The Three-Headed Dragon: A Viserys Targaryen Quest Continuation [abandoned]

The Old, the True, the Brave:

(Aurane POV)

A Greedy Bastard.

A Greedy Bastard would have run with a fleet to the Stepstones, and not do this… Hells that paperwork was. From this responsibility, and leave it to better men.

To say that you disliked paperwork was a dreadful understatement.

To be free of the chains of responsibility again, to venture out as the Sea Snake did on his great voyages, to bring fame, fortune, and prestige back to the noble house that had for decades, been disrespected by other lords and men.

But it was that same wish that led you to stay.

You had responsibilities to your family.

To think that such a thing could happen... You had already lived through an adventure once before... Fleeing from the only home you had ever known.

Had father not died, had Robert not been a mad bastard whose hatred of Valyrians robbed him of his senses like he saw Rhaegar come again… and had your adventures not led you to Viserys…

Any number of things could have occurred.

You were a greedy bastard after all.

You would like to think of yourself as a pirate king… going to the Stepstones as so many daring swashbucklers, basterds, and madmen had tried to make their fortunes. Well, not make their fortunes, but to steal them from another well off men who really had no business having that much coin on them.

But even greed could not supplement something from your heart.

Monford needed someone there for him, to protect him from those who would abuse his… nature.

He was a child, a kind one, one that was more focused on seeing things return to a state of normalcy… even though normalcy was just being able to wake up without screaming every night for his mother and father. He needed to learn to be strong again. To try and focus on things that he could control, not things that were far in the past.

And Alyn… He was every bit of his namesake. Loyal, Brave, True to his word. A boy trying to become a knight, like the great men of old. He always acted as a good counselor and confidant that every man needed in his life. Either as a friend or a voice that will always shine through, in a difficult decision.

If it didn't fill your heart with such sorrow, watching him act like a man when he was still a boy… you would have been lying to yourself.

He was being strong for you… and for Monford. He didn't need to…

That was what you were doing.

"Aurane." Monford opened the door to your room, a quiet bidding from his shoes followed as he shut it behind him. "Are you awake?"

Sitting by the window, pipe in hand, you almost thought it was a dream. That father would follow behind him, and all would be well. That the nightmare would be over, and your family could be back together again.

But you gave a nod, narrowing your eyes to get a better look at your brother. "I am, my lord." you replied, still feeling a bit uneasy… not wanting any ears to catch a hint of disrespect in these walls. Not after so long away from home.

He walked over and stood before you. Then he climbed onto your lap, something you did not expect him to do and was unsure how to handle the situation with tact.

"Lord Monford." You protested as your nephew gave you a hug.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" He stated.

You raised an eyebrow. "My Lord, you-"

"Please Aurane." He whined, his eyes looking into your own.

You could not forgive yourself… no, there was time for courtesies and now was not one. "Of course." you whispered.

A greedy bastard. A Man with only a sliver of honor, protecting his family so he may be rewarded for his services, to rise above where the world would have seen him as.

That was what you were to the world. And you accepted that title with such grace and gusto, that you almost believed it.

But tonight, you forgot that title.

Tonight, you were an uncle, to someone who needed you in his life.

You let him fall asleep in your arms.

And soon after, you would too.

AN: @Marlowe310811 Here, have some hastily written Valyreon Fluff.

Seven knows that they need it after all they've been through.

The day before the coronation, you are having what is probably the most uncomfortable conversation in your life. This is one that ... well, you suppose you could have held it in a private chamber, in your solar or the Small Council chambers with other lords or somewhere else, but for this talk, with this person, you want every advantage you can get.

Jon Arryn slowly, begrudgingly bends the knee before the Iron Throne, and gives his oaths. The man has to take his time, being almost 80 and not what one would describe as 'spry', and you might have let him get away with just a bow ... if he hadn't led armies against you, and done nothing to stop Robert during the Screams. You feel the least he's earned is some petty torments.

Waiting just a second longer than you strictly needed to, you call, "Arise, Lord Arryn." Nobody moves to help him, but for his age the man does alright getting up on his own. "I am given to understand you have new concerns about the terms of our agreement," you fold your hands in your lap and lean forward, "and had hoped to renegotiate with the Acting Hand." Arryn simmers with defiance, but says nothing. "It occurs to me that, as you're in the city to attend tomorrow's coronation, we could just talk about it now."

