The Three Houses of Westeros

[LD1449]

Byleth:

They were here.

All of them.

And they were smiling.

She'd dreamt for so long.

How long?

She wasn't sure anymore.

Entire lifetimes gone by. Years upon years. The weight of decades. Centuries even.

She'd felt it wasn't possible.

That she was destined to lose them.

She'd failed for so very long…

And yet this time she hadn't.

"My teacher?"

Edelgard's voice made her turn her head, the glow of the ballroom lights casting her student, all of her students, in beautiful splendor.

"Yes?" She asked, the faintest smile tugging on her lips.

Edelgard stared at her, a curious, almost concerned look in her eye.

"I've just… I've never quite seen that expression on your face." The silver haired girl admitted honestly. "You look…"

"Happy." A new voice cut in, Claude, sauntering over from whatever corner shadow he'd been watching from. He smiled, that same pleased, almost smug smirk that told everyone he knew something they didn't. "I know it's a foreign emotion Edel but you can recognize it, I think, if you squint."

Edelgard shot the leader of the Alliance an irritated look.

"You do indeed look happy, Professor." Dimitri commented, marching closer.

"My word Blaiddyd-" Claude gasped dramatically. "Eavesdropping!? For shame sir!"


The blonde man chuckled good naturedly. "I learned from the best." He answered rather pointedly at the bowman.

Claude laughed. "Guilty as charged I suppose."

"I am." She said–admitted– really… "Happy… I mean."

How couldn't she be?

Leonie chatted away animatedly with Flayn (who'd been kept as far away from the kitchens as possible), while Linhardt napped on the table and Caspar drew all over his face. Alois and Catherine drank loudly and boisterously, and sat beside Lorenz. He looked as exasperated by them as Felix was by Sylvain, who was, of course, taking the opportunity to flirt. Hubert walking arm in arm with Petra as Dedue helped Ashe bring in the main course of the evening, and Ingrid followed closely behind, plate already in hand.

Lysithea stared at the dessert table as if she had all the time in the world—because she did, now. Bernadetta danced slowly in Raphael's arms, away from the rest of the world, but with the biggest grin Byleth had ever seen on her face.

Off to the side of the dance floor, Dorothea and Annette had convinced a very pink-faced Marianne into an impromptu performance, and Mercedes was all but shoving a nervous looking Emile—complete with bouquet of red roses—towards Constance, who was failing to hide her blush under a look of indifference.

A giggly Hilda danced with an equally tipsy Balthus, while Holst looked on murderously and Yuri watched in amusement. Ignatz, furiously hunched over a sketchpad, captured everything while Hapy watched from over his shoulder.


All of her students. Here… and happy.

So… how couldn't she be happy with… all of this?

Claude was still confused, she could tell. But he offered her a smile anyway. "Well… whatever put you in such a good mood. I'm happy that you're happy Teach."

"Likewise." Dimitri answered

"Somehow the words, 'you've earned it' seem… fitting, though I'm not sure why." Edelgard said.

Claude offered another teasing remark and Edelgard glared at him and once more Dimitri tried to play peacekeeper.

She took the opportunity, though it wasn't easy- slipping away as quietly as she could, leaving her precious, precious students to enjoy themselves.

—

"I thought you'd never leave their side."

She smiled again at the voice. Lilting and childlike.

Sothis glimmered like stardust, translucent and ephemeral against the night sky as Byleth stood over the bridge; the waters of the rivers below casting sound that went well with the distant music of the ballroom in the palace.

"I almost didn't." She admitted to the false girl who lay on her stomach, head resting on her hands, feet kicking in the air as she floated across Byleth's face. "But I just… wanted to take it in, from a distance." She said, looking at the bright lights of the distant palace."

"Doesn't feel real… does it?"

As usual, Sothis was far more insightful than she usually liked to let on.

"No…" She admitted in a whisper, as if afraid the word alone would shatter the dream. "It feels like… this should never have happened? That it couldn't have happened." She sighed. "I tried for so long."

"Well you did it." Sothis reassured, the phantom touch of her hands falling on Byleth's shoulders. "They're here. They're all safe… and happy. You did this… and-" She hesitated. "I… didn't think you could do it either." She huffed. "So congratulations. You've impressed a Goddess with your stubbornness."

Byleth felt her smile grow. "Or stupidity." She joked, remembering the age old insult that Sothis had labeled her with from practically their first meeting.

"Yes well-"

The Goddess' words were cut short, by an arrow sailing out of the darkness and lodging itself into Byleth's chest. She let out a breathless gasp.

Time spun, unwound.

The world twisted and bent, the laws of reality reshaping themselves for a brief window of time.

An arrow flew out of the darkness, and was caught in an iron grip, the wood cracking in her hand.

She heard a muttered curse, movement in the shadows.

Her eyes sharpened, the Sword of the creator emerging from light and falling into her grasp as she lunged.

The assassin was pale, corpselike- dressed in black, shrouded with dark magic to hide from her sight.

So were his friends.

Blades moved to intercept her, but she was faster, lifetimes upon lifetimes of reflexes honed to perfection.

The rejoicing professor was gone.

The Ashen Demon stood in her place.

The first man was cut down with a slash that nearly beheaded him, the second a cut that opened his belly, his armor parting like gossamer thin thread as it failed against the edge of the Creator's blade.

The archer was still trying to run, still trying to get away.

She cast her sword out, the blade lengthening, individual segments tied together by the thread of a God and ancient magic, individual ligaments carrying the tip forward to skewer through the man's lower spine with a scream before she yanked him back towards herself.

His body tumbled, her free hand blooming into fire as she thrust it into the face of a third man approaching her from the side.

That… that's when she heard the screams.

That's when she saw the smoke.

She whirled around, eyes wide, staring at the palace who's golden glow of joyous lights was now replaced with the rising blaze of fire.

Her students were in there.

Her students were in there.

Her students were screaming.

Her horror saw her cut down, a strike from behind cleaving her open from shoulder to spine. Sothis screamed, time came unwound, the wound never appearing at all.

She drove forward, her strikes hacking, her blood pounding, the roar in her ears doing nothing to drown out the screaming of her students as she desperately rushed through the mob of assassins and sorcerers.

Then, the clouds in the sky parted, and a Javelin descended on wings of fire to destroy… everything.

—

"You couldn't have known."

She walked through… fire… and…

Corpses

The world was ash, ruin and soot. Bone and blood.

She wasn't here.

She'd walked outside… because she couldn't believe it was real.

She'd been right.

Now it wasn't.

"This isn't your fault!"

She should have been here.

She should have…

She could have changed things. Saved them.

She could've died with them.

"Don't say-"

She should have died with them.

No more rewinds. No more second chances. Or thirds. Or fourths. Or however many lifetimes she'd stolen away with.

No more.

"Byleth please… we can fix this. We can try agai-"

"Shut up."

The word slipped free of her chest. Barely there. But so loud Sothis stopped talking immediately.

She walked through the field of ash. Of bone and dead things.

The Sword of the Creator slipped from numb fingers.

She did not bother to pick it up.

—​

Sothis:

She knew Byleth. She knew Byleth better than anyone. Better than even Byleth herself.

Lifetimes upon lifetimes they had been together. Struggled together. And every time, Byleth had been ready to try again. To keep trying- as long as it took. As long as it needed to take.

But something broke this time.

Sothis wasn't sure what. But all things, mortal or God… had their limits.

Years of cradling her dead students, of mourning lost loved ones. Of burying her father time after time.

There were lifetimes where the blue haired girl had gone mad. Those Sothis kept from her memory. Because she'd always recovered. She'd always been ready to try again.

But this time… Sothis wasn't sure. The pain was so deep, so overwhelming that removing it seemed an impossible task in and of itself.

She watched her now, cradling the shattered remains of the legendary relics Aymr, Areadbhar and Failnaught, Sothis could see it… she could feel it.

Byleth wanted to die.

A true death. A return of their souls to the great wheel.

Not another reset. Not another 'try again'.

Not another failure.

Byleth wanted to end.

Sothis… didn't know what to do.

She didn't know how to fix this.

But she knew she had to try.

—

While she slept, Sothis watched.

She watched and she tried to find a way to fix this.

She'd been so close. She'd had it. She'd earned it. After so long… no one could deny her that.

And yet they had.

Fate, or Destiny, or Time…

It was all so… unfair.

And as she watched her close her eyes, sleeping in the acrid ruins of what was once her hope, the private, darkest thought was whispered into Sothis' mind.

Just let me die.

She could.

Humans didn't know what awaited them, but Gods did.

Oh yes. Gods could die too. Their spirits cycled back into the wheel, their bodies reborn after eons. But barely a blink to the mind of a God.

It would be… easier.

But still… unjust.

And she would not–could not abide by it.

Not like this.

Not after… everything.

And she knew there was something.

One thing she could do.

The ultimate sacrilege.

There could be no amends made for it- no justification offered.

He would never accept anything she had to say.

She might even lose her Godhood… if he were angry enough.

Could she pay that price? Could she risk it?

She wasn't sure.

And still… for her… she wanted to try.

She deserved that didn't she? Byleth deserved that.

For someone to give up and sacrifice as much for her as she had for others.- at least once. Just… once.

As Byleth slept, she watched. She looked upon her devastated face, even in sleep. She looked up at the stars above, sensed the distant specks of life drawing closer. Unsure of what had happened.

And she hesitated.

Maybe she would wake in better spirits.

Maybe she'd be willing to try again.

They'd be ready this time. They could do things differently again. Fix things again.

Even as she thought it… she knew it wasn't true.

She could still feel that pain. That deep, mortal wound upon Byleth's very soul even now.

But still…

This thought… this idea.

It was terrifying.

In so very many ways. Interference on the mortal planes wasn't strictly forbidden; small interventions were…tolerated.

What she was planning to do was not a 'small intervention'.

She was not exaggerating when she said her Father might well strip her of her Godhood entirely.

The crime was that severe.

Hell, not even just her father- but the other Primordials whose domains she'd be violating.


Even if her father wanted to forgive her, and that was not guaranteed; they might not let him.

And yet…

She still felt she had to try.

Because Byleth deserved it.

She deserved her happy ending.

And she was sick and tired of seeing that ending stolen from her.

Time after time after time.

For nothing more than the whims and fancies of an uncaring God who didn't even know her.

She was sick and tired of seeing her try to save all her students–their students– again and again and again and again, only to fail. To see them perish, and have their dying moments burned into her soul, over and over and over.

It was a truly special kind of torture, one that was enough to drive spirits to despair and minds to madness. They'd skirted both often enough.

She thought- she'd truly thought that they'd done it. That they'd overcome the decree of fate itself.

But…they hadn't. And Sothis had the sneaking suspicion that perhaps, this was the primordials message. His final little warning before he got truly angry at her meddling. At her rewriting of the tapestry over and over and over again in this little corner of the cosmos.

There were things even Byleth's sheer determination could not overcome, that made even the brightest soul begin to dim.

Well… fuck him.

He didn't get to do this to her, he didn't get to show her the cusp of her dream… only to turn it to literal ash on her lips because he was petty.

She could be a petty bitch too!


…

She was the one who chose to come here.

She was the one who gave the people of this world knowledge they weren't ready for, knowing it would have severe consequences.

She was the one their true enemies had always been after.

So she would fix this. No. Matter. What.

First, however, she turned her attention towards her other half, curled up on the floor in an uneasy sleep.

The ashen world of ruins and death faded away, instead, they found themselves in front of familiar steps before a familiar throne.

Sothis reached.

With strength that belied her small form, she gently lifted her soul sister's body, careful not to wake her as she walked up the steps toward the giant throne atop them.

She wasn't sure what it was about this place that brought her peace, especially since they weren't actually there in the physical world, but that hardly mattered.

She placed her other half comfortably on the dais, humming and stroking her hair until the girl settled into a deeper slumber.

She sat upon the throne beside Byleth… and gathered her power.

Then she focused.

Infinity stretched out before her, the whole of reality, of all realities, beckoning and taunting in equal measure.

She searched, for eons and seconds, all of eternity and no time at allThis path was not a kind one, it was true. But it would be a successful one, in the end.

She'd damn well make sure of it.

She concentrated, reaching and spreading herself out through time and space. She pulled a little here and twisted a little there, making tiny, insignificant changes on the cosmic scale that amounted to nothing.

At least on their own…

Still, the fruit of her labor was far from perfect; for all her power, the result never could be perfect. Not even for Fate itself if he'd ever bothered to try. .

The Laws of Reality and Order that upheld the very fabric of Creation were implacable, such that even Gods could not defy them.

But she kept working, kept pulling and tugging, snipping and arranging. Changing things as quietly as she could. As Claude would say, getting her 'Ducks in a row' before the big push. As she slotted the final few pieces into place, she allowed herself to breathe out in relief.

And then went utterly still.

Her muscles locked and she clenched her fists tightly- the deep breath, before the plunge.

And Time… opened its eyes.

And she felt it fall upon her.

She felt fear cut through her- hesitation.

Time rumbled beginning to move..

Perhaps she hadn't been as discreet as she'd thought, or in her single-minded focus had gotten complacent towards the end, alerting him to her actions.


She felt his power beginning to descend upon her, like someone holding her arms to keep her still.

She felt his voice in her mind.

"What are you doing, child of mine?"

And she knew then- she had no more time.

Fate did not wish to be undone. And Time would not allow her to try if he knew.

She reached.

With all of her power, all of her might, The Daughter of Time itself cast the full breadth of her abilities-

And tore Fate's tapestry to shreds.

The response was immediate, the fathomless presences of beings that shaped all within their realms starting from their slumbers- entities roaring across the fires of the vast planes of reality as they set their sights on her and drew close- fast.

Her father startled, stilling for the faintest, most brief instant where whole universes died in his shock.

For the briefest instant she was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his very Being as it pushed against hers and battered her consciousness from all sides, before it receded, pulling away and coalescing at the base of the steps below the throne into a male, humanoid form.

His face was a perfectly blank mask of calm, but her attempts to mentally reach out across their connection were met with a cold wall that was slowly crackling with the beginning edges of a controlled anger..

Shit.

He stood before the throne. The image of him, the raw force, disintegrated the granite stone at her back.

She pulled her other half against her more closely.

"Father," She greeted

"What have you done?," He asked, his voice almost laughably blank and neutral even as entire realities burned down around them.

"Spring cleaning?" She asked. It was a truly desperate effort to stall, but she just needed a bit more time.

The irony did not escape her.

Her father's eyes narrowed, cracking his calm facade.

He cast his gaze down towards the still slumbering Byleth.

She stood up, placing herself between the mortal and her very angry father, realizing that now really wasn't the time to make him any angrier. "I had to help her."

"A mortal?" He asked. "Their lives are brief flickers of candle light. A century? Less. You have done incalculable levels of harm! Are Eons upon Eons, multiple billion lifetimes worth her single future for that pittance!?" He demanded.

He would say something like that. He who, irony of ironies, couldn't grasp the true value of that which He ruled. Of even a single century, less even, to the richness of a mortal life.

After all, unlike her, he'd never been mortal.

He could never understand.

"She's worth that!" Sothis snarled.

All of her efforts, the full unbridled power that she'd used to rearrange fate and time's design and torn it down, was captured, taken hold of in an instant. A candle, struggling against a Storm as her father ripped her away and reduced her, down to a single, infinitesimal point.

"You will cease this; Now! - I am in no mood for games. I have indulged you long enough," Father said in a tone that warned of rapidly thinning patience., "Your actions risk bringing about catastrophic destruction.I must now undo your foolishness

My actions have already caused catastrophic destruction–this is my chance to fix things. Besides which, there likely won't be an opportunity like this again!

"It's already done!" she screamed. "Undoing everything now will just cause even more damage and you won't even be able to fix it, not really." she bit back, eyes narrowed struggling with a million limbs and a thousand claws

Her father's eyes narrowed, fathomless eyes calculating the truth of her statement, examining the extent of the damage.

