the settlements of the grasslands. Several khalasars now move upon Lhazar, Khal Drogo's among them. With Meereen sacked, its rival Astapor now dominates Slaver's Bay. Together with Yunkai and New Ghis, they are moving to restore their ruined sister."

"So? What of it?" Aegon asked, though sounding a little less confident. "The horselords will fight amongst themselves and then against the Ghiscari."

"Perhaps." Varys said with little conviction. "Though my little birds in Astapor say the Great Masters there will wait out the Dothraki infighting and then try and buy the winner over for an attack elsewhere."

Aegon took a step back in shock and, while Jon had been proven right, he felt a knife twist in his gut. He disdained the empire's treatment of slaves yet it was ten times better than how Ghiscari and Dothraki treated theirs. The thought of their foulness breaking over the frontier made him sick.

It will take a lot of blood to throw them back, he lamented, more blood, rivers of it.

Rising up over my head, drowning me in it once more.

"Then it shall be war." Jon admitted before gesturing to Aegon. "With the strength of the Dark Order and Golden Legion together we might be able to-"

"No." Father cut him off before addressing the others. "Leave us. Everyone but my sons and wife, leave us."

Rhaenys and Viserys both protested but his father sent them on anyways, Jon silently letting the Blackfish and Gendry know to watch over Daenerys. He didn't care for the evil eye Viserys gave Dany after she kissed Rhaegar farewell and took Aemon's hand to escort the blind prince out. Jon wasn't alone in watching Dany leave, for Aegon's eyes followed her as well.

Until the doors closed and father took Aegon and Jon into his confidence as he had since they were but boys. Father cupped an ear each on both of them, drawing them close.

"There, now you must act as one to hear me." His eyes moved between them. "When you two let your passions get the better of you like that you play right into the hands of those who wish to set brother against brother. The many factions of the empire are as dangerous to its survival as its enemies. Rise above the politics, stay united and trust when I make my recommendation for heir it will be in the best interest of both of you."

He wanted to point out it wasn't the crown he challenged Aegon over but he kept his tongue. Father's will was so powerful and after the years of bloodshed it felt good to be held by him once again. Even if it was only to be lectured.

"Jon was right." Aegon spoke begrudgingly. "If we join our strength we can bloody this new Ghiscari alliance before they grow too powerful."

"No, no I will not risk a war that could leave us open to the Dothraki. I will call up the legions of the Rhoyne and levees of these lands to demonstrate our strength. I'll have Sallador's fleet harass New Ghis, in hopes of forcing them into accepting a separate peace with us."

Mother went to run a hand through father's hair then.

"All of which will drain the empire's strength even more." She said. "At a time when your father wishes to make many changes that will require a power we do not yet hold. Lands we are yet to control."

Expansion? Mother has never supported the expansionists.

She abhors their undying hunger for new territory and slaves…

Father took mother in hand then and led them all towards a large map hanging upon the wall. A map of the known world, from Ulthos and Sothoryos to the Summer Islands and Westeros. It was the Seven Kingdoms father directed their attention to, specifically the lands nearest the farthest outpost of the Targaryen Empire. Their ancestor's birthplace, the former seat of Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Dragonstone.

"Westeros has lost a great man in Eddard Stark." Father kissed mother's hand. "His murder at the hands of the Lannisters caught the Kingdom of the North off guard. King Tywin's ambitions would not be held back by a banner of truce."

It was well known that Tywin Lannister, King of the Rock, was bent on controlling southern Westeros. His grandson Joffrey Durrandon, the Storm King, ruled lands from the Dornish Marches to the Bay of Crabs and the great castle Harrenhal itself.

Aegon tapped his chin in thought as he took in the map.

"King Tywin is making his play for a grand kingdom in Westeros." He pointed disdainfully towards Highgarden. "I see little to stop him from doing so. The hatred between Gardeners and the Martells rules out any alliance there."

Mother nodded. "And the battles between the Gardeners and Starks for the river lands has led to bad blood there as well. With chaos in the Vale and the Iron Islands only interested in reaving, the Starks and Martells are quite friendless. Even if they united, they would be too weak to stand against the Lannisters."