"Your Grace is too kind, to trouble yourself with such matters," he manages to get out.

"Think nothing of it," you barely restrain a smug grin. He really didn't want to talk with you. A person didn't need your talents to see that Arryn had clearly hoped to prevail upon Ned Stark's sentiments, and try to weasel out of his part of the accords. A person with your talents, though, they'd be able to tell exactly what the problem was, and know just how to pry the information free. "After all, we can speak with each other as men, father to father." Arryn isn't so skilled as to completely hide his reaction, and while your abilities clued you in on this being his true intention, it is nice to have independent confirmation. You aren't going to be especially generous about it, though, and you present a face of dawning comprehension. "Ohh, I see. That wasn't what you hoped to talk about."

To his credit, he tries. "Well, no, Your Grace. In fact, I had hoped to discuss the matter of the financial--"

You cut him off. "Yes, you hoped to discuss the financial arrangement. You hoped to convince me that your house and indeed the Eyrie at large, having difficulty of late with coin – outside of the mysteriously wealthy and mysteriously vanished Lord Baelish – would face real difficulties and hardships if forced to pay the price agreed upon. You hoped to labour under this to such a degree as to illicit sympathy, if not from me then from the acting Hand." In the corner of your vision, you think you see Lord Stark scuff his foot on the floor slightly as he intently studies the ground instead of meeting anyone's eye. "You hoped to then suggest that perhaps your great house and bannermen could shoulder more of the work in rebuilding the realm, lend swords to the City Watch, send men and material to the Wall, house displaced smallfolk from the war zones. You hoped to imply this would be a great sacrifice to be made on your part, and indeed it would be." Leaning back slightly, you offer a soft smile.

"And you hoped that you might then suggest it would be an easier sacrifice to bear, if only we could be so kind as to relent on your other concession." Your smile drops. "Do you recognise the nature of your error?"

Arryn mirrors Ned, in studying his feet and the floor. His response is bitter, forlorn. "I hoped."

Well, yes, but I can't actually say that aloud. "No. You hoped to deceive and trick me. And you hoped to deny me what we agreed upon." You lean forward, now, and let your hands grip at the Iron Throne instead of balling into fists. "I am not by nature a vindictive man, given to cruelty or torment. I am not a man that blames people for making mistakes." You fix Arryn with a glare. "But I am a man that will see you pay for them."

You almost soften, for a moment, when he looks up at you and you see not an adversary or a hostile lord, but a tired old man with little left in his life. Almost. "And must my son die for this? That I must pay?"

The iron feels warm beneath your hands, like spilled blood. "I don't take children from their families to throw them in the Black Cells or murder them. You must be thinking of the other king. You know, the one you did nothing to stop." Arryn withers at that, and you feel a nasty bit of satisfaction. But you do look over, just a bit, to see Ned Stark. His face is stern, but his eyes ache with sympathy, and it gives you a thought. "Your son will not face the fates you allowed others to," you add one last barb, before continuing. "He will be in the care of Lord Stark, when not attending me as my page, and raised as Lord Stark sees fit." Ned glances to you, a hint of confusion to his look, but he nods and plays his part. "And, as a page and fosterling," your tone softens a touch, "he will not be a hostage – he'll be free to visit and be visited as his guardian allows."

Arryn meets your eyes, then, a hopeful glint to them that might give a lesser man pause. You are not a lesser man. "This all is contingent on you having told me the truth, that you had no role in the Dragons' Screams – though you did nothing to stop it, you did not encourage or condone it, either. If there is anything you must change or tell me now, do so and face no further wrath. If you leave and I discover your words be false, his head's assurance is but frail." Arryn pales, but nods. "The other lords of the Usurper's Small Council will stand trial for the parts they played, but if you truly played no part then you need fear no consequence."

You want to take him, to put him on trial for standing by and doing nothing as innocents screamed and died, but there's no law against idleness. You'll settle for taking his son, which no matter what words you offer will keep him up for many nights to come, and stripping him of his knighthood. Idleness in the face of injustice may not be a crime against the law, but it is against his oaths as a knight, and you know that he took pride in that title, one that he earned rather than gained by birth. It doesn't right the wrongs or return the unjustly killed, though. It's a petty, unfulfilling victory, you think. You probably ought to get used to those.