She hadn't been gentle.

She felt his power descend over her again his voice in her mind

Sleep, and Forget.

Her eyelids began to droop almost immediately.

She started, struggling against it. "N-NO!" She screamed, forcing her eyes to open, forcing herself to resist as her father turned away.

She had to know. She had to know what he would do! That he wouldn't undo *everything* that he wouldn't send Byleth back there, back to that place where only death remained around them!

She resisted and he reached again, his power… plucking something- pulling it from her thoughts. Taking something, something of hers with him. Locking it away.

She realized what it was a moment later, as her mind began to empty, its memories, its reason for defiance… slipping away.

She reached, with all of her remaining power all of her strength she reached and clutched and tried so very hard to keep what was taken.

It shouldn't be taken. It was hers. It was her.

She had chosen to find love, have children, and create a family. She'd made those choices.

And he had no right to take those choices from her! No matter how angry he was!

And she had chosen to join with Byleth, to share in her laughter and strife, and grow to care for the children she taught.

She slipped, her eyes closing, darkness settling around her mind in fugue as bits and pieces slipped through, like sand clutched in a tightly clenched fist.

Children that both of them would do anything for, to ensure their happiness.

The children!

She started, jolting back to full awareness.

Byleth still sat…slept. She was sleeping. On… ash? No. A throne.

Sothis groaned, pulling back the shards of her mind with all of her might, the barest traces of herself fully returning in a futile attempt to keep them.

But… just a little bit longer. .

She wasn't done yet.

Ignoring the now bone-deep temptation to fall back into slumber, she instead forced her Being outwards again, searching the new timeline she'd created.

It was still there, fully intact. At least as far as she could tell… Yet the fact that she was unable to determine if Father had done anything didn't bode well–either his touch was subtler than she remembered, or she was weakening much more quickly than anticipated.

She Looked again at her new path, with all its swirling possibilities, With the risk of her father's interference dogging every step, the little ones would now need every advantage they could get for this course to succeed.

She heaved a deep, heavy sigh, and pinched the bridge of her nose so tightly she felt nail indentations develop. The urge to sleep was so great now that she could no longer sit upright without swaying in exhaustion, and her brain felt like it had been wrapped in about three layers of thick cotton as she pushed and forced the last details into place.

Stay awake…remember…concentrate…

There was still one last thing she had to do.

Her other half had already lost so much more than she ever should have, yet if given the option, Byleth would have offered anything and everything that was asked of her in an instant for their students' safety, and damn the consequences.

She reached across the connection she shared with her other half for reassurance.

Theirs was a unique bond, unlike almost any other in reality.

They were a part of each other, two halves of a whole, two beings as one, one being as two.

But…

The sum total of her soul-linked's existence was a mere droplet in comparison to her ocean, making it laughably simple for her to keep secrets from her other half.

The thought of what she was about to do made her stomach churn with guilt, but given the devastation her other half had experienced when her hopes got smashed that final time…It was for the best. It had to be.

Sleep, Dear One, and… Forget.

She was old, and she had many burdens.

And so many, many regrets…

What was one more, if it meant sparing Byleth?

…

Macuil…Indech…Seiros…Cichol…Cethleann…Sapphi…Em…Byleth

She would remember them. This time, if nothing else, she would remember the people she cared about, she would remember–

She would remember…

Remember what? Did she forget something?

Surely it would come back to her after a nice…long…nap…

So tired…

…She was so tired…

Sothis shut her eyes and let go, slipping back into the void of existence, and Forgot.

 

[LD1449]

Prologue-0:

I was perhaps… four- the day I realized my mother was not my mother.

A horrid thing to think.

But it was true. She is not my mother.

She birthed me. Her blood is my blood. Flesh of my flesh.

But I- who regretted and raged at the loss of my family once before, knew intrinsically, instinctively, and implacably… that she was not my mother.

I am… Dimitri. They call me Dimitri Baratheon, the first of my name. Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. The boy that is the blood of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon. The Queen and King of these, our seven Kingdoms.

But that is not my name.

I know my name. I know my family. Or what was once my family. The family lost. The ghosts that have chased me even now across the length and breadth of death and rebirth… or madness.

My name is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

The King of Faerghus.

The Mad Boar

The Blood Lion.

The Red Tempest.

The King of Delusion

I am all of these things.

I love the woman who calls herself my mother. And the man who calls himself my father.

How can I not? Flawed as they are- they are parents and I know the curse of orphanhood. The horrid crushing pain of loss.

Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps I have always been. A curse upon my line. The Ghosts of the Mad King coming to claw at the spawn of the man who now sat on his throne.

Who's to say?

I wonder, distantly- if others find themselves like me. Even as I try to grasp for their names and reach out to touch ghostly faces that will not come to clarity no matter how much I try and plead and beg.

Even their names slip through my fingers like water droplets through a net.

Perhaps that is, in and of itself a sign? A sign telling me that though I know it false; I must accept it. That I must cling to my hold upon this life. This identity for the other is simply beyond my grasp as ever the ghosts have been beyond my ability to influence. I will keep the madness away Tenuous and fragile as my hold on sanity is.

For what else can I do? What else can I be? But Dimitri of house Baratheon?

…

It is not such an ill fit.

The words of this; my house- can indeed become my own.

For mine- is indeed the fury

—

My brother falls into Madness.

I see it.

Though I am the youngest. Though he thinks me an insipid girl, too stupid to do more than toddle after him- I can see it.

I can see his madness growing. Writhing like a cancer, eating away at his brain.

Anger fuels it. Driving it faster.

But he is mad.

Worse, he is cruel.

Even worse than that- he is stupid

In my old life, I was subject to the whims of madmen. Cruel men. And yes. Even stupid men.

I have no care for it.

But I am a child still.

So is Dany.

But still I will not suffer that fate again.

I know not its true nature. But I know enough to fear it. Shadows, pain, red blades drawing my blood.

I will not suffer it again.

Even so; I am sad to say, ashamed really- to admit that I did not free myself from this fate. Wrest control under my own strength, my own skill, or my own guile.

No. My salvation came in the form of a man.

Pale as death. Face long, sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes. An empty obedient servant.

But the most loyal of servants nevertheless.

I knew him.

Somehow, in my infancy I knew him.

And he knew me.

His oaths compelled him to obey my brother. And if not my brother, my sister, who was a girl in truth- rather than the faux semblance of an elder mind in the body of a child that I held.

But he listened to me… not them.

Because he knew me. He knew my name. My true name.

Edelgard Von Hressvelg.

The world could call me Targaryen all it wished.

But I knew my name.

And I knew his.

Not the false name. Not the one given to him here. Emile Velaryon

No. The name I knew him by.

Jereitza Von Hrym.

My Servant

My Royal Guard

The Last Loyal Kingsguard.

My… Death Knight.

And he would defend me from anything until I was ready to reclaim… everything.

And this I swore. This was My oath.

The oath of Edelgard Targaryen.

—

The creek babbled and trickled by my feet. My eyes watching the fish trying to swim upstream.

They struggled so, tried so hard and I felt… almost a longing as I watched them.

There was the crunch of a boot on gravel and I had a moment to see the shadow of a spear before I brought my hand up.

I grasped the haft and father stopped, staring at me with open surprise as I shook my head, pleading without words.

I saw his features twist with worry. I always made him worry more than I should. He always tried to hide the worst of it… but I know.

He was always a good father.

"Something wrong kid?" He asked; kneeling at my side, the fish we would have eaten forgotten at our side.

I shrugged. "I… I don't want to kill them." I admitted. "Not when they're trying so hard."

He let out a snort half amused, half disbelieving. "You never ask me for anything… and today you're asking me to take food out of your mouth?"

"Please." I asked, my eyes turning back down towards the fish.

How to tell him. How to explain that I somehow knew what this felt like. This impossible, monumental struggle, only to have an uncaring world tear you down?

…

"Alright Byleth." He nodded. "Deer might be more complicated. But alright."

Father's hand fell over my head, and it was such a familiar gesture I felt the sudden, irresistible urge to hug him.

So I did.

He was still kneeling, so it was easy for my hands to coil around him.

He hugged me back. No hint of hesitation. No sign that being this close let him feel more acutely than ever the fact that I was… wrong. Broken.

What kind of girl… has no heartbeat?

But he was always a good father.

"Thanks dad." I said.

Jeralt grunted, confused to be sure, but he rubbed circles along my back.

"Come on kid. If we're hunting deer, we better do it before the sun drops some more."

(X)(X)(X)

And here we have it friends; the start of my latest project. I am joined by my wonderful Co-author AngelTheAnomaly for this project

Now to start us off you can find Angel over on our Discord channel here Join the Ld's Corner Club Discord Server!

And just like with weaving force a number of advance chapters are available on Patreon right now I believe its around 40 pages of more content for this fic specifically so you can check that out following the link in my sig below along with advance chapters of my other fics and exclusive artwork all for just $1.00 so check that out if you like what you've read here and are interested to get a jump on things. Our Discord will also have exclusive channels available for discussing said advance chapters.

Now; final notes- 2 things

We are still desperately searching for a Beta reader (or multiple Beta readers) for this fic. Some of you may die in pursuit of Beta reading this story. But that is a risk I am willing to take.

Also; for those of you familiar with my usual update cadence of one chapter per week; this story will not have that. It will have an update cadence of 1 chapter every 3-4 weeks. But to compensate for that the chapters will likely be significantly LONGER. My average update length is 12-15 pages. This story will be averaging at 18-15 pages most likely. So you have been forewarned and forearmed

 

[LD1449]

Prologue-2:

Tywin:

"The Seven who are one, teach us that we who die in their light and faith, rise forevermore to the seven heavens. Bound in joyous love, free of the troubles and tribulations of this- our cruel world-"

The septon droned on. His voice was static in the mind of Tywin Lannister as he stared at the body of his beloved Joanna.

Cold and dead as the stone that would entomb her.

Tyrion had ravaged her womb, torn her apart from within. The Maester had warned them that she must never bear another child.

And yet when she unexpectedly fell pregnant one last time, she would hear nothing of eliminating the child.

No matter how much he raged, and demanded and cajoled and threatened, and… begged. He, the mighty Tywin Lannister had fallen on bent knees, in tears before his beloved Joanna.

But she would not do it.

He could reshape the whole of the seven Kingdoms at his word, but his wife would not be moved.

"All things die, Tywin, I love you dearly, but our children, I love more than life itself even this little unborn light. My life is for them to have and if it means they live."

He had tried to trick her into drinking moon tea. He'd tried every manner of manipulation even called in her own family to plead with her on his behalf but she knew his tricks and her answer for all had been the same.

Even their children. Cersei, Jaime. He had used them to try and sway her. But she'd merely spoken to them, eased their fears and made them promise that they would take care of their littlest sibling no matter what happened to her.

Shame and guilt gnawed at Tywin's insides. Anger and bitterness clouded his heart and mind during those final days. He refused to see her. Refused to help her throw her life away. If she was so determined to leave him, he had no time for her.

He'd left. A tour of the Westerlands to make certain his vassals were paying their dues and properly in line.

Unnecessary.

Stupid.

A rider had ridden, day and night from Casterly Rock near the border of the riverlands to find him. His horse falling dead- with word that Joanna had gone into Labor.

And he knew. He knew… he would never see her again.

He'd ridden for Casterly Rock as fast as his steed would carry him. He'd ridden for three days straight, stopping only to swap horses as he passed noble houses, his guard barely able to keep up with him.

But he'd been too late.

Joanna. His beloved Joanna… was dead.

Kevan had been with him, Genna in her own home with her Frey husband and Gerion off on another of his misadventures.

She didn't die alone… by the kindness of the most unlikely of sources.

Tywin let his eyes drift, down down towards his charge, the boy he was fostering on what had been almost a whim or a threat. A way to keep the mad dog in line.

"Clegane." He said, the large boy's tearful eyes rising to find him.

"Come here boy." He demanded. The young man's larger than normal frame made him seem twice his age, but he was still nothing but a boy. A boy that had brought his ailing wife sweet milks and cakes from the kitchen. Kept her company so she would not cry, and held her hand as the pain took her and the Maester struggled to deliver the child he warned long ago would take her life.

Raphael came closer, head bowed low.

Tywin wasn't used to gratitude. He wasn't used to children either.

Still… he made the effort here. Good service merited it where he as a husband had failed.

"You're a good lad." His voice choked, his hand rising, and falling over a head of blonde curls that made so many think he was a Lannister and not a Clegane.

Raphael smiled up at him with a teary smile. "C-can I see Ingrid soon M'lord?" He asked shily. "I promised ya see. Promised Miss Joanna I'd take care of her. It's right I do it."

"...You're right." He nodded, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him as he turned his eyes away from the boy at his side to the babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and being rocked even now by a wetnurse.

Ingrid Lannister.

"Girl." He barked, the tears of Jaime and Cersei ceased for a moment as his voice carried to the wetnurse at their side. "Bring her here."

The wetnurse bowed quickly, hastily moving to carry the tiny child closer.

He'd never laid eyes on his daughter until that very moment.

He wondered, briefly, if the same deformities that had destroyed Tyrion in the womb would plague her.

But they hadn't.

…

She was perfect….

Perfect in every way. Green eyes, the mirror of Joanna's stared up at him, a tiny mouth yawning sleepily with no teeth, a blond tuft of perfect hair showing on her little head.

Tywin felt his heart soften. What affection he held for his wife, transferring over to this, her last gift to the world.

He could not fail her as egregiously as he'd failed her mother in her final moments.

Raphael leaned up on his tip toes, just tall enough to see the girl in Tywin's arms as he smiled, guileless and happy at the sight of her.

All the while, the septon droned on.

(X)(X)(X)

Jon Arryn

"You have no right to demand this of me!"

"I AM YOUR BLOODY KING, I HAVE EVERY RIGHT!"

"He is my firstborn!" Stannis snarled. "If you want peace with the bloody flowers, send your own their way!"

Jon Arryn winced as Robert's response, predictably, was a roaring reprimand that bellowed through the halls. Fiery fury smashing against icy, cold rage.

Two brothers couldn't be more different; and while Jon knew that eventually Robert would either wear down his younger brother, or Stannis' personal sense of duty would win out if he just stayed out of it; he'd rather the… chasm between the two Baratheons not get worse.

Robert might not know it, but his position as King was far far more fragile than he thought - a rift between the Baratheon brothers might just be the end of this short lived dynasty.

"My lord Baratheon-" He ventured, almost cringing as both brothers turned their wrathful gazes his way. "The realm needs to heal these wounds caused by the rebellion. Sending your son to foster with the Tyrells would be a step to healing those rifts."

"Send me one of theirs then." Stannis barked. "None of the flowers will come to harm under my roof if I give my word. But I trust the fat flower as far as I can throw him, and his mother even less so."

His mind, rather unhelpfully conjured the rather absurd image of Stannis heaving Mace Tyrell over the walls of Storm's End and he had to fight down a chuckle at the mental image.

"Bloody hell" Robert grumbled. "You already named your boy after your bloody Florent in laws… Lorenz Baratheon-" He snorted. "What a fucking name. He's already a half Flower from that alone."

Stannis shot his brother a heated glare and Jon had to keep himself from sighing at Robert making this all the harder rather than easier.

"Willas Tyrell is already fostering as is Garlan Tyrell, a third son in Loras is not the same as a first son like your Lorenz." Stannis, in spite of his truthful and unbending nature did like having his ego stroked regardless of what he said. The man had pride. More than either of his brothers really.

"I don't see you volunteering Prince Dimitri or even your girl Bernadetta, Arryn."

It was a grumbling biting remark but Jon could see the manipulation had softened him a bit. Of course the crown prince couldn't be so carelessly traded towards a house that might still be an enemy. He was too valuable. And a marriage between him and Arianne Martell might be enough to truly begin mending things with Dorne, so that door had to remain open and viable.