It made sense yet Jon disliked the conclusion he was led to by reflecting why all this mattered to his father.

"You wish to support the Lannisters?" He tasted something foul in his mouth. "Father, I can understand them being a powerful ally in the days to come and their gold could pay to shore up our armies but I have to protest-"

"I'm glad you do, my son." Father smiled to his mother. "Tywin Lannister is no friend to us. I wish to create a new ally all my own. Our words are fire and blood. Your blood is of the dragon my sons, but it is also of the Martell sun and Stark direwolf. I intend for you both to do honor by your blood and bring fire to their enemies."

He and Aegon were incredulous at this and thus began hours of discussion between father and them both. Where plans were made and revealed all at once. It was long into night before he was finally free to seek his chambers here at Summerhall.

They were far larger than he was used to anymore. The floors were marble with a bath carved into the floor and behind some thin curtains lay an open balcony overlooking the lake beyond. Years of sleeping in the cramped quarters of forts and pavilions ruined him for such luxuries. Especially the large raised canopy bed he was meant to sleep in.

The bed where two naked young women lay waiting for him, both posed lewdly, running their hands about their bodies in seductive ways.

"We're for you, son of the High King." One said, cupping a supple breast up at him.

The other dipped her fingers into her sex. "A gift, from your loving uncle."

Viserys… of course… if only I could beat that piece of shit bloody…

It wasn't a stretch to see why his uncle had sent these two to him. For both had dark brown hair and pale skin, their eyes different shades of grey. Features as familiar to him as their accents.

"You're Westerosi? From the North?" He asked, ignoring their nakedness to find their garments piled at the foot of the bed.

The two women shared an uneasy glance before the taller one nodded.

"Yes m'lord."

"Then by the Old Gods, accept my apologies for this dishonor." He offered the thin slips back to both women, who merely stared in confusion. "I do not bed women held in bondage. I was raised better, so please, dress and leave."

As they did so he got a better look at their bodies. The scars and bruises were faint but there they were, evidence of the treatment he was returning them too. Before they could scurry from the room he asked them to stop.

"I want you to seek out the chambers of Sergeant Gendry in the lower levels."

"Beggin' your pardons m'lord but we was only supposed to lay with you." The older one answered again. "Then we was to go back to master Prince Viserys."

"He's no prince." He snapped and felt bad when they recoiled. "Apologies, but please, forget returning to Viserys. If you wish to return to the North go to Gendry's chambers, tell him who sent you and say the name, Lyanna. Do this and I swear, as the son of a Stark, you shall be free again."

The younger one met his gaze then, a look of unbridled hope flashing in her eyes. He repeated himself once more and got both to agree to do as he said. Gendry would know what to do, in their early days as simple cavalrymen in the order they'd helped many slaves this way. People they hid instead of handing over to the upper ranks to enslave or sell for profit. Long after the dreams of glory and service to the empire were tainted by the blood and rank smell of rotting corpses Jon still took pride in helping those people.

The candles and torches blown out he stripped away all of his clothing, the heat of these lands bidding him to climb into the bed naked. The breeze coming in through the balcony felt good on his bare skin and he hoped somewhere in the castle, those two slaves bedded down with hope in their hearts.

His father's plans should have kept him awake but after all his travels Jon found himself drifting off.

He was half asleep when she arrived.

Whatever entrance she stole through was a mystery to him. His battlefield instincts were still sharp though, for Daenerys's footfalls were barely audible on the marble floors. He rose up on his elbows to see her beautiful form pushing aside the canopy of his bed. A moment later, it was her robe falling aside, Dany not speaking a word as she displayed her pale naked body to him.

Her breasts were full and high, the silver blonde hair about her sex as inviting as he remembered. He was already hard by the time she crawled up the bed to lay a kiss upon his lips. Gentle yet hungry all at once, her teeth nibbling at his lower lip.

"I said I missed you." She sighed, letting her tongue tease his. "I meant to say I missed this too."