-------------


That afternoon, you wander some of the halls of Maegor's Holdfast with a small group of close allies. And Barristan Selmy. The Lord Commander is healing, recovering … but he's not a young man anymore, you think sympathetically as he clutches at his side when he thinks you don't notice, and such wounds don't heal quickly at his age. Still, considering your own skill and that of the two other men with you, you aren't worried (to say nothing of the two women). Beside you are your nephew, and his other uncle, behind them two of his daughters, and in front of you…

"You don't have to push me around," Arianne says from her rolling chair, amusement mixing with affection in her voice. "I'm feeling fine, and I do in fact know how to walk." And she does seem fine; she has been looking much better in the past several days, and (much as she might hate to admit it) being able to pass the twins off to a wetnurse is a godsend for her recovery.

"Of course you have the knowledge," you gently tease, still pushing. "What you lack is the capacity. And so, too, you lack the permission of the Grand Maester. So long as he thinks you should remain off your feet, so shall you be." She doesn't pout, exactly, but you think you might be in the same kingdom as pouting is, and that keep isn't as far off as you might like. You add, "And think of it as information gathering."

"Come again?" Arianne turns back to look at you.

"It's not certain, but possible, that your lord father may desire to visit in the future, yes?" She nods. "And he is confined to a rolling chair, rather more permanently than you." Another nod, more solemn. "Consider this as practice, so when he is here, you know all the halls and courtyards you can and cannot go through in such a chair, and you won't get stuck or inconvenience him. You'll seem like a dutiful and thoughtful and clever daughter." She seems to see the wisdom in that, and gives you a smile. You wish you could help yourself, you really do, but you continue undaunted, "Instead of having learned from trial, error, and embarrassment."

She schools her face into a practiced expression. "Queens of the Seven Kingdoms do not and cannot embarrass themselves, Viserys. Everyone here knows this," and she looks around as if daring the other men to challenge her and take your side. You follow her gaze, to meet with disappointment: Aegon keeps quiet, and Ser Barristan has rather suddenly and mysteriously developed a tickle in his throat he cannot clear.

Not daring to hope, you look to Prince Oberyn, who nods sagely. "This is quite true, Your Grace; the Queens I have met never embarrassed themselves in any way." As you begin to make your way towards one of the courtyards closer to the sea, for fresher air, Arianne nods, pleased. You wonder at that: shouldn't she know her uncle better than you? Oberyn gives you a lopsided smirk. "Princesses of Dorne, on the other hand, it seems to be the only way they learn."

Arianne's look of betrayal is one memory you intend to cherish. She does eventually join the rest of you in your smiles, and asks, "Not just me, then?" He nods. "Well, I suppose that's a relief."

"Would you like me to distract you with stories I have?" Oberyn asks.

"Please."

Prince Oberyn wastes no time in telling stories of his mother, and while they are new to your ears, the look of contentment Arianne takes on tells you they are familiar words to her, distracting in a more comforting way. Even when he begins to wander away from stories of the Princess of Dorne and onto stories of Arianne wandering off with Tyene and sometimes Nymeria, she still smiles, every so often sharing a look with one of the Sand Snakes. More than once, Oberyn sets the entire party to laughter with his words, even making Ser Barristan openly chuckle.

After one such time, you look to your new Master of Whispers, about to ask a question of him when Aegon asks an entirely different one ahead of you. "Do you have any such stories about my mother?"

It's impressive, in a way, how effectively that kills the mood. Ser Barristan looks like he ages twenty years in a single moment. Arianne and the Snakes withdraw into themselves, all looking to Oberyn. The Red Viper himself looks ashen, a strange appearance for him as his mouth looks to be running through possible answers without yet voicing any. Eventually, he settles on saying "I am not recalling anything at the moment."

You're quite ready to give him the out, but Aegon continues, and you wish he were standing closer, so that you might roll Arianne's chair over his foot. "You can talk about her around me, uncle." He offers a kind look to Oberyn. "I'm not made of glass; I won't shatter so easily as that."