And Bernadetta, his squirming little baby girl, however much he loved her, was no great political prize to be fostering in the court of Highgarden to mend relationships. Let her mother dote and coddle her. She'd be more useful when she flowered.

"My lord please-" He chided gently. "You know that your son is the best option for this. At the very least, consider it, would you?"

"What the hell is there to consider?" Robert grumbled, nursing his wine. Almost pouting at the fact that his brother wasn't doing as he was told. "I told him to, he should just do it."

Before another argument could break out, or Stannis could grind his teeth down to powder Jon cut in again. "It's no easy thing to ask a man to send away his firstborn son to be raised by others. What if we demanded you send Prince Dimitri away, Robert?"

The King's eyes flashed, a roiling blackness in his gaze. "No… No, I don't think I'd like that." He grudgingly admitted. He looked to Stannis, as if only just realizing what he was asking.

"Sorry… Stannis." Robert said, almost mulishly at having to say it.

It did much, however, to soften the King's taciturn brother.

The King stood from his desk, chugging down the last of his wine. "Speaking of which, I promised the little prince he'd get to see me spar today. With Barristan no less. Best not keep them waiting eh?" He began to march out the door, and Jon was glad his son had reignited Robert's interest in staying in top form, physically at least. For a short while there he was afraid his foster son would grow out like a rotund jelly roll, with how much he was drinking and how little he was actually doing beyond drinking.

As Robert began to march out, Stannis grunted and it was as much of a tacit "I'll think about it" as Jon was going to get. Or at least, as much as he was willing to push through without Robert here to back him up.

Baratheon brothers… so different yet so eerily similar it hurt to look at sometimes, really.

—

Oberyn Martell:

"He's growing into a fine boy." He said, smiling slightly. "A tad dour though… Does he get that from his father?"

Ashara offered him an annoyed look at his prodding- taking a sip of her wine "You are my welcome and beloved guest, dear Oberyn. If you'd like to remain welcome and beloved for your visit- watch your words."

Ahh. Still a sore subject then.

"I could head north and kill him for you." He smirked.

What met him this time was a glare and her anger was hot and palpable.

He'd pushed too much it seemed.

Hastily he held up his hands. "I apologize. I will never mention it again, I promise." He very honestly had to resist the urge to amend the statement with a 'Unless you do want me to kill him, of course'

Ashara offered him a suspicious side eye, as though she could read his thoughts, looking straight past that impish smile of his as she turned back towards the water gardens where all the children played, so very happy and carefree.

"Hmm. Makes you wish sometimes we could go back to being so simple." He reminisced with genuine nostalgia.

"Sometimes." She conceded before taking a deep breath. "But then you realize if we were to go back… it would still fall to them to correct all our mistakes… To right all our wrongs."

"Hmmm, true enough."

"Doran still will not commit?"

He snorted. "I love my brother dear- but you know the answer to that."

"Every day that passes, Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister consolidate more firmly." She noted. "Their hold is still tenuous for now, but for how long? Does he expect the fruit to fall perfectly ripe from the tree without him ever needing to reach out and pluck it for himself?"

He took a long, long swig of his drink. "I am not the one you must convince." He said. "I'd ride right now and challenge the Mountain myself if my brother hadn't made it abundantly clear he'd see me executed for going against his wishes."

"He wouldn't."

"No." Oberyn sighed. "He wouldn't. But it would certainly shatter this image of appeasement he's trying to give the rest of the seven Kingdoms so he can move to aid the Targaryens across the sea."

"So he is moving to help them?"

He took another large gulp…

Ashara made a noise of disgust before turning and marching away, well- storming away really. Off to no doubt argue with his brother, trusting Ellaria to watch the children.

It spoke to how close the two women had grown that she trusted his paramour with her precious Dedue.

He turned to follow, no doubt it would be entertaining at the very least to have someone else point out the fallacy of simply waiting on your laurels for the universe to send good fortune your way.

—

"So what? Are we to just sit here and do nothing? No protection? No aid? Not even a stipend of coin spirited to them every few months? How exactly do you expect this will turn out?"

Watching Ashara argue with his brother did indeed make for some delightful entertainment. And a remarkably refreshing change of pace really.

Doran for his part rubbed at his forehead, almost curling around the armrest of his chair as he fought to stave off the headache.

This was an old argument between them- but now, a new challenger had entered the arena and she was fresh and ready to hammer away at his brother's sense of caution and patience for him.

Standing behind his brother, the ever loyal and ever faithful Areo Hotah looked as stone faced as ever, but if Doran wished to read the lines of his face at all he'd like to imagine he was enjoying this just as much as Oberyn was.

"We cannot risk the crown discovering our efforts before we are ready-"

"Why Doran?" She asked. "Why? Dragons with dragonfire couldn't conquer Dorne, why do you believe Stags with swords and spears will do any better?"

"We must save our strength for when they return, and they will return."

"With apparently no help from you." She sneered. "How exactly do you think that will go? Will they flock to you or the Tyrells who have more men, and more food and a daughter of equally biddable age and active alliances with all the other houses-"

Doran looked almost sullen as Ashara pointed out the fallacies in his utter lack of any action to speak of. She was much better at this than Oberyn himself was. He tended to get angry, go on tangents. Eventually it would devolve into rage when he remembered Elia. His brother could wait him out most days; He knew that. So did Oberyn.

Ashara, though, was flying straight as an arrow right now..

"Who even agreed to this plan of yours? Rhaella before she died? Jeritza? Viserys?"

Doran remained… suspiciously quiet.

Ashara's face slackened, becoming gradually more incredulous. "Have you not even told them of this plan?"

Another suspicious bout of silence.

…Oh, was he getting his money's worth today.

(X)(X)(X)

Davos:

Sand crunched under his toes, the kiss of the ocean breeze, tinged with salt and brine brushed against his cheek, little booted feet clutched in his hands as the last tufts of his hair fought valiantly to stay on his scalp as tiny fists clutched at them, his passenger squealing and shrieking in joy and delight as the waves smacked against his chest almost but not quite reaching her.

"Deeper, papa!" His little Dorothea demanded.

"As my princess commands." Davos smiled, wading a bit further into the tide, his three older boys already swimming and playing in the deeper tides. He kept an eye on them of course, but each of his boys knew how to swim almost better than they knew how to walk.

Another wave came in and another squeal and tightened fists clutched at his struggling hair.

Davos laughed.

As he danced and bobbed along with the ocean he found himself turning towards his home, a freshly built cottage along the sea shore. No great house of stone and mighty timbers, but a small thing compared to the castles of the lords of greater Westeros. It suited him and Marya just fine.

The surrounding lands were his, and what few neighbors he had were nominally his subjects but he'd never had a mind for ruling.

Didn't even know how to read.

The beginnings of a hold were here, but if things stayed just as is, he would not mind. He'd already climbed so far for a lowly smuggler that he couldn't help being grateful for even this.

Turning away from a particularly high wave and riding it back to shallower waters, Davos turned towards the house again, this time finding Marya rushing to the shore, skirts in her hands, and eyes wide as dinner plates.

Immediately, he knew something was amiss.

"Boys." He called, beginning to wade to the shore. "Out of the water, boys."

A chorus of groans and protests met his ears.

"Do as I say or you'll all be feelin' the back of my hand!" He demanded. He rarely disciplined his boys as such but he couldn't leave them here and Marya was clearly distressed by something.

As he drew close, Dorothea finally caught sight of her mother. "Mama!" She squealed, hands abandoning Davos hair to reach for the mother the girl still hadn't noticed was very frightened.

"What's wrong, love?' He called, as he finally made it to the shore

"I-it's-" His wife never got the chance to warn him.

With the rolling rumble of hooves on dirt and sand a contingent of men circled rounded the house towards them- at the head of them-

Davos immediately straightened. "Mi-lord!"

Stannis stared down at him, features carved out of stone as usual, Davos considered himself a humble man, but right now, standing in little more than his skivvies, dripping water with a toddler sitting curled around his head he felt… very humble indeed.

Dorothea giggled, pointing very dramatically and very clearly over Davos' head-

"You have a funny face."

Oh… if the sea would be kind enough to rise up and swallow him whole right now that would be fantastic.

"Apologies milord!" He hastened to say, plucking the squirming Dorothea off his shoulders and handing her over towards Marya who grabbed her and just as hastily stepped aside.

"Ser Davos." His liege lord said. "I'd have your council."

Davos bowed at the waist. "As Milord demands."

A beat of silence.

"Get dressed ser Davos"

Another very quick bow, the smuggler could feel the flush to his cheeks.

"As milord demands."

He turned and marched quickly back towards the house.

—

A handful of minutes later he was seated in his dining room (And who'd have imagined that, a room specifically for dining) Stannis sitting across from him.

Marya served them up some hot soup, the broth still steaming and she ushered the children upstairs to their rooms (multiple rooms for his children to not need to share) giving them some peace and quiet

Stannis offered a nod, the closest thing to an outright thanks he knew his lord was capable of giving.

As Marya ascended the stairs and Stannis took his spoon to eat, his lord spoke. "Did I not give you enough wealth to afford a greater home?"

Davos blinked, flummoxed by the statement. "My lord was most generous." He wasn't sure if he was stating or protesting.

Stannis grunted. "Few lords live in a cottage, Davos."

Understanding dawned on the smuggler.

"Well…" He cleared his throat. "There are greater things to spend my coin on, Milord."

Stannis stared at him, demanding an answer without words.

"There will be a pier built soon." Davos said, gesturing towards a corner of the house. "Past that wall, by the salt rocks on the shore. They're actually markers for when the builders come." A pier was important. "When that's done- a motte-and-bailey, to defend ourselves once we've grown a bit more."

Stannis took in his words, practically chewing them along with his chicken and potatoes.

Davos smiled. "And my children." He nodded firmly. "Fresh clothes, warm food for the whole of their lives if I can. No nights going hungry. Perhaps enough to help them build their own homes one day." He affirmed. "A little home is good enough for me and my Marya." He didn't quite shrug, but his hands moved in a loose approximation of such. "I have no need for a grand castle or a mighty keep. My ship, my children safe and good, and this little wooden house. That is enough milord."

Stannis made a sound. "Hmm…" Then took another bite from his broth.

"We do a great deal of things… for our children." The man said slowly.

Davos offered a careful nod.

Stannis stayed quiet, staring into his soup, even as he ate mechanically.

Finally- "I have a request for you, Davos."

"What is it Milord?" The smuggler asked.

Stannis took a breath, the muscle of his jaw jumped, telling Davos his liege was now grinding his teeth as per usual.

"The King has demanded I send my son, Lorenz to foster with the Tyrells. To… encourage peace and a mending of our relations." If the words were any more 'bitten out' they'd have gotten stuck between the man's teeth.

Davos took a deep breath. "I… can't imagine that pleases you, Milord."

"It doesn't matter what pleases me." He snarled. "Lorenz will go." He said. "But I need someone there I can trust. Someone who will speak to me of my son honestly."

"You don't trust the Tyrells." He realized. 'And you wish for me to follow Lorenz."

Stannis opened his mouth, and then, uncharacteristically, hesitated.

"You cannot abandon your holdings anymore than I can abandon mine." He bit out "But you are closer than Dragonstone. Visit him at the least. As unannounced as you can."

Davos nodded. "No one expects a smuggler to know his courtesies." He smiled, making certain that his lord knew he was making light, rather than taking it as an insult.

Stannis snorted. "Quite."

"It will be easy enough to do." He said. "Though, I imagine when I become a regular visitor they'll see right through me… if they don't immediately."

"I don't care." Stannis snarled. "If the blasted flowers don't let you in their castle I'll go there myself and see how Mace Tyrell enjoys having me under his bloody perfumed roof."

Davos nodded. "Understood, Milord."

—

Varys

It was very rare that he was able to escape his duties long enough to make the journey.

Especially now that it was no longer a madman upon the throne.

True, a foolish drunk was hardly more attentive- but his rather dutiful Hand certainly was.

Even so, he was here now; A few honeyed words about searching for the vanished Targaryen heirs, and Robert had given his leave.

Not even a lie… per se.

Illyrio's manse hadn't changed. A few more baubles, perhaps, but still as ostentatious and garishly expensive as ever.

The doors opened and Varys turned, finding the master of the house entering with all his girth and bombast.

"Varys." Illyrio cried, arms spread high and wide. "My old friend."

Varys allowed himself to smile, even as he knew the words to be a half truth at best

They were useful to one another.

That was as far as their friendship proceeded.

"What news do you bring me?" Illyrio asked as he drew close, his hands grasping firmly around Varys' own soft, powdered ones.

"Quite a bit of it in fact." The eunuch said with a smile. "Shall we walk and talk?"

Illyrio's answering smile was all teeth, inviting him forward into the gardens with a wave of his hands. "Please."

And so they walked.

He spoke of Westeros of course, that place where so many ambitions and destinies seemed to converge. Of how the political landscape was finally settling now that the Rebellion was over. The heirs and lords of the houses. Their likely plans and ambitions.

Most importantly about all of their plans. Whispered and shouted.

His little birds had so very much to share after all.

"You are certain of these things?" Illyrio asked when his story neared its end.

"As certain as I can be." He answered easily. "Dorne supports the Targaryens, hates the crown. As much as Doran feigns obeisance he would very much wish for the death of Robert, Tywin and their entire lines for what occurred to his sister."

"And they will not send support to the Targaryens?"

"There are rumblings, many who know of Doran's plan disagree with such… idleness- if he caves to that prodding, that might change, but as of yet, No. They have no intention of sending tangible help, or even informing the Targaryens of their support at all."

"And Rhaella Targaryen is dead." Illyrio smiled. "All they have left is the knight. Easily cast aside."

"I would not be so certain of that." He hastened to caution. "Jeritza Velaryon, or Emile Velaryon as he was born, was known as the second coming of Ser Arthur Dayne. The greatest warrior in Westeros by far."

"Bribed then."

"His integrity is legendary." Varys warned with a giggle.

"Poison?"

"Perhaps" He answered carefully. "Though rumors say he's died before and cannot remain dead." A smirk tugged at his lips. The fanciful tale.

The last of the Kingsguard, run through by sword and spear, crawled through the sands of the desert, refusing to die so long as his charges needed him.

Oh, the bards had sung of the man.

Illyrio rolled his eyes, dismissing the story with a wave of his hand.

A servant misinterpreted the sign and hastened over to offer a goblet of honeyed wine.

Illyrio looked as though he would dismiss him before he reconsidered, shrugged and took the goblet anyway.

Varys took a breath as they continued along the path. "If you intend to still go through with your plans… I might have found a suitable possibility we could follow.."

Now, Illyrio's eyes gleamed, dagger-like and hungry. "Oh?"

Varys nodded. "Your plan to pass off young Aneryon and little Lysithea as Viserys and one of his sisters has many issues as we've discussed. Many live who will remember Viserys' face and not see it in Aneryon."

Illyrio frowned. "Aye, we discussed this. Those voices can always be silenced, I said."

Varys shrugged. It was an old argument and more trouble than it was worth, both the argument and the plan's feasibility, especially with his alternative.

"Perhaps" he allowed with an easy shrug. "But there are none alive who would contest- if we claim him to be Aegon."

Illyrio frowned in thought.

"The one Clegane smote against the wall?"

"The very same." Varys smiled. It was a clever plan, if he said so himself. "I was present, I can claim to have spirited him away and replaced him with a silver haired babe. Pity we could not save little Rhaenys but, rejoice-" He chuckled. "The true heir lives."

Illyrio's eyes gleamed. But then he frowned. "And my Lysithea?"

"Will need to remain in hiding, I'm afraid." Varys answered. "As I said, it is known Rhaenys favored her Dornish mother and though her body was little more than meat after Lorch was done with his deed, her face did remain largely intact. Many can confirm she is dead."

The cheesemonger frowned, rubbing at one of the pointed tips of his beard.