He said nothing as they kissed again and again, her lips sweet and hair like silk in his hands. When she broke free it was only to kiss down his face and neck before moving lower. Dany pulled the sheets away as she traced a wet line down his chest and then his stomach. When she wrapped her hand around his cock he moaned a curse, for he knew what coming. Dany looked him right it the eye as she took the head of his cock in her mouth, moaning herself to wrap her lips around it.

When she began to move her head up and down it was like the years fell away. To times when he had called Summerhall home.

Once they had all been young children here, running and playing in the pools and gardens. Dany and Rhaenys used to take turns kissing Aegon and Jon both in those days. When they grew older things changed, Rhaenys became distant after the death of her mother and Dany and Aegon's kissing grew less playful. At one time he was sure it be those two to wed, for it was no secret at ten and three Aegon took Dany's maidenhead. Yet time weakened their love, the pair having a falling out, Dany hurt by Aegon enjoying the pleasures of some of Viserys's bed slaves.

They quarrelled and soon after Aegon left on a tour of the Three Daughters. That had been a sad time for Dany and Jon had done what he could to see her through it. His efforts brought them closer and closer, until their time together became the high points of his day. One thing led to another between them, friendship giving way to love. Long before he killed for the first time Jon believed he'd become a man the day Daenerys made love to him beneath a lemon tree.

Later Jon would see there was more lust than love between them but he'd been too young to tell the difference at the time. Of course, he'd asked Dany to marry him yet, with his leaving to join the Dark Order and the war on the horizon, she refused him.

"If only so you return to me some day to ask again." She'd wept to say at the time.

After a couple years, even though the feelings had faded, he had returned to ask again. He did not begrudge Dany's refusal, for she clearly cared for him enough to welcome him back to her bed. To cradle him as he wept to experience something so beautiful after all the horrors he'd been through.

He'd surely seen worse since but there would be no tears this night.

"Fuck." He groaned when Dany looked him right in the eye before sinking back down onto his cock.

His body wanted to arch and buck up into the touch of her lips and tongue but he fought against that. It was far better to watch Dany suck and kiss at his cock. With her hand stroking and pumping it, her mouth working the top, the sensation became too much. It had been too long and she was far too beautiful.

"Now." He warned her before grunting and filling his hands with the sheets. His climax was so powerful she barely pulled away in time to escape the mess.

When it was done Jon fell back on the bed, lost in the ecstasy of the moment while Dany set to cleaning him with the sheets. She would have him clean for what came next, for they were practiced at this by now. His cock remained hard, as it often would be after the first release. She moved to straddle him when Jon wrapped his arms around her and flipped Dany onto her back.

"Jon, you don't have to." She said halfheartedly as he pushed her legs apart. "I thought you'd be too tired to- oh yes…"

Her words faded away as he lowered his mouth upon her sex. He'd always enjoyed doing this, tasting her. His lips and tongue making her all the wetter while her thighs trembled. She sighed and moaned herself when he found her bud. It did not bother him that she bucked and ground herself against his mouth, nor when her hands took hold of his hair to urge him on.

His jaw was sore by the time she reached her release but his manhood remained stiff. Her cheeks flush and body weak, Dany accepted him with a gasp, the wet lips of her sex parting before his cock which was so wrapped in a warm embrace he'd needed so. He tried to be gentle but Dany's hands clawing at his back and desperate kisses bid him to drive into her harder and harder. As hot as this night was his body was burning, sweat dripping down his face and mingling with hers as his mouth wrapped around her nipples.

The poles of the bed were quaking terribly when he came again, driving deep within his first love to spend his seed. He stayed like that, his face buried in the crook of Dany's neck, his manhood still inside her while she stroked his back and breathed heavily. It was only when the heat of their two bodies became too much that he rolled off of her.

Cool air moved over his sweat soaked and heaving body, his eyes focused on the dark canopy above. Nothing was spoken between them, the only sound their breathing while he stared off at nothing. Dany's eyes had found something of interest though, for her fingers began tracing the scars upon his body.