No. But he might, you think as you glance at Oberyn. Your minds eye presents the Prince of Dorne's shatterpoint to you, even if you didn't need the enhanced vision to see it. But Oberyn's is less a singular point than it is a divot brutally chiseled and carved out of him, leaving a weakness with so many little fracture lines spreading out from it (a well-defined one burns between him and Aegon) that your breath catches. You honestly suspect physically poking him there might actually cause a human being to shatter like glass.

It takes a moment, but he collects himself, and Oberyn answers, "Someday. Someday we can talk about her, about that. It can wait, though." Aegon nods, and looks like he might speak again, but mercifully you can see the courtyard ahead, around a corner in the passageway, and you are desperate for something different to occur to you. You begin to round the corner, and freeze, reaching for your blade, and take a breath to call Aegon and Barristan forward. Asha Greyjoy has Beshka trapped, pinned against a wall with her hands held over her head and Arianne is quickly blocking your hand, why would --

Oh.

Oh.

...huh.

You let Arianne move your hand away from Stormbreaker's hilt and into hers and quietly as possible you try to go back the way you came. It does not appear that you were noticed as you make your way back, in a different direction. Behind you, Oberyn is poorly stifling laughter at whatever look might be on your face, and whispers something to Nymeria that makes her bite a fist in response, shoulders shaking. Tyene is making a very good show of blushing furiously and Arianne has what you can only describe as 'a knowing face'. If you didn't know any better, you'd think Ser Barristan had seen nothing at all but an empty courtyard from the professional face he wears like armor now, and Aegon looks as puzzled as you are.

You hadn't realised that Beshka was into ... that sort of thing. Or that sort of person. But if that rather reckless display was any indication, apparently she was into Asha Greyjoy. Well, more like Asha's intoNOPE. You are absolutely not pursuing that line of thought.

You're not sure how long it takes you, but it's definitely a little bit before you look to Arianne and manage to produce, "So, erm…how long…?" and gesture vaguely behind you.

"A few months now, maybe six," she answers with confidence. She must have felt more than seen your look, because she added, "I think it started out as sparring and testing each other on unusual and unfamiliar weapons. They're both very good, if that matters. I think they started frustrating each other that they weren't so easily beaten as others they've trained with, so things started escalating. I thought I might have to speak with Beshka, or get Dany to do it, and instead, well," she mirrors your vague gesture. "I think I'll speak to one of them about more discretion."

"Please do." It's not the last thing you need to be discovered within these walls, but any list of the top ten would unquestionably have this on it.


-------------


That evening, you have dinner in the Small Council chamber with Ned Stark, your acting Hand and (as soon as Ser Jaime arrives) your next Master of Laws. He had wanted to discuss some things with you, and you likewise have things you want to talk about with him – specifically, about Dany.

His cup pauses partway to his mouth as he takes in what you've said. Eventually, he gets out, "I confess, Your Grace, that is perhaps the last thing I expected to discuss tonight." He takes his drink, then, pulling deeper than you suspect he initially planned before the subject came up. "Not least because a king usually doesn't ask his Small Council to train their replacements."

"Have I once struck you as a king wont to do things the usual way?" You ask with a light hint of sarcasm.

"Point taken."

"So," you take a cup for yourself, "how think you of it?"

"As Your Grace says, you aren't wont to do things the usual way," he answers.

"That's just my words come again, my lord. I'd have you use your own," you gently chastise.

He seems to take it in stride. "As you wish. In honesty, I am uncomfortable with the idea."

You're a bit surprised, what with his closeness to the Mormonts and his knowing of your own closeness with Dorne and some of their ideals. Still, he's been nothing but forthright and loyal, so he's earned the right to be heard. "Enlighten me. What brings you discomfort?"

"It is one matter to select your advisors and leaders from those you know, those who stood with you," he goes for a cup of water this time, "and on some level it encourages those who did not stand with you to become someone you know, that they could take such places later. But to draw your circle ever closer might one day invite mistrust, even from those that stood with you." He drinks, and you ponder his words for a moment before he continues. "Already, you have brought your wife's family into pride of position in the Red Keep, choosing her uncle as your Master of Whispers and, unspoken or not, made his daughters part of your household guard. It has not gone unremarked that the Queen is never without at least two of her cousins at all times," he adds, "and that being before your nephew became Lord Commander of the City Watch."