"I would wish them to rise together." He answered. "Serra would have wished for such."

Varys valiantly beat back the urge to roll his eyes. "I have secured the means of confirming Aegon's identity quite easily to the lords of Westeros." He added as a way to… sweeten the pot, so to speak.

"Oh?"

"Connington." He said. "I do not expect you to recognize the name. A minor house, a minor lord. Now disgraced and bitter."

"A loyalist?"

"Quite. In fact, one might say the loyalist. Fiercely… loving of Rhaegar. If he arrives besides your boy claiming him to be Aegon returned and rescued, none–if any--would contest such a thing." He laughed.

People were so very, very easy sometimes.

Illyrio, it seemed, was becoming more and more intrigued by the idea.

"The state of his house?"

"In all but name the Lord Connington has abandoned his duties." Varys said. "Gripped by melancholy. His cousin Ronald Connington acts in his stead. Jon has no heirs while Ronald has three sons and what is likely a legitimized baseborn from a Dornish girl." He answered with a shrug.

It was not concern that made Illyrio ask, he wanted context. Leverage points to twist in case Lord Connington proved… uncooperative.

Understandable.

Still, the house wasn't one of them in Varys' opinion.

Barring disease few things could wipe out a house with a hale and hearty lord and two male- well… four male heirs.

There weren't even any reports that Jon Connington was particularly close with any of them, not Ronald, Raymund, Alynne or the baseborne, Claude.

No, House Connington wasn't the way to manipulate the Griffin..

Just his love and devotion to a dead fool and rapist.

—
Ned

Ned Stark loved all of his children. Of that he had no doubt.

But the truth of things was that he recognized that so few of his children actually had his traits.

Even Jon, whom so many believed was his, Ned knew to have shades of… Rhaegar. The solemnity, the quiet nature. Little beyond Lyanna's coloring was borne by the boy.

Robb reminded Ned too much of Brandon by half. Stubborn, proud. A strong lad. A bit calmer than Brandon too, not as much wolfsblood. But Ned did see more of his brother there than himself. The heir his brother would have had with Catelyn. Yet another sign that the gods had never intended for Ned to be Lord of Winterfell.

Sansa was all her mother. Red of hair, pale of skin, pious in the Faith of the Seven rather than the old gods. His perfect southern lady.

Arya, just born, was still too young to know. But from what Old Nan said, she was Lyanna born again.

And then. There was his third son.

Here, Ned could see glimpses of himself. Bits and pieces of his own temperament but something else too, a fire that was Brandon and an iron that was his own father Rickard.

The shout cut through the courtyard, steel ringing against steel and a sword was battered out of a grip to thump against the ground.

"Well done Felix." Rodrik commended with a smile, Ned's youngest son staring down at the discarded blade as Jon backed away, guardsmen and others clapping politely at the boy's victory.

"Good job, little brother." Robb smiled before turning to look at Jon. "And you, losing your grip so soon!? You sure you're not losing your edge, Snow?"

"Just a bit of ice on the hilt is all Stark." Jon smiled good naturedly, though Ned noticed even from here, it did not fully reach his son's eyes. How he hated the name Snow. And how Ned hated he couldn't take it from him and give him a proper name.

"No."

The words came not from Robb, or Jon, or any of the others, but rather the boy still standing in the middle of the courtyard.

Felix Stark, who should have been overjoyed at defeating his elder brother in one of his very first spars with live steel, stared at Jon with the most heated expression Ned could fathom on a boy's face.

His third son leaned down, plucking the blade from the ground and hurling it at Jon, who barely managed to catch it without hurting himself.

"Felix!" Rodrik barked. "That's live steel, boy!"

"And he caught it!" Felix barked out, still glaring at Jon, his grip white knuckled on the hilt of his sword.

Ned took a breath ready to shout down and discipline his son himself when his next words made the Lord of Winterfell pause.

"Stop holding back!"

Jon went still.

"The hells gotten into you, lad-" Rodrik demanded.

Felix paid the master at arms no mind. "You're always holding back, always letting Robb win. I don't want you to let me win, I want to win! So stop holding back, you coward!"

"You won fair and square-"

"Jon doesn't let me win Felix"

Both his sons protested.

But Felix was undeterred.

"Jon beats Theon." Felix observed. "Every single time. Robb doesn't do that and yet Robb beats Jon damn near every time too." Steel gray eyes narrowed.

"Jon doesn't always beat Theon-" Robb dismissed.

"When was the last time you remember Theon knocking Jon on his ass? Or disarming him?" Felix challenged.

Robb opened his mouth, then paused, his features scrunching up before he turned to Jon in askance, his expression demanding an answer now that the discrepancy was pointed out.

Jon's eyes shifted between his brothers then he turned his back, moving to mount the sword on the racks.

"You won fair and square." He repeated.

"I want you to fight me!" Felix demanded, his voice cracking with the shrill notes of the boy he still was.

"Jon." Robb called, features clearly scrunched up in confusion at the possibility that Jon had been letting him win. "Rodrik, tell him this is foolish!"

Ned racked his own memory and realized that… no. He couldn't recall Theon ever beating Jon. Regardless of the fact that the boy was older, stronger, larger… Theon had never beaten Jon once they began training with live steel.

Rodrik remained damningly silent.

"Jon."

The courtyard went still, before all eyes turned, staring up at him on the balcony.

Ned stared at his second son, who held an expression of an animal just stumbling upon a wolf in the night.

Ned's expression turned grim. None of his children should ever look at him like that.

"Pick up your sword." He demanded. "And let me see you fight."

For a moment longer, Jon hesitated, clearly contemplating whether he should do as asked, or stick with the assertion that Felix had won legitimately.

Then, bringing his eyes up to Ned again, he stared at the Lord of Winterfell a moment longer before he took firm hold of his steel, and marched back into the arena.

For the first time in a long time, Felix smiled.

It was a very different fight to the first.

If Ned didn't know them to be boys he'd swear the two were knights of old from the stories come alive again.

Pure speed and flashing steel, Felix was smaller, true, but his talent with a sword made him seem as though he were born with one in his hand, techniques and stances adopted on the fly that Ned knew Rodrik could never have taught.

Jon, by contrast, was limited to Rodrik's teachings, but his foundation was rock solid, with a grasp of basics and fundamentals that let him counter and adapt fluidly to Felix's alien style and lightning fast swordplay.

In the end, the fight was decided not by swordplay-

But by a fist.

Felix's blade locked with Jon's, letting the older boy grab a firm hold of the crossguard in one hand and then drive forward to slam an elbow into the side of Felix's cheek.

Felix stumbled back, losing his grip on the blade before Jon tripped him, the two swords coming down to rest near the panting Felix's neck

An undeniable victory.

Felix stared up at the sky, panting as he desperately tried to get air back into his lungs, both boys had their hair matted with sweat and Robb stared stunned at both his brothers.

Jon stepped back from his fallen younger brother, eyes casting up towards Ned in worry.

Again, none of his children should ever look upon him with eyes like that.

He stared down at the yard, features expressionless and solemn as he usually was.

"You do your brothers a disservice by lying to them." Was his answer. "I will never hear of you holding back in the yard against either of your siblings again. Am I understood, Jon?"

"Yes, Father."

Felix began to laugh, joyous and uproaring. It seemed as though his strange third son was more pleased at his defeat than his victory.

Ned offered a nod.

After that day- the only one in the yard that could beat Jon… was Felix.

(X)(X)(X)

Here we are. One month later as promised

And here we see *a lot* of the lovely changes and where our darling Fire Emblem duckies have arrived in Westeros. Tell me if you think their placements fit; I certainly think they all fit but I may just be a bit biased

Like before there are multiple advance chapters available on Patreon for just $1.00 if interested, you can find the link in the sig below.

Still have spots open for anyone who'd like to Beta, message me if interested pls

 

[LD1449]

Chapter 1:

Dimitri

No matter how many times he came back to King's Landing, Dimitri was never quite prepared for the stench. It permeated the city, and the gentle ocean breeze from Blackwater Bay carried it inland, which always made this leg of the journey unpleasant.

"At least it gives you time to adjust to the smell before we enter the city proper," His Uncle Jaime joked from beside him.

That was true, at least. The same could not be said for the sweltering heat. He knew he should be grateful for the long, bountiful summer the kingdom was having, and he certainly didn't despise it, but…there was just something about it that sat wrong with him.

Or perhaps it was something wrong with him—he who had always felt out of place. He shook his head. Dwelling on the subject would not solve anything, and there would surely be much work to do once he was settled in.

---

Their party reached the main gates well into the afternoon, where they were met by the head of the Gold Cloaks.

"My Prince," he said, bowing. "I have taken the liberty to send a messenger up to the castle alerting them to your arrival, we were unaware that you were coming, my prince,"

Dimitri offered a somewhat guilty smile as he imagined the scrambling everyone had to do once they saw his banners coming over the hills. "Very well, Commander. Lead the way,"

As the gates were opened, the Lord Commander and his men moved so that they were in a tight, protective formation around him and Ser Jaime.

"ANNOUNCING HIS HIGHNESS, PRINCE DIMITRI BARATHEON! MAKE WAY!" The lead guard called out in a voice that could likely be heard all the way to the Dragonmount, shoving and forcing his way through the crowd along with his fellow Gold Cloaks.

Dimitri winced at the force of some of the blows being delivered, feeling bad for the smallfolk caught in the path. He hated this; having an escort guide him through the city, especially when their methods were so brutish. But it was unfortunately necessary if he wished to avoid announcing the date of his return. The smallfolk had swarmed him once before- when he was much younger and though nothing had happened, he recognized now the danger he'd put himself in if any would-be assassin or bold thief tried to take advantage of his vulnerability that day.

And it had turned a simple march up the Street of Steel that would take little more than half an hour into a four hour slog moving through the city's streets at a snail's pace.

Still; given his status the Gold Cloaks were especially jumpy, ready to skewer anything that so much as looked at him wrong.

He leaned over towards the gold cloak commander walking beside his horse. "More gently Commander, if you please." He asked the man who looked at him with a neutral face before giving a single sharp nod and hurrying forward to relay the orders to his men.

Progress slowed. But at least the spear and shield shoves weren't threatening to break bones now.

The peasants crowded closer, the roads ahead were filling quickly with people quickly, word traveled faster than they did after all. And the heat was going to soon become unbearably cloying as body heat would mix and meld with the heat of the sun.

And the smell… of course.

Still he waved and smiled at the smallfolk, catching flowers and tossing coppers–and the occasional silver stag–into the crowd. He wished there was more he could do, but the issues were systemic beasts, and until he was King…

He did what he could, in the meantime, even if his efforts felt all too insufficient.

Even so the crowds cheered and cried out in joyous rhapsody for him. The Beloved Heir he was called. The People's Prince. Moments like this almost convinced him it wasn't just bards singing fanciful tales.

Slow progress or not; they eventually did reach the Red Keep, and the sheer commotion if not the time it took them to arrive had alerted the castle.

Meaning that by the time he rode into the Keep's courtyard there were people waiting for them.

"Mother!" He smiled, and Cersei, his mother, smiled back at the sight of both him and Jaime returning

"Dearest sister." His uncle crowed behind him as Dimitri dismounted, marching towards the Queen.

Cersei held out her hands, and he grasped her fingers tightly in greeting. "You're dusty and sweaty." She complained.

"Which is why I've not dared to offer you a hug yet, mother." He answered. Oh she would have been furious if he had.

Still, her hand rose up, brushing the blonde locks out of his face. "You should have sent word." She said.

"I did-" He lied, smiling nervously. "The raven must've been lost."

"You are still the worst liar I've ever known." Her face showed her displeasure. Then she sighed, stepping aside to coil her arm in his. "Come, let's get you cleaned up. I won't have my son be seen like some unwashed savage from the mountains."

"Of course." He nodded easily.

"No greeting for me, sweet sister?" His uncle called behind him.

"No, you're just as dusty and uncouth as my clearly unwashed and barbaric son." She snapped back at Jaime who only laughed.

—

In the night, they gathered in the Great Hall. It was no feast- thank all the gods. Likely because he hadn't sent much word in advance of his return and his father didn't have the time to order everyone to join in on another celebration.

But it was still a large dinner. The Baratheon household was there, his entire family, the Arryns of course, members of his mother's family and a few minor members of the courtier nobility and gentry that had managed to weasel in an invitation.

To his left, his father, already in his cups; to his right Tommen and Myrcella, his youngest siblings. On the other side of his father was his mother and Joffrey.

All in all, as far as royal gatherings went, it was quaint, small, no more than twenty invited guests to join them. Which he vastly preferred to the pomp and ceremony of a full on court 'party' .

"Big brother."

"Hmm?" He asked, leaning over towards Tommen. He smiled brightly at the boy. He'd never tell anyone, but Tommen was easily the favorite of his siblings. Kind and gentle, missing the fury of his father, and the anger of his mother. He was every bit the best of their family.

"Is it true you found a griffin in the Vale?" His littlest brother asked in excitement, clearly having been waiting for his chance.

Dimitri chuckled.

Always the court spread rumors and fanciful tales about his travels across the Kingdoms.

Oftentimes, for some reason they did indeed enjoy pitting him against the mighty magical beasts of the realms.

He blamed his grandfather for it, really.

When he'd been just a boy, little older than Tommen now actually, he'd traveled to the Westerlands for an extended stay on his grandfather's invitation. He remembered that trip fondly; he'd met and first gotten along very well with his aunt (who was actually younger than him) Ingrid Lannister, and Raphael Clegane, who swore he would become a great knight to protect Lady Ingrid and Lord Tywin.

His aunt and Raphael trained almost religiously, every morning and evening with either weapons or… well… boulders. (Raphael was fond of strapping them to his back and lugging them around)

Still, returning to the point, towards the end of that trip, when he'd been overseeing the lands around Casterly Rock with his father, they'd had an encounter.

A Corlosi Lion, a magnificent white pelted beast, who's coat, in certain lights of the rising or setting sun shone like sapphires. Which was why the peasants colloquially called it "The Blue Lion".

It was a creature harkening back to the era of dragons. They hadn't been seen for… at least a century as far as he knew.

But there had been one in that field.

A lion the size of a carriage, who's hide couldn't be pierced by blade or bow, marching up to them.

Needless to say his grandfather and his grandfather's guards hadn't exactly been… thrilled.

The horses had gotten spooked, except for his of course. Most people chalked that up to some fanciful tales about his prowess as a horsemen, or the Gods giving the animal bravery to allow things to play out as they did-

Fact is- they'd just put blinders on the beast so it would follow his grandfather's tugging on the reins without much protest- it likely never even knew there was a lion that could devour it whole in front of it.

As the story went, the lion circled him once, chuffing and then roaring before leaving without incident.

His grandfather had spread the story to anyone that would hear it.

Ever since, whenever he visited a Kingdom- the bards would sing his praises at invented mythical encounters of the regions' known, wondrous beasts.

The Red Wake of Dorne, the Om of the Stormlands; when he'd visited the Reach he supposedly had found a herd of wild Pegasi.

Now it was the griffins of the Vale to have their turn, it seemed.

He was pretty sure the only reason the bards hadn't waxed nostalgic about dragons was because his father was likely to punch their teeth in if they did, or worse. He'd never been to Pyke and didn't plan to go any time soon either. So all he was missing was an encounter' with a Northern Bjorn or direwolf to complete the proverbial set.

Still… at least this time there was some truth. At least a smidge of it.

"Well little brother-" He whispered. "I found no griffins-" Little Tommen deflated, and he had to stop himself from laughing at the adorable image of his pudgy little brother losing air like an inflated sack. "But I did find-" He reached into his sleeve; he'd come prepared after all. Either Tommen or Myrcella had been bound to ask after all "A griffin feather."

The feather was almost gold in its coloring, supple and soft individually but powerful enough to deflect slashes or arrows when bunched together.