A long pale mark courtesy of a Dothraki arahk across his side. A bit of puckered flesh near his left shoulder where a Braavosi water dancer had skewered him. An uglier scar along his thigh, where a Ghiscari had lashed him with a steel-tipped whip.

"So many hurts in so little time." Dany sighed, kissing her finger tips before pressing them against a scar. "My poor Jon…"

"You do not have to look." He grumbled, refusing to meet her gaze. Truly he could not bear to look at her again, lest his youthful feelings get the better of him once more.

"Don't grow cold to me again." Dany said, rising up on an elbow to look down at him, a finger drawing lines on his sweaty chest. "Is it that northern honor Lyanna made you aspire towards that troubles you? Jon, I thought we understood each other..."

"You understand me better than most." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "I was just thinking on how that could be yet I'm still at a loss for how you remain unwed."

She smiled at the question, turning her eyes to the open window. "Freedom Jon, so many are denied it in the empire so I will cherish mine. I wish no shackles on me, whether real or the ones a husband burdens a wife with. Do you hate me for saying so?"

"Never." He answered truthfully, feeling safe to speak freely with her. To reveal truths he kept hidden from everyone else. "We are not meant to be, I saw the truth of that some time ago. I love you Dany, I always will, but I can live without you. Try and imagine my mother and father saying the same."

"I cannot, theirs is a love for the ages." Dany sighed, running a hand down the line of his jaw. "Perhaps one day I shall feel such a thing... that I shall be worthy of it if I do. Lest I regret losing out on such a soul like yours."

She kissed his brow then, a long lingering kiss that was filled with more care than anything else. When she pulled away her eyes were sad.

"I pray you find the love you seek Jon. You deserve it more than any of us."

"Because I don't bed slaves?" He asked.

"No, because you believe in love. You have none of the ambition of Aegon or Viserys, not even Rhaenys. Aegon thirsts for battle but every time you return from it I see how the fighting burdens you, how the light in your eyes dim a little more. You take so little joy out of life…"

He turned away from her, rising to sit at the edge of the bed and facing the window. In this moment he didn't like how close they were. To hear truths about himself that he was not willing to accept. Dany's hand touched his shoulder, soft and reassuring.

"Jon, you were born of a great love and have one of the truest hearts I've ever known. Likely one of the truest the empire has ever seen. I fear what will happen to that heart if you cannot find another that beats as powerfully. Please, ask Rhaegar to let the Dark Order stand down for leave. Give yourself time to seek a bride… a love… or at least a reprieve from the fighting-"

"You're a dreamer Dany." He said, looking through the curtains to the starry sky beyond. "I envy you, your dreams, your hopes. Mine gave way to nightmares long ago... that's my life now. Battle after battle. Riding, killing, death, there's not going to be any peace for me. Not now at any rate. Father's sending me across the Narrow Sea. Apparently I've seen enough war on this side of the world, I'm meant to broaden my horizons by waging it in Westeros."

"Oh Jonarys…"

Her hand pulled away and he didn't blame her. If he could escape the darkness that found him even in this palace of beauty he would surely try. Not if it meant breaking his vow to the Dark Order or his father though, if he could not have peace Jon could still cling to his honor.

It was his honor that mother put so much faith in. While she hadn't been home to Winterfell since she first left, mother was intent on returning there soon. To save her family, to have Jon help save their family.

We fight to save the Kingdom of the North. A war to preserve the Targaryen Empire itself.

More blood. More death. A duty he could not balk at.

When he felt the bed dip he turned to see Dany climbing off it, making to don her robe once more. The arch of her back and the teasing way her hair moved against the top of her arse reminded him there were better things he could be doing now than worry.

"You're going?" He asked and she held the robe before her, looking at him with sympathy.

"I thought perhaps we were done." She spoke with concern yet that look fell away when he stood to face her, his manhood hard once again.

"It's been nearly a year Dany. I'm far from done."

"And it be nice to have a proper farewell between us."

"Perhaps something I can dream on later."