"Have there been problems with the goldcloaks?"

"None by Prince Aegon's doing," Stark is quick to make clear, "and none among the men – by all accounts, he's quickly earned their respect." He refills his cup, and you notice it is wine going in this time, before he continues. "But he has broken a number of traditions by being appointed. Among them being that he is the first Lord Commander in almost two hundred years to not come from within their ranks, having previously been captain of a city gate, and older than five-and-twenty." He takes a drink then, and adds, "My king, I would remind you that those traditions began after a young Targaryen prince was made the Lord Commander."

You shut your eyes for a moment, breathing deeply before letting out a sigh. In retrospect, you probably should have anticipated the comparisons to Prince Daemon. You could protest that Aegon was nothing like that, but you also know the first Viserys thought and said much the same about Daemon in the beginning. And a dragonrider near but not next in line as the Lord Commander, too, you berate yourself a little. Maesters will surely one day debate if such obvious parallels were intended. Dammit. "And you fear that elevating Daenerys so publicly will cause further problems?"

"I think many if not most of the Lords of Westeros are set in their ways," he dodges, "and unaccustomed to women having any power at all, never mind having that power in the open."

You roll your eyes a bit before eating a little more. "You don't believe that having a dragon will make them think twice about defying her? Even Tywin Lannister could be cowed with a dragon; what lord is so set in his ways more than the Old Lion?"

"I believe it will make them think of other times a woman and a dragonrider held such power," he answers.

That puzzles you a bit. "Rhaenys was a great and gentle queen, respected and important in forming the laws of the realm," you point out. "I would hope that is the name they think of when they see and hear her."

Ned seems unconvinced. "The name Rhaenyra comes to mind as well." As he finishes his own food, you resist the urge to shut your eyes and sigh again. It seems the ghosts of the Dance are determined to haunt you, along with your brother and parents. Delightful. "Now, I do not see Rhaenyra nor Daemon in Daenerys and Aegon, Your Grace, but I am not the only lord in Westeros. And if your circle of advisors and friends tightens too closely, old names might be whispered again, and unrest could be sparked."

"I see your points, my lord, but much as I cannot ignore or discount the lords of Westeros, I will not do so to Dany either," you respond. "In this realm, assigning her power is the only way to ensure she is treated as she desires, and I would not simply anoint her with power without seeing her trained and taught for it. She has a gift with words and an interest in the maintaining of the Seven Kingdoms, and I would encourage that." You finish your wine. "And I would entrust you to teach her, to train her, to tell me if she is not up to the task or if you really feel she is not capable of succeeding you when you're ready to return home." Setting your cup down, you lean in a bit. "I'm not imagining that as something that happens in three months or even three years. I don't intend to name her to the Small Council soon, not for several years yet if ever. But even if she is never capable of taking on the role, I still want her to learn what she can from you."

Ned finishes his own cup before asking, "So you would trust my judgment, my guidance when it comes to the princess?"

"They haven't failed me before, I don't anticipate it happening now." You want this for her, know that she wants to be trusted with responsibilities, like Aegon, but also wants to be worthy of that trust. Also like Aegon, you think. "Think of it as having an unusual squire, someone you hope to train to do what you do. If they take the training and still cannot do it, that is for you to say, and I will accept that. I just want you to give her the training."

"Be her Ser Duncan?" Ned offers you a rare smile.

"I suppose that fits, yes," you agree. After a moment, a thought occurs to you. "Please don't get her to shave her head, though."

"As you wish, Your Grace," he nods. "I'll do what I can for her, and for you." Another smile crosses his face, "I hope my daughters take to her. It would make having her around certainly much easier if they could all get along."

"I'd be happy to see if Dany would take on your daughters as ladies-in-waiting, if that would be to their liking," you offer.

The corner of his mouth quirks. "Sansa would, almost certainly. I suspect Arya would prefer the company of Asha Greyjoy and the Sand Snakes."

You ponder what exactly he might mean by that, more than you might have yesterday, but keep your expression neutral. "I'm sure that could be arranged as well," you think is probably your safest answer. "Will any more of your household be coming to join you here?"