His little brother's face lit up, and behind him, Myrcella's smile was just as bright, happy for him as he marveled over the treasure.

"I'm not tired!"

The sudden shout caused most eyes to swivel to the other side of the room, where Joffrey stood, cheeks flushed, green eyes glinting in anger.

Dimitri had to stifle down a sigh.

Joffrey…

He knew the pain of not having a family. He never wanted to think ill of any family he did have.

But Joffrey made that… difficult.

Very difficult.

His father stood, the towering man blocking out the sight of Joff behind him.

"Tired or not you'll head to your room boy." He rumbled. "I'll not have you making a scene at your brother's welcoming."

Though he couldn't see it, Dimitri could very easily hear the sneering resentment in his younger brother's voice.

"Why yes. Of course. Must have our priorities eh?" Dimitri didn't bother watching him leave somewhere to the back of the room, the metal shifting of armor telling him that Sandor was following closely behind as usual.

The rest of the night passed without incident, though the food and drink was perhaps a bit sour in his mouth.

—

"Honestly, you are such a bore."

The statement was delivered with a yawn, his uncle Jaime was clearly not enjoying the particularly early start to their day.

Dimitri allowed himself a small smile. "Are you allowed to speak to your prince that way?" He asked cheekily.

"I am when my prince is also my rather irritating nephew, dragging me out of bed at the bloody ass end of dawn." The man grumbled, pacing the length of the room. "Honestly. Who willingly wakes up at this hour?"

"A prince that's been gone too long apparently." Dimitri muttered, still reading over the records in front of him.

It was true that he preferred to tour the realm, visiting various houses, and the peasants. It got him away from this place. This city that smelled like a latrine half the time, away from this family that was his and yet- not.

From those around him that seemed so hauntingly familiar it was painful sometimes.

Yes. He did 'enjoy' getting away.

But he'd allowed himself to stay away too long. Shirking his responsibilities for his own selfish enjoyment.

Perhaps he was more related to Robert than he'd thought.

The door opened, Dimitri and Jaime's eyes sliding towards it only to see his uncle Renly pause at the door, clear surprise on his features, finding them there before that easy smile slipped onto his face once more. Dimitri could believe it was sincere. He'd always gotten along well with his uncle.


"Ahh, Dimitri." Renly greeted, marching forward, hands extended for a handshake.

Dimitri stood from his chair, minding his manners as he smiled at his uncle, reaching forward and grasping the man's hands before pulling him to an embrace.

"Uncle Renly, how are you?" He asked.

"I can't complain much, nephew." The youngest of the 'Baratheon Brothers' answered, sitting at Dimitri's side, the Hand's seat- but he suspected it was out of convenience rather than entitlement or something else more nefarious. "How was your visit to the Eyrie?"

Dimitri smiled. "Eventful." He chuckled. "Have you heard of Sylvain Royce?"

His uncle's features scrunched, one eye closing and the other rolling upwards as he tried to remember. "Vaguely."

"As we passed through their lands we stayed in their castle." Dimitri nodded. "I'm… fairly certain I've never seen a noble scion chased out of more homes in the dead of night than he. I'm also fairly certain if he keeps it up, House Royce will be down a potential heir from an angry husband."

"He kept up such behavior in front of you?' Renly laughed, a note of incredulity coloring his voice.

"I'm fairly certain the Seven Who Are One could be standing over his shoulder and he'd still be looking to find the nearest… partner." He answered diplomatically.

Renly laughed "Well I-"

The door opened.

This time, Jon Arryn shambled inside, followed closely by Varys.

The Hand of the King was old, each year of his age worn on the lines of his face, the hunched back and bowed, stooping gait, leaning heavily on a cane. By contrast, Varys seemed downright robust even with his soft slippers, perfumes, and silken robes.

The Hand wasn't as caught off guard as Renly, old eyes passing over him before he nodded with a muttered "My prince," before moving to walk towards his chair, which Renly hastily vacated.

"I suppose" Arryn wheezed as he reached his seat beside Dimitri. "That I should not be surprised to see you here, my prince."

Before Dimitri himself could answer, Varys chimed in.

"The Prince is most dutiful, it is true." The eunuch smiled. "Ever since you were just a boy of thirteen you've made it a point to visit us on this Small Council quite often whenever you were in the city."


"Forgive me for sounding presumptuous. But it is my responsibility, Lord Varys." He defended.

In truth it was his father's responsibility, but he doubted any except for his uncle Stannis might dare to voice such.

"Quite true, my Prince." Varys simpered.

Pycelle soon shuffled in

"Now that we are here-" Jon Arryn breathed. "We may begin."

"Are we not missing Lord Stannis and Lord Baelish?"

"Lord Stannis is seeing a delicate matter on the Street of Steel." Jon Arryn said carefully. "Lord Baelish informed us two days ago that he would be unavailable for today's meeting."

"The whoremonger must manage his whores." Uncle Renly snorted.

Dimitri decided to cut in before they could start sniping and prodding eachother with thinly veiled insults. He found they usually got nothing done during those sessions. His uncle Jaime would call those sessions entertaining no doubt but he wasn't here to be entertained.

"Alright then My lords." He plowed forward. "I've heard some… disturbing statements before I arrived and I'm hoping it was simple exaggeration and hyperbole."

"What would that be, my Prince?" Pycelle asked.

The crown prince held up a ledger. "Am I to understand the crown is over two million dragons in debt?!" He asked and he could not really keep the accusation from his voice.

Pycelle, Varys and Arryn had the decency to avert their eyes.

Uncle Renly, though, stared straight at him. "Your father doesn't like 'counting coppers', nephew."

Dimitri felt a flush beginning to form at his cheeks, his eyes narrowing in sharp irritation. "I've been gone for little more than half a year! When I left we were three hundred thousand Dragons in debt and that was to expand the Royal fleet to properly patrol the coast. How; by all the seven did even my father's spending habits explode our debt by nearly seven times that amount in little over six months?"

"There was the tourney celebrating Prince Tommen's name day-" Varys said

"The expansion of the Gold cloaks." Renly drawled right after him- rather pointedly.

Dimitri winced. He'd been the one to encourage his father to take an interest in overhauling the city guard, wanting the King to at least slow down his physical decline by giving him something to do and Robert always liked hitting things very hard, hitting things very hard while calling it training made it productive.

Apparently it also made it expensive.

"There were also lingering payments that needed to be made to the shipwrights that expanded the fleet and harbors." Pycelle added.

"And another Tourney for your cousin Lorenz's nameday party-" Renly's smirk was infuriating. "I think he did it just to irritate Stannis truth be told."

"The King also ordered three custom works of battle plate-" Pycelle coughed. "Ones that could fit him and a destrier from the Tyrells-"

"There was also-"

He held up his hand, feeling the irritation gnawing on his insides.

"Is there anything on this list of expenses beyond the shipwrights that is actually productive- or at the very least a half worthwhile investment and not just… frivolities? Investments in roads? The sewers?"

Jaime snorted a laugh and Dimitri glared.

His uncle held up his hands with a placating smile.

Dimitri's utter loathing of the sewer systems of King's Landing was well known and more than one plan existed to completely rebuild the sewers from the ground up the instant he had the authority to do so.

His less ambitious plans involved building an entire new chunk of city for the people he'd displace; and then proceeding to demolish around 70% of Kings Landing.

It was… mildly ambitious in scope.

His backup plan was burning the whole blasted city to the ground and starting from the ground up as long as it got rid of the smell.

But that was for his second try. Before he got desperate.

Still; personal fantasies of the smell of shit and piss from the city finally being gone were for another day. At the moment the Small Council members remained damningly silent at his question.

"Fact is, nephew, he is the King." Renly finally said. "Only one he really listens to is the Lord Hand and you these days. I'm certainly not in a position to talk sense to him, brother or not."

The crown prince closed his eyes, struggling to keep himself from saying something that would result in resentment.

This is why he enjoyed leaving this place so much.

He turned to Jon Arryn. "I assume you've come up with ways to at least begin paying this back?

The old falcon nodded, an apologetic, and yet all too pleased smile on his lips. "If we can keep him from… expanding the debt any further I expect we can begin to recoup these losses within a year or two at the most, barring anything unexpected."

"Let's get to work then." He demanded.

—

As the crown prince was returning to his room later that night, followed by his uncle Jaime, he couldn't fully stifle the yawn that threatened to break out.

"Are you hungry or tired?" His uncle asked cheekily.

"Both." He answered, laughing a bit. "Both sound feasible right now."

His uncle laughed under his breath. "Fair. If you hurry, you might bribe those kitchen maids who blush when you look at them to give you some sweets."

Dimitri opened his mouth; then shut it, glaring at his uncle suspiciously as he caught the double entendre of the statement at the last minute.

Jaime Lannister just waggled his eyebrows.

"You're terrible; you do know that yes?"

The Kingsguard laughed.

"I'm sorry, my lady, it was my fault entirely-"

"I'm well aware of your horrid influence, you low born upstart. Constantly reaching beyond your station. Hoping to jump into her bed as you've all but jumped into my husband's?"

"No, my lady."

Unfortunately; he recognized the voices emerging from the gardens ahead, and from them he could already guess what had happened before even entering the scene.

He heard his uncle Jaime sigh. "We could toss her out a window. No one would convict us." He mumbled- and Dimitri knew it was only half a joke, less than half a joke really.

Lysa Arryn was not a woman that was regarded fondly in the Red Keep.

He marched forward faster, hearing the sharp slap of a hand striking flesh.

Rounding the corner- the scene was… as expected.

Lysa Arryn and two of the Arryn household guards slightly behind her, flanking young Robert.

In front of her, her chin tucked into her neck, nearly in tears both hands grasping her favorite bow close to her chest, Bernadetta Arryn.

And on his knees, head bowed, Ashe- Jon Arryn's page and scribe of peasant stock.

"I shall have you whipped for-"

"Pardon me-" He called behind them, making all in the yard turn to look at him as he smiled; thin and closed lipped. "I pray I'm not interrupting." He said, drawing closer.

The two guards bowed. Robert Arryn, sucking on his thumb, was either too distracted or dimwitted to follow their courtesies, rocking side to side like a toddler half his age.

"Prince Dimitri." Lady Arryn's sneer (towards Ashe) didn't relent even as she greeted him. "I was just about to discipline this… this peasant!"

He feigned ignorance, while hearing and feeling Jaime stand behind him, placing himself between Dimitri and the two Arryn men.

Overcaution, perhaps. But it spoke volumes as to how little his uncle trusted the oft erratic Arryn woman. "Whatever for?"

"He is corrupting my daughter." She reached, grabbing hold of Bernadetta's arm roughly and hauling her forward. "Look at this, breeches, riding leathers, a bow!" The woman screeched. "She's already got calluses that no man would want on her hands and this cur is simply ruining her prospects for a good match in the future so he can bed her and jump up in life! We can all see it and I won't have it!"

The accusations, he was sure, were baseless. But they were not exactly "wild"; he could see the logic even if he trusted Ashe to be a better, more honest man than that.

He wasn't sure why he was so sure of that. But regardless, he was sure.

"That is a serious charge." He said gravely. "We should consult Lord Arryn about this at once- Uncle, would you mind going to get him?"

The momentary triumph on Lysa's face melted away like butter faced with an open fire. "My prince, that won't be necessary. My lord husband is a busy man as you know- allow me to see to this-"

"This concerns the first daughter of house Arryn." Dimitri made certain to keep his voice perfectly innocent. The picture of oblivious ignorance and genuine concern. "I'm sure Lord Arryn would wish to be notified of this at the very least. The court knows how he favors the young lady Bernadetta and has trusted the… peasant." He tripped over the word. He never was very good at lying.

He smiled. "Please my lady, this has clearly upset you. As the crown prince I should be aware and look into the wellbeing of my subjects. Let me handle this matter with lord Arryn, I'm sure we'll reach a suitable ending for all involved here."

She looked like she wanted to argue, like she was ready to protest before she almost literally swallowed her tongue. Bowing stiffly, her voice was equally stiff. "Thank you… my prince for your grace and wisdom."

He smiled, "Uncle, please escort the lady and lord to their rooms, or wherever they wish to go. Make certain no one disturbs them."

His uncle gave him a 'subtle' -subtle for Jaime Lannister at least- glare.

He was not happy.

Even so, he saw the rescue effort for what it was and he bowed in acceptance without protest. Gesturing for the woman to march ahead of him.

Lysa grabbed hold of her son, and her skirts, and marched off with one last, dirty look towards Ashe, or possibly Bernadetta herself before she was gone.

Dimitri waited until they were well and truly out of earshot, not even hearing the shifting of the men walking away in full armor before he spoke.

"Are you alright Ashe?" He questioned, reaching down to offer the pale boy a hand.

"I am. Thank you, my prince." He answered with a grateful smile.

"I'm sorry-" Bernadetta sobbed. "I-I knew she wasn't gonna be staying in her room today but I just-" Her hiccups and tears stopped her. "I just thought I-"

"It's alright Bernadetta." Ashe consoled. "You should be allowed to have some fun, not just sit in your room knitting all day. Exercise is good for you." He tried.

Bernadetta just cried harder.

Dimitri, truly, felt for the young woman.

Bernadetta was a kind girl. Brow beaten and… hurt by her mother until she was convinced danger and hurt were lurking around every shadow.

She had two things she loved, playing the harp, though these days she only did so privately he knew, another thing taken from her by Lysa's constant berating of her skill, and archery. Something she never shared where she picked up from but that she refused to give up. No matter how many punishments she received when she was caught.

She'd been caught today… and today it seemed, Ashe was here too. Either caught in the collateral or volunteering to take the blame for her in his own right.

He sighed.

He was not king. And even kings could not fix everything.

He reached up, placing his hands on their shoulders. His uncle Jaime's earlier suggestion sounded… very good right now. "Come-" He implored. "I'm sure the kitchen staff will grace us with something if I ask nicely enough."

—

The next morning cast a brightly shining sun over the city and the Red Keep. Dimitri stepped out of the castle as it rose, making his way to the training yard as was his norm.

His Uncle Jaime would be following after him shortly, after waking up so early yesterday for the Council meeting, he'd taken some pity on his maternal uncle and told him they could sleep in.

He'd lied of course, and his uncle would no doubt be cross with him but he was perfectly safe here and his uncle could use the sleep.

Still, when he made it, he was surprised, just a bit, to find the training grounds already occupied.

As soon as the two sparring partners caught sight of him, they stopped their match and bowed respectfully.

"My prince." They chorused hastily.

"Ser Greenfield, Ser Swann." He nodded. "Please, continue, pay me no mind."

"Would the prince like to join us?" Ser Greenfield offered.

Dimitri smiled, just a bit. "Aye, I'll fight the winner if it please you Ser Greenfield."

The knight nodded, bowing again. "As my Prince says."

As the two men returned to their duel, Dimitri made his way over to the weapon rack, one that held a unique weapon that was unmistakable to any other.

He was the only one that he knew of in all of Westeros that favored the glaive over anything else.

The blacksmith had needed a full on diagram to know what Dimitri was talking about when he first requested it; they didn't even have a name for it in most of the Seven Kingdoms. Dorne was the only place it was known and it was considered a peasant's weapon. Yi-Ti had their own versions called the Kwan Tao- much heavier than even his own.

Still, even if the practice tool hadn't belonged to him, and thus most wouldn't touch it out of fear or respect, most simply didn't know how to use it.

Too heavy for a spear wielder's comfort and too 'cowardly' for most closed minded nobility. His own father always grumbled that Dimitri fought with an oversized toothpick rather than a proper weapon like a hammer, a sword or an axe.

But even though they all found the weapon strange, they could all admit, Dimitri was a terror with it in his hands.

He supposed, privately, it was unfair.

He'd lived a lifetime already with a similar weapon in hand in half remembered dreams and visions of a past that was his and yet was not.