"Some," Ned answers as his face tightens. You wonder at that; shouldn't he be more relaxed, now the thorny issue of Dany and her forebears is passed? "My wife and sons remain at Winterfell, but the Pooles are coming to join us, and bringing Theon Greyjoy with them."

You're pleased at that. "I imagine he's eager to see his sister again after so long. And I should like to meet the future Lord of the Iron Islands, see what you've made of him." Ned takes the praise gracefully, but still looks uneasy. You can't imagine why he mi—wait. "And your natural son?"

There it is. Ned Stark is a hard man to read, one of the hardest you've ever met … but something about talking with you about the bastard makes him very uncomfortable. Does he think you're going to hold it against him? Why now, of all times? You puzzle on that a bit more, but Ned seems to work something through his own mind, and finally answers the question. "He's coming with Theon and the Pooles."

…okay. That was it? You might as well cut through this now, there's no way you can work together with this lingering as an issue. "Were you concerned that I would be displeased with this, my lord?" Ned makes a face you can't quite read, and you continue. "You know how close I've been working with Aurane Waters these past months; did you imagine I would be uncomfortable with a bastard around?" You study Stark closely. No, that's not it. "That I would hold his existence against you?" Stark remains uncomfortable, but that's not the answer, either. "…that I'm only accepting of bastards in my company when they're a relative, however distant?" You'd made the comment as a jape; despite your similar looks and referring to each other as cousins often, the blood you shared with House Velaryon was so distantly removed as to almost be strangers (Seven Hells, Arianne was a closer cousin than any of them).

Yet that was what made Ned Stark turn as white as the snows of the North. …what? A tiny voice in your head manages to express. "Is … is your boy," the words are so insane they rebel at the notion of being spoken aloud, "is he related to me somehow?" He gives no answer but looks at you, somehow, with both the eyes of a man twice his age and the eyes of a scared youth not even twenty. It's all the answer you need.

And yet it's not, not by a longshot. Your mind immediately starts running down dozens of possibilities, each seeming madder than the last. Besides Dany, you've no sisters that lived … could it have been your mother? Seven Hells, old enough to be his mother too, and – no, no, it can't have been Mother; she was carrying Dany, Ned Stark was never here, and besides which Father would have killed her. You try to think. Your grandmother wasn't even alive when Stark was born, so it had to be someone from her line, or her siblings' lines … maybe Duncan and Jenny had a babe before Summerhall? But no, we'd have known if they'd had a child, Father would have thought them a threat to him and raved about it. Daeron had no children. There's no women in House Baratheon, no bastards you'd heard of save for Robert's (you firmly shove that aside, that you can talk with Stannis about another time, it's not nearly so important as this). Eurgh, you don't want to think about it, but Father almost certainly had … natural children, himself, could a bastard of his, a half-sister of yours be the boy's mother? No, he would never have been so close to the capital, not in time for such a boy's birth and not so soon after his family's deaths. Your mind spins and spins, and it takes a moment for you to realise that Ned Stark has gently clapped a hand on your shoulder.

"Your Grace, can we speak elsewhere? There's … there's things you must know," Ned gets out with a sigh, "and I don't trust the walls in here." He looks around, and you snap out of your questioning conspiracy-laden thoughts long enough to agree with him. You don't know the extent of the tunnels and passages hidden in the Keep, but you know enough to trust few places as truly safe.

Exiting the tower, Ser Barristan steps up to follow you, but you wave him off. "I am in perfect safety with Lord Stark," you tell him with your mind still half in a haze of confusion and potential unknown female relations. "Allow us some privacy?" Selmy frowns, but nods, and falls back about thirty or forty feet – close enough to run if you called, but not so close he'd overhear or see anything you didn't want him to. Without much haste, but enough to get to a destination quickly, Lord Stark leads you to the godswood in the garden. He doesn't trust a tower's walls, but does trust the shadows and bushes here?

Tree worshippers, you sigh internally with a small external eye roll.

"My household men have cleared the godswood and kept watch all day," Ned comments, almost as if he could read your thoughts or sense your anxieties, "we will be unheard here." Still, you take a moment to pull the dagger from your boot and slip it up your sleeve without missing a step. You haven't lived this long by trusting to safety.