As he pulled the glaive free and stepped to a side range to begin his stretching motions and warm ups, Ser Greenfield and Ser Swann kept up their own practice, the clinks and rings of blunted steel striking blunted steel was the only sound accompanying the hissing of the waves from the nearby ocean and the chirping of songbirds.

Ser Greenfield took the first exchange, Ser Swann the second. Before the third round could decide the winner, the sun was now well and true in the sky and yet more guests joined them.

"Ahaha!" His father practically roared at the sight of Dimitri as he descended the hill from the Keep, Ser Barristan at his back. "There he is. There's my first born. Teaching these white cloaks how it's done, are ya? Hehehehe." He laughed, marching closer.

"Your Grace," Again Swann and Greenfield bowed, their match interrupted for a second time.

"Green, Swann." His father said simply. It was early, and Robert Baratheon looked ready for training, which meant he wasn't in his cups much at all yet.

As he made his way past the two Kingsguard the king's meaty hands slapped into Dimitri's upper biceps and shoulders. "Aye there he is." He laughed. "A damn fine son I have, don't you think, Ser Barristan!"

"Indeed your Grace." The old legend answered with an easy smile. "My prince, might I ask where Ser Jaime is?"

If Dimitri let it be known he'd allowed his uncle to sleep in, his uncle would be in actual trouble when Barristan got his hands on him. Or at least, he'd be in for a stern lecture.

So he did what he was never very good at.

He lied.

"I sent him to fetch something for me Ser Barristan-" He answered quickly. "He shouldn't be much longer."

The lie must've been obvious because Barristan's eyes narrowed just a smidge, but the old knight was too polite to call Dimitri out on it, especially in front of his father.

"Ahh who cares." His father bellowed "Swann, Greenfield; it's a rare day when I've got my son here to match blades with me, rather than you lot; sit down, enjoy the show." He smiled, the two aforementioned knights bowing before they immediately 'quit the field' so to speak, marching over to a set of wooden benches on the side of the practice range.

Dimitri almost chastised his father; ready to tell him he should be a bit more patient, but he managed to hold himself back. His father was in a good mood and he'd need every bit of that good mood for their later conversation.

His father looked to the glaive still in Dimitri's hand, his features scrunching up in an almost petulant, childish pout through the thick black beard. "You really gonna make me fight with a blasted shield, boy?" He rumbled.

Dimitri smiled. "I can switch if you truly wish, father." He said with an air of congeniality.

As he'd said, he'd need his father's good mood.

His father stared at him, frowning, but then he relented. "Bah. No, no. I wanna fight my son at his best, win or lose." He marched towards the rack grabbing a training hammer and a shield, pointing at Dimitri with one big meaty finger. "And don't you go holdin' back like the rest of these white cloaked shits. No offense men."

The three 'white cloaked shits' made sounds of affirmation, even a chuckle from one of them as king and prince took their places in the arena.

Dimitri held his glaive facing forward, his right hand, almost grasping the counterweight at the end of it. The key to beating his father who, despite all his increased girth since his youth, was still an immensely powerful man, physically speaking, he knew, was distance and footwork.

He didn't have to wait very long, his father was always impatient.

Like a black haired bear, Robert roared as he charged forward, Dimitri thrust, the blunted blade of his glaive skittering across the hastily raised shield, sliding past it as his father bull rushed forward, knowing he had to close that distance.

Dimitri swiveled the weapon around, swinging with the blunted counterweight, driving it forward with all his strength to push his father back, but Robert Baratheon dug in his heels, the driving charge forward leaving him slightly off balance and Dimitri's strike, pushing him down to one knee as he held that shield with supreme effort.

Then, Robert's armored fist came down on Dimitri's foot.


It wasn't a blow meant to cripple, Dimitri knew that fist could have easily been replaced by the head of that hammer, which would have shattered everything below the ankle, ending the fight and possibly Dimitri's future as a fully mobile member of society, right then and there.

But even though it didn't cripple him it did hurt.

The crown prince yelped, losing his own balance before his father drove forward, shield and shoulder smashing into Dimitri's chest, driving the haft of his own spear into his chest and shoulder as his father knocked him flat on his ass.

Groaning as he got some air back in his lungs, he opened his eyes to see his father staring down at him.

"Careful there boy." Robert said. "You weren't wearin' armor, but even if ya had been," He wiggled the hammer head in the air between them for emphasis. "Wouldn't of mattered much."

The crown prince nodded. "You got faster."

His father laughed. "Or maybe you're the one gettin' fat eh?" He chuckled, reaching down to offer Dimitri a hand in getting back up.

He accepted it, pulling himself to his feet and retrieving his weapon for the second bout.

When his father charged this time, the crown prince had his own plan.

Robert roared and rushed forward, shield in front.

Dimitri, with pinpoint accuracy, thrust the spear forward, down, under the shield, and between his father's legs.

The head of the glaive dug deep into the dirt, the haft making his father stumble and lose his footing, not realizing what was happening before Dimitri drove forward with all his considerable strength, kicking the King straight in his lightly armored chest.

Robert was a large and strong man but even the strongest of men needs his feet under him.

The King stumbled back, falling over with a shocked yelp, his very large body smacking solidly into the dirt.

He would not laugh.

His father sat up, glaring at him and Dimitri offered a sheepish smile in response.

His father's eyes narrowed. Seemingly looking at him, really looking at him for the first time in a while.

Huffing out a breath, Robert got to his feet, grabbing hold of his hammer and shield again.

Third bout.

This time, uncharacteristically, his father was patient enough, so that Dimitri could make the first move.

He thrust, a probing attack, his father answered with the shield, patiently sliding forward, his great size all but hemming the crown prince in.

There were only a few feet between him and the edge of the practice ring, and though his father wouldn't care, nor was he necessarily seeking that kind of victory, it was the principle of the thing.

And so, Dimitri moved in earnest.

His second rush was a flurry of attacks, slashes, sweeps and thrusts, a frenzy of activity searching for either an opening, or for his father to make a mistake as he wore down the man's limited patience.

Robert gave neither.

His father showed him an unusual level of restraint and patience, every swing was smashed aside by that hammer, every thrust deflected with an unnerving skill with that shield, sending the blade skittering past the King's shoulder, his arm, even his head, but finding no target.

Then, as his feet brushed the edge of the arena, Dimitri swung the glaive down towards his father's feet.

That's when Robert moved.

His father stepped forward, into the swing, the shin of his leg catching the haft just before the blade before he quite literally got down, falling onto one knee, bending the haft of the glaive with his sheer weight before the fist and shield came down with a crack on the now weakened wood, snapping it like dry tinder.

Dimitri reeled, staring with open surprise at the broken head of his weapon before Robert was coming at him again.


With few options left, Dimitri used the remains of his spear to catch his father's swing, feeling the impact thrum up his arms before he moved fast, grabbing the neck of the hammer with one hand, the other grabbing the shield and physically trying to wrest one or the other out of the king's grip.

Robert's eyes went wide, then his features became wrathful, competitive. Cheeks and nose flushing, black beard bristling. The muscles of his arms bulged as Dimitri strained against him.

The prince wasn't sure how long they struggled that way. It felt like hours, strength against strength. And he found, much to everyone's surprise, he was equal in strength to Robert here.

And it turns out, he had more endurance too.

As the struggle dragged on Robert's powerful arms weakened, gradually losing their monstrous strength.

With a heave and a cry, the crown prince finally ripped the hammer out of his father's hand, tossing it aside to leave them both disarmed as he placed both hands on Robert's shield to keep the man from beating him with it either.

Robert redoubled his efforts, now truly angry he tried once more to overpower the younger prince that was his son.

He might have succeeded too.

But then, Dimitri dropped. Like his father before him, he allowed his weight to fall, all his strength leaving the shield and carrying instead to the momentum he delivered to his sliding kick.

Again, he caught his father in the ankle, quite literally shoving Robert's foot out from under him as the King toppled over with a surprised yelp, hitting the ground hard again.

As Dimitri panted, trying to catch his breath Robert shot back to his feet, breathing heavily and staring at his son with all the wrath the Baratheons were known for. He even heard Ser Swann, Greenland and Barristan tense up to the side, ready to intervene if the King's fury got the better of him.

Which it very well might…

Then, like a storm breaking immediately, Robert's entire demeanor shifted, his smile going sunshine bright. "AHAHA!" He roared, pointing at Dimitri with his big ol' finger as he looked at Barristan. "My boy's as strong as I am!" Can you believe that Barristan"

The lord commander couldn't have hidden his relief if he tried. "The crown prince is most talented." He breathed out, no doubt regaining about half a decade of his lifespan with it.

"HAHAHAHAHA." Robert laughed, reaching down and hauling Dimitri back onto his feet. "My son." He crowed in triumph. "Gods be damned did you turn out good." He said, a rare joy in his features.

Dimitri smiled. "Thank you Father."

"Piss on that- we need to celebrate. You beat the Demon of the Trident boy!" Robert laughed again. "Feel like holdin' a bloody tourney! Hahaha."

And he couldn't have asked for a more convenient opening.

"I was actually hoping to speak to you about that Father-"

"What a tourney? Gods damned right we'll get that done. Get ya some nice and hearty girls just for you eh-" His father demonstrated his age by waggling his eyebrows like a ten year old, laughing all the while.

Dimitri had to stop himself from groaning

—

In the end, it took far longer than it perhaps should have- to the point that he began to suspect that his father was actively sidestepping the subject rather than misinterpreting things -in order to properly breach the subject with him.

When he finally did, as expected his father's mood soured.

"Oh, piss boy." Robert grumbled, chugging down a goblet of (thankfully) water. "You gonna start counting coppers too!"

"Father, we're two million in debt."

"You told me to work on the fucking Gold Cloaks to make the city safe and it's done!" Robert growled. "You can hardly get the Gold Cloaks new armor, weapons, trainers and officers on hopes and fucking dreams, boy."

Dimitri nodded carefully. "True, Father- but plans need to be made to actually pay the money back. It's alright to spend it. We just need to figure out how to recover it."

"Your mother's family might as well do some good and shit out some gold." His father answered. "Who damn well cares if we owe the Lannisters money? It's my money anyway, it's my Kingdom."

That's not how that works he wanted to say- but refrained.

"Even if I inherit the throne and it's my money as you say, what of Joffrey's Inheritance? Or Tommen or Myrcella? They deserve an inheritance too from the Lannisters when the time comes." He smiled. "I can't simply spend all their money."

Robert gave him a flat, baleful glare… that was undercut by a very severe seriousness.

"You and I both know Joff isn't fit to inherit shit." He said, gulping down another heavy swig of his water. "A good son like you showed me what a shit one is." He growled. "I won't be givin' him Storm's End. And knowin' Tywin, he won't be gettin the Rock neither, no matter what your bi-" He stopped himself, no doubt for Dimitri's sake. "What your mother says about it."

The prince carefully held his tongue.

The enmity between his parents was as regrettable as it was legendary and unchangeable. Every year it just seemed to get worse and he'd long since given up trying to make it better.

"You were the only damn good thing to come out of this marriage, ya know." His father continued, a strange haunting emotion in his voice before he finished off the last of his drink. "Fine. No more spending on tourneys or the Gold Cloaks. For how long?" He grumbled.

"Pardon?"

"I know you boy-" Robert's meaty finger poked Dimitri in the chest. "You and Jon both. If ya haven't already got half the money ready to repay the debt you've at least got a plan to do it or I'll eat the codpiece of an armor set."

Dimitri chortled. "That-that won't be necessary. We do indeed have some plans in place, yes."

"And what are they?" Robert smirked. "Are we demolishing Flea Bottom to get to the sewers finally-"

His father poked fun. But every god in heaven or hell as his bloody witness- he would fix those sewers before he passed from this world.

At the sight of his face, Robert laughed.

Dimitri sighed. "We're going to begin by paving the King's road."

"So you're spending money!?" The King snapped. "The hell is it a good idea for you and not me!?"

The prince smiled as gently as he could. "Cause when we spend it- we have a plan to make much more of it back when the project's done."

"With a road?" His father didn't look very convinced. "The hell's wrong with the King's Road as is!?"

That it's little more than a clump of dirt and mud in most places he didn't say.


Instead he gestured to the map on the long table in the King's solar. "Pave the roads, traders can carry more goods and carry them more frequently to start with. But also-" He took a handful of small figurines, Infantry markers, for easy identification. "Toll houses. With a small garrison force of twenty men. Every one hundred kilometers. If you wish to use the roads. You must pay. Five coppers per person, per trip."

Robert frowned. "Five coppers for two million gold dragons."

"Get even a hundred people traveling per day, that's five silver stags per day. A thousand people, Fifty stags." He nodded. "A lot more than a mere thousand people use the King's road as is. We'll make enough money to recoup the investment, pay back the debt and by the time that's paid, repair and maintain the road for a fraction of the original build cost."

Robert looked intrigued. "And who's gonna be mannin' these toll houses?

"The newly expanded Gold Cloaks of course." He said.

His father looked surprised, then the surprise turned into a grin, and the grin into a barking laugh.

"Bloody hell." He said, and this time when he filled its goblet it was with wine not water. "You were always going to be better at this than me." He said softly, nursing the cup.

He offered a snorting laugh, more a huff of air really. "As strong as I was, smarter than Jon and as dutiful as Ned… heh. One good thing, like I said."

Dimitri shifted, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. "Fathe-"

"Go, go. You've got my seal of approval. You and Jon both know I trust you so do what you need to." He interrupted, gulping down the first swig of wine for the day.

Knowing now that his father wanted to enjoy himself, and his window of opportunity was near closed, if not entirely closed, Dimitri nodded and marched out, ready to get to work.

—

The Tower of the Hand was a familiar place, really.

He didn't spend all of his time there, not by any real stretch- but it was a place he frequented when there was work to be done with Lord Arryn; it was simply more productive there than anywhere else, largely because most people knew to come to or stay by lord Arryn if they wanted to get anything through to the king. His father would usually send them there anyway.

Today the discussion centered around the proposed road renovations.

It was a large project, by far one of the largest infrastructure projects the Seven Kingdoms would have seen in centuries at least. And the first of its kind since the Baratheons took the throne.

Would that he had been old enough to help devise this when they had an overflowing treasury.

But even as they spoke he sensed something was wrong; that something was distracting the old falcon. Jon Arryn was usually sharp and quick witted, but today his responses were mere grunts and monosyllabic words; hunched over his own desk several feet away from Dimitri, staring over a large book regarding genealogies of all things.

Finally, even Dimitri's patience wore thin. His uncle Jaime noticed.

"Perhaps if the Lord Hand needs a nap he might do our prince the courtesy of telling him rather than wasting his time-" His maternal uncle said with a downright acidic tone..

"It's alright Uncle Jaime," Dimitri sighed, not wanting to mediate an argument. "I'm sure the Lord Hand is paying attention even if he is slightly distracted."

Jon Arryn cast a look towards his uncle, something indiscernible. It was almost chilling.

Then his gaze softened, looking towards Dimitri himself.

"Forgive me." The old man breathed, before gesturing him forward. "Come here, if you would, my prince."

Curious and perhaps a bit concerned Dimitri did as he was asked, marching forward to stand before the Lord of the Eyrie

Jon Arryn stared at him just stared.

For long unnerving seconds.

He was about to open his mouth to ask when the old man sighed, reaching upwards and placing his hands on Dimitri's shoulders, head bowing as he let out a breath of… relief?

"You're a good lad." He said, one hand rising to smack down on his shoulder. "You have his eyes. Robert could not ask for a better heir."

"Are you alright, Lord Hand?" He asked.

Arryn shook his head. "Just… an old man, my prince." He said. "It'll get done soon and… We'll proceed one step at a time."

That was… foreboding?

"Uncle-" He called behind him, finding uncle Jaime equally flummoxed. "Get the Maester."

"No. No." Jon Arryn protested, stopping Jamie mid march. "I'm alright lad… I'll feel better in the morning." He promised with a tremulous smile.

"You're certain?" The prince asked, his hand now grasping the old man's shoulder as if to steady him.

Jon nodded that same sharpness that had been lacking for the entire meeting returning now. "Very." He said. "It is getting late, you need not stay with this old man. Go. And do not worry. Tomorrow we can finalize our plans and get them into motion."

"If you're certain." The prince hesitated.

"I am." He smiled. "A finer heir we could not have for this kingdom."

—

The next morning, Dimitri woke to black news; this time not carried by the wings of ravens. But by the roaring fury of his father, the screams of Bernadetta, and crying of Arryn servants.

Jon Arryn, the Lord Hand was dead.

(X)(X)(X)

And here we go. We've now officially reached the start of canon

Honestly; Dimitri's chapter was A LOT of fun to write. Showing off all the changes both big and small, little ripple effects taking place, giving hints on where other characters ended up. There's A LOT of little things hiding here and there.

As usual you can find more chapters available in adavance on Patreon right now for just $1.00 if you're interested.

Also, we're still searching for Beta readers so anyone who's willing to volunteer I'd greatly appreciate it all

Please; read review and all that good stuff!

 

[LD1449]

Chapter 2

Illyrio

"Your Grace, I am imploring you to at least consider the offer,"

"I shall not. So long as I am King of Westeros, no sister of mine shall be wed to a savage horse-fucker. Is that clear, cheesemonger?"

You are king of nothing you little twit.

Illyrio took a slow, deep breath through his nostrils, reaching into the deep well of patience within.

It wasn't entirely hard, he simply had to imagine His son sitting on the iron throne and Lysithea in Daenarys' place once all his plans came to fruition. "I understand, my king, truly; the Dothraki are uncivilized brutes so fierce they make even the free cities such as our fair Pentos tread lightly. But if I may be permitted my liege…?"

Viserys' jaw was clenched, the muscles bulging, his fingers gripping the goblet in his hands tight enough he might just snap its slender neck. He didn't verbally give permission, but he didn't dismiss Illyrio just yet, which he took as permission.

The Cheesemonger nodded. "You need an army, and a strong one at that. For though the Usurper has grown fat and complacent, his heir is neither, and my spies tell me the False Prince travels the land in search of your supporters, killing every last one he can find, for his hatred of the Targaryen Dynasty is as strong as his father's,"

Viserys closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Blood-thirsty mongrels," Viserys snarled, the proud anger on his face giving way to a hateful grimace he didn't even bother trying to hide.

Yes yes. Be afraid of the Baratheons you insipid fool.

Honestly; he was lucky Viserys was so arrogant and prideful. Even a modicum of insight would unravel the lie fairly quickly. As the heir to a dynasty barely upon its second decade, the young prince had far more important matters to focus on than personally hunting down the remnants of the old regime; if any were even left by now.

In truth by all accounts, Dimitri Baratheon was a studious, dutiful heir who traveled the kingdom to integrate himself with his peers and help secure his family's allegiances. The smallfolk adored him, and he was oft compared with a young King Jaeharys or Aegon the Unlikely, which might pose issues for plans of his down the line, but one problem at a time.

For now, he had to deal with the brat in front of him.

Illyrio sighed heavily as he placed a hand upon his chest and adopted a remorseful expression, "I am afraid so, Your Grace. I shudder to think of what that monster would do to your dear younger sisters if he got his hands on them,"

At that, the Beggar King sneered, his face becoming a pallor even lighter than his silver-spun hair. Wordlessly, he collapsed into the chaise behind him, and weakly waved one of the slaves to refill his goblet of wine, which he downed in one long gulp.

And now for the final push.

"I will not lie to you, Your Grace, the Dothraki that I have been negotiating with on your behalf, Khal Drogo, is as savage and monstrous as they come. But he is also said to be one of the fiercest warriors among his people, with a Khalasar forty-thousand strong and a braid that has never been cut. His strength and armies would be a great boon for our cause, My King," Illyrio closed the distance between them and clapped his hand on the boy's shoulder in an approximation of paternal support, before taking his wine glass and refilling it for him.

"I know this is a difficult decision, my boy, but in making it you are carrying out the responsibilities as head of your house. The Dothraki may be savage, but in wedding Princess Daenerys Khal Drogo will see her and young Edelgard as kin, and you a brother-at-arms. Your sisters shall be safe, and you shall ride with an army that even the Usurper is said to fear," And most importantly, you and yours shall be out of my hair for good!

Viserys sipped at his wine, first nodding slowly, then more firmly as he considered the idea more seriously.

So much for those convictions of not three minutes ago.

The boy stood back up, pacing the expanse of the foyer, the light of the early morning sun catching in his hair, his haughty demeanor returning.

"How soon can you send messengers?" He asked. "If I were to accept?"

"Immediately, my King." He answered. In truth he'd had the messages prepared long in advance. Viserys was easy to manipulate, really. His decision was practically a foregone conclusion.

Still, the boy seemed to hesitate a moment longer before he finally spoke- he must actually care for his sister if he was thinking this much on the decision. "Fine." He said at last. "I want them back by nightfall. Your King commands it!"

Illyrio bowed his head in acquiescence, lowering his eyes to hide the equal parts irritation and triumph that warred within. "Of course your grace." He turned to leave, but as he did so the solar doors opened and someone Illyrio had hoped to avoid strode in/

Immediately Illyrio had to suppress a curse.

This one was not like her brother.

Edelgard Targaryen was a slip, wisp of a girl, beautiful in a way all Targaryen's were; but she seemed almost towering in her sheer presence. The respect she demanded by nothing more than her existence.

Then he entered behind her, ever the pale shadow. The ghost of the white knight that was a living, breathing legend of martial power.

The girl's face was unreadable; a smooth, implacable mask that neither of her older siblings had ever managed to achieve.

"Princess." He greeted, smiling in a way that was not returned. She merely offered him a nod; polite, courteous, but only just so. Her glare told him that she'd gotten wind of what they were discussing.

The truest and last living Dragon of the Targaryen house was not pleased.

Lysithea

Lysithea Mopatis knew her father well enough to know that he'd be cross with her if he found her here.

He'd warned her away from their guests, but he did that with all their guests.

Daughters were to stay in their rooms, especially when he would bring her everything and anything she asked for. Books, scrolls, when there were no guests he even brought her things to do outside.

A beautiful Pegasus she loved to ride whenever she could, tutors from Ashai and Volantis. Performers from Yi-Ti, water dancers from Bravos.

But only when they had no guests.

But she was sick of hiding in her rooms whenever they appeared. She was sick of being stuffed away to be unheard and unseen. At the very least she wanted to see these people she had to hide away from.

And so, she enacted her plan, waiting until breakfast had been delivered by one of the servants, thanking them as she'd taught herself to do before sneakily slipping a folded piece of paper between the door and its lock before it closed.

And a few minutes later, she plucked the paper free, and the door along with it.

And she set off.

She wasn't stupid. Her father probably had good reason to want to keep her secret. She'd read enough books to know that a wealthy man's daughter was a target of kidnapping and other evil motivations. So she'd dressed herself as commonly as possible. No fine silks. No jewelry. At most the guests would assume her a favored servant if they saw her.

Still she didn't know one thing.

Where exactly the guests were.

She didn't quite want to go exploring the manse, because if she ran into her father, her little rebellion/exploration would be cut short. If she ran into any of the servants who knew her father's orders then, same result.

So she had to think.

It was just past mid day. Her father enjoyed walking guests and visitors through the gardens, She knew that much because she could sometimes hear it from her rooms.

From the Servants duties, she knew he enjoyed the lounge or the dining areas for food. Those were areas she had to avoid.

The Library maybe?

Would at least one of the guests enjoy reading like she did perhaps?

Well… she was about to find out.

Mind made up, she nodded to herself, turning and walking away towards her favorite place in the manse.

Making her way over, she caught the eye of a handful of the more menial servants and guards, they recognized her; surprised at her unusual appearance no doubt but she held up a single finger, pressing it to her lips, asking for silence.

Some looked uneasy, others smiled as if they were collaborating with her, either way they let her pass by without much of a word.

Making her way to the library, she found the gilded doors half opened, which was unusual. This fact however, allowed her to see that there was indeed someone within. Sitting in one of the chairs, her back to the door, Lysithea could see the young woman had a head of beautiful silver hair, much like her own.

She'd never met someone else with silver hair. At times Father had brought dancers from Lys and Yi-Ti, they had silver hair, but she'd been heartbroken to find out one day that it had been dyed as such.

Her mother, according to father, had silver hair like hers, which is where she inherited it. But she'd never met her mother outside of the frescoes and paintings her father commissioned. She was a ghost within a frame to her, it was not the same.

Standing at the doorway for a moment, she felt suddenly insecure in her own skin. Her clothes, meant to allow her to blend with the servants, now felt drab and too unassuming. Her hair, similarly, while clean and well maintained was not made pretty today.

But still, it might be one of the only times, if not the only time to meet someone, perhaps, like her in some small way.

So, gathering her courage she sucked down a breath, stiffened her spine and walked in.

Pushing the door open, the creaking of the hinges alerted the young woman that she had a visitor, perking up in her seat, she turned and Lysithea found amethyst eyes finding her red ones.

"Oh, hello." The guest said, smiling timidly. She couldn't have been much older than Lysithea herself. Maybe three? Four years at most?

"Who're you?" She blurted out, and then blushed realizing her rudeness.

The young woman too, seemed caught off guard by her bluntness, looking slightly startled. "O-oh. I thought all of Illirio's servants knew? I am Daenaerys Targaryen, of house Targaryen."

Lysithea blinked. "The deposed ruling house of Westeros?"

The now identified, Daenaerys, nodded, somewhat haltingly, looking at Lysithea as one would perhaps an unknown animal that might bite.

Still, the answer, for Lysithea at least, offered some much needed context.

If her father was housing and aiding the deposed family, then his reasons for wanting her uninvolved became exceedingly clear. If his gamble paid off then, of course their family would be richly rewarded.

But if it did not and they were discovered… well… then that meant that persecution and retribution from the ruling Baratheons would very well follow.

Keeping her utterly ignorant of all of them was a way to insulate her from the potential repercussions should it ever come to light.

Yes, she understood her father very well right now, though she detested his coddling of her.

She was fourteen. An adult! She could handle this.

So, mind made up, Lysithea set her shoulders and looked at the book nestled in Daenaerys' lap, recognizing it as one of the old Valyrian poetry texts.

"Have you read Tholyra's volume?" She demanded.

Daenaerys blinked, confused. "I… don't know what that is?"

She scoffed. "You can't read Saesark's collection without first understanding the fundamentals of the Valyrians' entire ethos of poetry!" She declared, marching off to go gather the necessary tomes.

Daenarys watched her blinking dumbly.

Honestly. Targaryen's were descended from Valyria, they should know these basic necessities!

—

Viserys

Viserys, for as long as he could remember envied his youngest sister, though he loathed to admit it.

She was always so… so much better. So much more than he and Dany were. She learned and grasped things so much faster than either he or Dany seemed to. The subject mattered not; basic arithmetic and High Valyrian both came to her as easy as breathing.

Then, of course, there was the Death Knight. Jeritza Velaryon.

By all rights his first loyalty should have been to Viserys, as his king and liege. And yet when he bent the knee and swore fealty it was to her! A mere child who barely came up to his hip, and a girl no less!

And now…

His little sister came into the room wearing a gauzy, diaphanous red dress in the Pentoshi style that their host had gifted her when they had first arrived, the kind of garment that fluttered uselessly around its wearer.

But as Edelgard strode up to their host and exchanged pleasantries–and how dare she acknowledge him first, before her own brother, he who was her betrothed and King–she might well have been wearing the robes of the Sealord of Braavos. She was regal. Regal in a way he knew, deep down, that he could never hope to achieve.

It wasn't simply how she looked–it was in the way she moved and how she acted; how she made others act around her.

Wherever she went, Edelgard moved as though she owned the very ground her feet stood upon. She commanded attention whenever she spoke, no matter how softly. She had a tendency to utter things as if they were commands that others had no choice but to obey.

And worst of all, she didn't even realize it. As though this was expected. She demanded of this world, what it owed her and it was as though it never had any choice other than to deliver on that ephemeral debt to her.

There was a part of him that would probably always hate her for that.

His worthless Cheesemonger vassal finally scurried off to do his damned job, leaving just the two of them and that damned sworn sword of hers.

Well, and the slaves, he supposed, though clearly not for long as the Death Knight silently ordered them out before closing the doors and standing in front of them.

"Brother," She greeted cooly, nodding. "I hoped to speak with you, if you had a moment?" Though perfectly courteous, the steel in his sister's voice, coupled with her knight's actions, made it clear this was not a request.

Unfortunately, he had an idea of what this "request" would concern. Or rather who.

"Of course, Edie. You know I always have time for my dear sisters. Regrettably," He spread his hands out in front of himself placatingly, "I have some urgent matters to take care of until this evening," He moved towards the doors, but Velaryon didn't budge and simply ignored him. Viserys turned his attention back to Edelgard, intending to demand that she order her dog to let him pass, only to find her looking at him with an expression of rapidly thinning patience.

"What's this I hear," she began, voice carefully neutral, "About a plan to sell Dany to the Dothraki? Don't tell me there's truth to this ridiculous rumor, Brother,"

He felt as though Edelgard was looking down at him, as if he were a chastised child, which should have been impossible when he stood a head taller. It reminded him of Mother, of the few precious memories he had left of her, and that made the guilt of his decision threaten to bubble up again.

He quashed it down.

Kings were decisive; they gave commands, and everyone else followed them.

"It's already done," he said, sneering viciously as he saw his sister's calm demeanor give way to true, genuine shock for the first time in years.

"She isn't ready!" Edelgard said plaintively. "You can't go through with this!"

"She is six and ten, a maiden grown. That's more than ready. If she's not, it's because you've coddled her too much. None of which changes the fact that she is the eldest daughter of House Targaryen, and we need armies,"

His sister's lips thinned and her expression became hard for a moment, before she inhaled deeply and forced it back into something neutral.

"Very well then," She said, in that commanding tone he hated so much, "Tell me everything,"

She sat down, gesturing for him to do so as well, and he did, deciding to ignore Edelgard's blatant disregard for his authority. He could let it slide just this once, he supposed.

It didn't matter; she finally understood that he was in charge, and that he was doing what was best for their family.

Daenerys

In spite of herself, Dany couldn't help but smile. "You remind me of my sister." She commented to her new acquaintance.

Lysithea, someone that Daenaerys doubted was just some simple servant, was… demanding. An intense energy moved about her; as though she was certain that if things did not meet her exacting specifications the whole world would fall apart.

So yes, she very much reminded Daenerys of Edelgard.

At her declaration, the 'servant girl' tensed quietly, her eyes squinting as she focused more intently on the book she'd been showing Daenaerys.

"I never had sisters… or brothers." The girl admitted softly. "What's it like?"

The question was curious… almost timid, Dany would say.

But still she couldn't answer, not really. So she just shrugged. "Good I suppose?" She laughed a bit. "I… I've never known what it's like to not have siblings. Viserys is always my big brother and Edel has always been my little sister. I would find it just as odd I think having no siblings."

Lysithea wrinkled her nose at the unsatisfactory answer, but it didn't seem as though she knew what exactly irritated her about it beyond its vague, non committal nature.

Both of them heard the doors open.

Danny turned, looking for who had arrived and found that the old proverb, speak of the devil and they shall appear applied right now.

Edelgard marched into the room, stern faced and imperious, Jeritza behind her. "Dany I-"

She stopped.

Daenaerys had seen her sister have many reactions, many emotions through their lives, of course. Joy, anger, sadness, determination. That last one had seemingly become her default in these last few years.

But it'd been very rare to see her sister gobsmacked.

Edelgard stood between the doorway and the reading space, with her mouth agog, and her eyes fixed on Lysithea sitting beside her.