"Lord Stark?" A voice asks from within the trees, and you almost feel vindicated in your paranoia before your mind catches up with you and reminds you that this voice is familiar. Sure enough, the man to match Stannis Baratheon's voice steps from the trees, clearly uncomfortable with being there.

"He, and the king," Stark answers, and you look between them, not feeling unsafe but very off-guard.

It isn't a sensation you're fond of. "What is this?" You ask of your Masters of Laws and War.

"Before tomorrow, before my family's party arrives and before we hold the coronation, the both of us have things you should know, that you deserve to know," Stark tells you.

"What does this—"

"If you would trust me just a moment farther, Your Grace," he cuts you off, "that and many other things may become clear." You give him a nod and an expectant look. However, he looks to the Lord of Storm's End. "The first part of this isn't my tale to tell."

Stannis sits on a bench, before beginning. "By now I've no doubt you have heard the stories of the tourney at Harrenhal, when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark instead of his wife," and you nod. Rhaegar never struck you as a stupid man in your youth, but as an adult you cannot fathom the madness or idiocy such a move would take, let alone what came after. Stannis continues, "What you don't know, what no one knew until a few years ago, is that Rhaegar did not abduct or harm Lyanna. She ran away with him, had, erm," Stannis audibly grinds his jaw, "youthful indiscretions together, and she wrote to Lord Eddard asking to be quietly brought home."

Well. That's unexpected. "How do you know this?"

"Because Lord Eddard never received the letter," Stannis carefully does not look at Ned while he tells you this. "She sent it to Storm's End. I can only surmise she believed he would have been with Robert at that time. Robert didn't know any of this, either; I found the letter unopened and clearly forgotten when I was gathering my things in preparation for being exiled."

That rocks you back on your heels a bit. "So the Rebellion, all of this pain and madness, is all because Robert didn't read a letter?" Because he couldn't be bothered to read something? you think is best kept to yourself.

"I don't know why he never read it," Stannis answers, "nor why he said what he said or thought what he thought about Lyanna and Rhaegar. How he came to believe those things, neither of us knows. I only know that he sent word of his mistaken beliefs to Lord Brandon, Lord Brandon reacted predictably, and history played out."

You process this. You certainly have to re-evaluate at least some of your impressions about Rhaegar's apparent foolishness, knowing now that this was all a tragic misunderstanding and not a prelude to a future king's madness and cruelty. But you don't see what this has to do with anything in particular coming tomorrow, and say so.

"That's where my half of the tale comes in," Ned tells you. "Lyanna wasn't held captive by the Prince, as I later came to discover."

"That doesn't make any sense, though," you frown. "If he wasn't holding her, then why didn't she travel home another way, after her letter produced no results? Why didn't he take her back?"

"They couldn't," Ned answers, head hung low. "By the time she realised no one had received or read her letter, the war had begun. Rhaegar had to ride out to face Robert, and travel wasn't safe for many reasons."

You don't know many details of the end of the war, but you know a little, and you feel like there's another surprise waiting around the corner, something you can't name or guess at. "The war is one reason. What other reasons are there that Lyanna was in the Tower of Joy instead of home?"

"She didn't feel that she could come home, at first," Ned sounds as pained as you've ever heard him, "and by the time she wanted to try anyway, she couldn't leave." He breathes deeply, slowly. "You must understand that no one knows this. Only a few men in the whole world – my companion Lord Reed, my brother Benjen, and I – and Lord Stannis only worked it out when he and I spoke yesterday."

"What happened there, Ned?"

He takes a moment, collects himself. "After we got past the Kingsguard stationed there, we climbed the tower only to find we were too late. Lyanna was dying." What. "She was too small, too young, maybe never meant for that fate. Before," he slows, breathes deeply and unevenly, and when he speaks again his voice is ragged in a way you've heard only once before, when your mother charged you with Dany's life on her deathbed. "Before she died, I gave her my word to keep her secret. I promised her," he swallows, and for the first time he meets your eyes, his own red and wet as he says, "I promised her I'd protect her son."

The godswood is grown on solid earth. It had to be, in order to support the large trees within it. So you aren't really sure how the ground is falling out from under you, but the feeling is there all the same. As if unaware of the event, unfeeling of the sensation, Ned Stark tells you, "Lyanna swore me to protect her son Jaehaerys from Robert. And I did. I raised him as my blood, let everyone believe he was my bastard son Jon Snow. And he's coming here tomorrow."

…oh.


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The Kingsguard

Currently there are three Kingsguard: Ser Jaime Lannister (perhaps not officially, but he'll be taking his place again soon) Ser Arys Oakheart, and an injured but recovering Lord Commander Barristan Selmy. That leaves at least four places to fill, and you can reward valiant soldiers and allied kingdoms with positions here. You can appoint more than seven, but such an act will irk some traditionalists.

[ ] Harras Harlaw is one of those true rarities: an Ironborn knight, albeit one who keeps to the Drowned God. His appointment would forge closer ties with the Islands while only being somewhat controversial.
[ ] Beshka the Basilisk would be … a choice. A woman, of foreign birth, with no knighthood or ties to the Faith, and one of the youngest ever recruited. She's willing to take on just about any challenge you pitch at her, though. And the Faith can only get so mad at their new king, right?
[ ] Brynden Tully is an able commander, a sharp wit, and a valourous knight. He is also in his fifties, and his brother the Lord Paramount still hopes to see him married off. However, Hoster Tully is not like Tywin Lannister, and would accept the honour of having a relative on the Kingsguard without much fuss.
[ ] Jon Connington was stripped of his lands and titles during the Rebellion, and has spent the last several years helping to raise your nephew. He wouldn't mind being restored to his lands and title (as his cousin Ronnet is, in his words, "a snivelling little shit") but he would also be pleased and proud to remain in King's Landing and serve your family once more.
[ ] Jorah Mormont has served as your acting Master of Whispers the past few weeks, and did so on Ned Stark's informal small council in the North for years, but he's also no slouch with a sword and would be honoured to serve (you also get the powerful impression he wouldn't mind doing what his father did to him, and making Maege Mormont someone else's problem).
[ ] 'Jon Snow' is about the last name you expected to have presented to you: Ned Stark's infamous bastard, whose true identity is now known to you. Younger than every other name put forward at 14, Lord Eddard nonetheless praises the boy's martial talents, and would not mind seeing the boy well taken care of here. In addition to his youth, he's not a knight or a man of the Faith, but not many Northmen are.
[ ] Asher Forrester showed promise when he marched south with his father and brother, and you have noticed in the past few days he has struck up an odd rapport with Beshka. House Forrester is not among the greater families of the North, but the gesture would be noticed. When pressed, Lord Forrester mentioned there might be an impolitic lover waiting for him back in the North, and placing Asher here would do him (and Lord Stark) a favour.
[ ] Imry Florent is a young goodbrother of Lord Stannis, a proud knight and respectable warrior, and possessed of the least prominent ears on a Florent you've ever seen. His appointment would be seen as a gesture of goodfaith to the Reacher lords that stood with you, and to Lord Stannis, who does not speak ill of Ser Imry.
[ ] Loras Tyrell is quite young, and depending on when he arrived to take his oaths would beat out Ser Jaime's record as the youngest recruited. He is known as being gifted with swords (this is occasionally said with knowing smirks, which you don't get) and has had a haunted look ever since he surrendered to your forces at Storm's End. It might help Lord Mace warm up to you, but if tensions rise again you aren't sure you want to have a Tyrell blade so close…
[ ] Robar Royce is the second son of Bronze Yohn Royce, a good tourney warrior and a skilled swordsman who did not have a chance to fight in the Restoration. Quiet but kind, his demeanour is a stark difference from his rough-hewn appearance and familial reputation. His appointment would be seen as a conciliatory gesture to the Vale.
[ ] Brienne of Tarth is a staggeringly tall young woman, and looks like she could beat up Ser Jaime at just seventeen. Her father once hoped that you might consider marrying her, and now seems to hope you might consider trusting her with your life. The former was, frankly, out of the question. The latter, though … you've seen her move with a sword, and it suggests real skill. Still, she's a woman, and unknighted, and the Faith (and some traditionalists) may get grouchy. The question is, how much you actually care.
[ ] Write-in

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AN: so, yeah, that's a lot, and a tonal whiplash to boot. 12-hour moratorium on voting for discussion of who/what you want to do with the Kingsguard -- if you want to increase their numbers, who's a better idea than others, etc. Go forth, be merry and be mad!