Lysithea for her part as well, stared at Edelgard with wide eyes, as though she couldn't quite believe the sight.

Dany blinked, confused, looking between the two of them. "Is something wrong?" She asked, almost wary of the question.

Her voice seemed to break whatever spell had gripped the two of them, with Edelgard snapping her gaze away from Lysithea and towards Dany, as though remembering why she was here.

"I um… No. I just came because I needed to speak with you. I just wasn't expecting you to have guests."

"I um…" Lysithea stood, wiping some imaginary dust from her skirt. "I… I should return to my ro- ahh tasks. Yes." She glanced around, as if unsure what to do with herself before she placed the book down, offered a hasty, clumsy curtsy before all but running out of the room.

Edelgard watched her go, following her movements with astonished eyes.

Dany was very, very confused.

Still…

"Did… did you need something little sister?"

Again, her voice broke her sister out of whatever she was thinking, shaking her head "I… yes." Edelgard cleared her throat and almost immediately seemed to become herself again as she spoke in a calm, serious voice. "There have been some… developments." Her tone was cautious, looking at Danny straight in the eye.

Most would assume that her sister was stone faced and cold, but Dany could see it, read it.

In the lines of her face, in the set of her lips.

Whatever this news was… it was not pleasant.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "It's alright." She wasn't sure which one of them she was trying to convince. "Just… tell me what's happened."

A muscle in Edelgard's jaw jumped, and Jeritza, ever her faithful shadow, marched to the door, blocking it off.

"What do you know of the Dothraki, Dany?"

—

Jeritza

The conversation was not pleasant.

It never could be.

He watched the two young women. Lady Edelgard was determined. Firm and resolute. Regardless of what her sister said, or how much she might cry, Jeritza knew enough to understand that his Lady was not here to negotiate. She was not here to coddle. She was here to inform, to offer comfort and encouragement if welcomed.

But the decision had been made.

Daenerys was frightened. He could see that. She was trying to be brave. He could see that too.

She wished to support her family, to do her 'small' part, in winning back what they held as their inheritance. Their birthright.

He could see that neither of them liked it.

But the decision had been made.

The lady Daenaerys was the first to withdraw, begging leave to return to her room to think, rest… and grieve.

The Lady Edelgard allowed her to go.

Then, remaining within the confines of the library, it was just the two of them.

"Am I doing the right thing?" Edelgard finally asked.

He did not answer.

"The decision has been made." He said. For it was true. The offer extended, could not be reneged.

Even if it could be, their options were limited.

"We need the army." She hissed. "Coin from Dorne, information from spies. It can only go so far without sword arms to add strength to intent. Dany is the only offer we can make. If Viserys was a woman we'd offer him instead, if I were older maybe I…"

She clenched her teeth, setting her jaw firmly. Jeritza was unsure if that were true.

He knew of her dreams, of the sketches born from them, traced by loving hands. Sometimes there were men there, but more often than not it was a woman. A woman with blue hair and blue eyes that even stirred something in the cages of his own memory.

He knew her and yet, did not. Just as he knew the servant girl that had been speaking with Daenarys and yet- did not.

Edelgard would ponder these things, these memories.

He would not.

The answer would come, or it was not important.

He had one duty. To protect the Lady Edelgard and her family.

And that duty did not require the need to slay her dreams.

Edelgard held her silence, thinking for a long long time as she sat in the reading area, her hand reaching and leafing through the tome the servant had put down.

After a moment, he recognized the shift in her expression. The resolve.

And the intent.

She did not need to voice her order before he knew what she would need.

Or rather… who.

Death would be summoned.

It's Knight would answer.

—

Jorah Mormont

Jorah let the cold night air kiss his cheek. It was still far too warm, far too alien from the home he missed and loved in the North.

Still… if he proved worthy at his task… he would return. He would march into the north not as a hero. His honor was forfeit. Likely his name as well. He would be fortunate to be recognized as a Mormont by his family at all.

But he would be home.

The offer had been extended by the spider. Watch them. Inform on them. And if needs be… kill them.

It was a simple task… and he had done worse things.

The Mad King was not a reign that should be repeated, and his spawn would likely prove no better than he was.

It was a simple, trite justification he knew. But it was a justification all the same.

The Spider said that his contact, Illyrio Mopatis would introduce them in barely a week's time. A bodyguard, for the young lady that would be marrying a Khal. A bride for a barbarian army.

A fool's bargain really. The riders would never cross the narrow sea. Not for anything. At best, she would be Khaleesi, and would want for nothing the savages could provide, so long as she pleased the Khal and kept his bed warm.

Her siblings would continue to beg for alms, swearing to retake their ancestral home with little more than hopes, dreams and false promises.

Perhaps Dorne wished the Targaryens to return, perhaps the Tyrells, but even he knew that beyond those two houses, none would rise for them. The Lannisters had their royal line, the Baratheons too. The Arynns were tied to the throne as were the Starks.

More than that, Prince Dimitri was much beloved by the people, and the nobility. A rare thing.

None would rise for dragons in Westeros.

A small solace perhaps, that it was unlikely he'd ever be called to kill children.

He breathed, and his breath fogged in the night air…

It was… it was cold.

He shivered, a first in all his time south of the neck and something, some instinct told him something was wrong.

He wasn't armored, but he was armed.

He drew his blade, eyes panning this way and that way through the suddenly empty streets of Bravos, searching.

"Who is there?" He demanded.

He heard something, the crunch of an armored boot on gravel and cobbled stone as he whirled around to find the source.

Death stared back at him.

Its face black, its eyes red. Jorah knew then that what he beheld was the very visage of death itself.

The Monster breathed.

When it moved Jorah heard the sound of steel scraping steel.

"I."

Its hand rose, a blade, black as obsidian in its grip.

"Have come."

It pointed the blade directly at him.

"For you."

(X)(X)(X)

And so we get a little glimpse of the Targaryen dynamics that have been shook up from canon and a few hints of whats to come for them as they begin deviating off the canon rails already.

Good things to look forward to.

1) Soon the first of our family tree images will be posted for everyone to see (there will be some pleasant surprises there)

2) There's a strong possibility that next month you might be getting 2 updates not just one, so lots of fun stuff

As usual there are two chapters available in advance on Patreon for just $1.00 for those interested.

And we're also in need of another Beta reader for anyone who wants to volunteer =)

 

[LD1449]

Hello everyone

As promised we have the first of the images of the various family trees

We're going to be dividing it up by region (Stormlands, North, Westerlands, Vale, Dorne, Riverlands, Reach and the Crownlands will cover the Targaryen's eventually)

To avoid spoilers (potentially) but give you detectives out there something to chew on some of the family trees have been blacked out because their Three Houses members have yet to make an appearance But they will be filled in as they're revealed (This post/image will be updated)

So without further delay!

The Stormlands Family Trees

 

[LD1449]

Chapter 3

Catelyn Stark:

Catelyn had been in the North long enough to recognize something out of the ordinary. The northerners had a certain way of doing things; an attitude about them and Ned especially in regards to his Bannermen.

He trusted them to do their duties. And they, in turn, did not 'bother' the Lord of Winterfell with petty matters of the individual fiefdoms.

The last time Ned had to interfere with one of his Bannermen directly it'd been house Mormont and that horrid business with Ser Jorah and his slave trade.

Not a 'petty' matter.

It was a far cry from her memories of her father's rulership of the Riverlands, constantly arguing and haggling with his own lords and landed title bearers. The Freys were especially ornery as far as she recalled.

The Tullys had to fight for the loyalty and obedience of their subordinate houses.

The Starks… didn't.

The North simply obeyed and were expected to obey.

So… receiving a letter late in the night, with barely a day's warning that House Bolton would be arriving in Winterfell to meet with the Warden of the North 'with great urgency' told Catelyn something was very very wrong.

So she made it a point to be here today, at her husband's side as he received the Lord Bolton and whatever news this was. Image and impressions were important even here in the far North

Poole and Roderick were here as well, her lord husband already seated at the grand seat of the great hall when the guards opened the door and announced-

"My Lord Stark-" The man called, tense, almost rigid where he stood. "-Hubert Bolton requests an audience."

Catelyn, like Poole and Roderick, was surprised. She'd assumed that it was Lord Bolton that had come here, not one of his sons.

What was happening?

"It is granted." Ned answered, his voice firm and strong.

The guard bowed, turning around and moving out of view to usher the party inside.

Catelyn took the moment to toss a look towards the Castellan, but Poole offered her a helpless look and a shrug; it seemed he had no inkling as to what this could be about either.

Then, the party entered.

It was thirteen men, one leading a dozen guards, each bearing the pink, flayed man of House Bolton upon their shields and surcoats. The young man at the head of them was dressed in the finery of a northern Noble. Fine furs, black, heavy velvets.

She'd never met Hubert Bolton, Roose Bolton's second son. But like his father he was a pale young man, of an age with Robb, if perhaps a few years older. He had black eyes, and black, wavy hair, thin of frame but tall. He was comely in an almost too perfect way; his pale looks making him seem more eerie than attractive.

The young man reached the center of the great hall and knelt. "My Lord Stark."

His voice carried, even though it sounded almost soft.

"Rise, young man." Ned called. "Though I'm afraid I am at something of a loss. The message said your Lord Father was approaching in all haste."

"No, My lord." The young Bolton corrected as he stood. "The message said that the Lord of Bolton would arrive… as of little over a sennight- I am the Lord Bolton."

Catelyn blinked, her brain stuttering and stumbling as she tried to process those words and what they implied and barely noticed Ned straightening in his seat before Hubert Bolton continued and spoke.

"My Lord father is dead, Lord Stark." The youth said without a shred of emotion before he bowed at the waist. "I felt, my Lord- that it would not do to explain the terrible events that transpired through raven; and so I have come in person."

"Your Brother Domeric inherits before you young man." Ned pointed out.

"Also dead, Lord Stark." The youth answered, still without batting an eye.

There was a pause, uncomfortable and heavy in the room.

Then, Ned spoke.

"Tell me all and tell me true… Lord Bolton. And know that I will seek to corroborate what you say."

"I expect nothing less of my Lord;" The young man bowed one more time. "That is why I came and I am willing to submit to your custody in full until you do."

—

Hubert Bolton's father… and brother Domeric… were dead.

Murdered… by Roose Bolton's bastard son.

A boy called Ramsey.

"You say your elder brother, Domeric, sought out this… Ramsey?"

"Aye, Lord Stark."

"Why?"

The young man shook his head. "I cannot say, My lord."

"You never asked his reasons? Never questioned this desire? Nor did he ever say anything?" It was Poole who asked, fingers rubbing at his chin. "Why would a Noble born seek out a baseborn?" He demanded, naked skepticism in his expression and voice.

A tension fell over the room again, but she agreed with Poole, Domeric would have no reason to-

A guard moved forward, falling onto one knee. "My lords I know why the Lord Domeric sought out the Baseborn Ramsey."

The guard's voice was unexpected, but even more unexpected was the young lord, Hubert, rounding on the man with a growl in his throat. "Torald, you will be silent!"

"My lord we must speak honestly, not try to spare feelings, I-"

"I will see you flogged if you speak another wor-"

"Silence"

Ned's voice thundered through the hall, it was rare; very rare for her Lord husband to raise his voice, and the sound of such made all grow still in the room as he glared at the Boltons.

"Young Bolton; you will not lie to me, under my own roof."

The youth turned, bowing low at the waist. "No! Lord Stark I have not and would not!"

"Then what your Guard has to say should not contradict you should it?" He demanded, before turning his attention slightly past Hubert. "You there. Torald was it?"

"Yes M'lord Stark." The man lowered his head even further.

"Tell me- what do you know of Domeric Bolton's reasons that your Lord Hubert did not wish to discuss?"

A moment's pause. "M'lord, lord Domeric had heard stories- tales of how you treat your own baseborn son-"

Catelyn felt her heart quite literally stop dead in her chest; beside her, Ned went rigid where he sat.

"-and the relationship held between your baseborn and his trueborn siblings. He wished to reach out to Ramsey because of this. Hoping for the same. The Bastard of Bolton… took advantage, and he killed M'lord Domeric in a fit of madness and jealousy!"

It was her every nightmare, her every horrid vision of the future crystalized right before her eyes.

She couldn't breathe.

Lord Bolton fell to both knees, bowing low.

"My Lord Stark; these are simply the ramblings of an ignorant guard. I beg you, House Bolton means no insult to you by repeating them here in your Halls!"

Ned barely seemed to react to the words, he barely seemed to be breathing himself.

She saw him raise a hand, cradling his brow and temples.

The silence that fell over the room was suffocating.

No one dared to even twitch.

"And your Father?" Ned finally found his voice, half choked though it may have been.

"My father went to confront his baseborn, I with him…" The young Hubert said quietly. "Ramsey… he knew those woods better than we did. Set a trap. My father's face was ripped off by the cur's hounds before I ran him and his bloody beasts through."

All the while as he described this… this living nightmare Hubert's voice never wavered, his heart and nerves born from winter's deepest cold.

—

Catelyn removed herself from the room shortly thereafter. She had duties to see to and the entire, horrid affair had cut deep into her mind, bringing troubled thoughts and black whispers she'd never fully been free of.

The Servants and guards went about their own days, each greeting her kindly in that northern rough way of theirs. The curtseys were short, the bows barely inclines of the head, but they smiled and seemed glad to see her. Warm, as ironic as that sounded in the north.

As she reached the courtyard, Old Nan was making her way inside, hunched over, hobbling with her shaky knees and trembling frame. She smiled a toothless smile at Catelyn that the lady of Winterfell returned easily.

"Our sweet little wolf will grow her own fangs soon enough Mi'lady." The old woman cackled, giggling to herself as she waddled past a now confused Catelyn.

All of her children were wolves of some kind. Robb was the Lordling Wolf, Arya the Little Wolf, Bran the Summer Wolf, Rickon the Wild Wolf, Felix… she'd named him Old. Because Nan said he had an Old Soul.

Even Ned and… that boy, Nan called Wolves. The Quiet Wolf for Ned, and the Watchful Wolf for his son.

A name that carried far far darker connotations than she was comfortable with, or happy to be reminded of.

Only Sansa was the Sweet Wolf, so that gave Catelyn at least a clue as to who Old Nan was talking about.

'Grow fangs soo- Oh no.'She realized what was happening, and quickly as she could Catelyn hiked up her skirts and made her way across the main courtyard, towards the rear of the grand castle-

Towards the training grounds.

She could hear the clack of wooden swords and the ring of blunted steel striking against each other. It wasn't hard to find one of the boys here at any hour really; her second boy, Felix, trained obsessively, something that in hindsight, she should have known would affect Sansa, his twin.

She could never understand her second born son, try as she might. He was always so cold, so distant. He looked at each of them like they were strangers, like they had to prove something to him. The only one he seemed to genuinely respect was the baseborn half-brother. And that was thoroughly in spite of everything she'd done to try and sever that bond.

Cursed to have the two most Stark looking children to adore the bastard brother that was a threat to their lives and futures.

She reached the training grounds, two of the gate guards bowing lightly as she approached.

"Lady Stark"
"Mi'lady"

They both said as she passed the postern gate.

And there she was.

Her hair was not done in the southern style she favored, not today. Instead it was a braid, red and full and shining. It draped over one shoulder, standing out over the white fur of the pelt around her neck.

"Ya keep tuggin' it that far back that string's gonna smack right into yer chest again." Theon called from his place behind the spectator railing.

Sansa's fingers tightened over the bow string, pulling it that little bit further back seemingly to spite the boy.

Theon laughed.

It was not a friendship she approved of.

Unfortunately; this was not something she could blame on anyone other than her son.

Always Felix held them apart, kept them distant, but none moreso than Sansa.

"You're useless"

He'd told her once when they were barely twelve namedays. His voice had carried such venom, such utter contempt her heart had broken a thousand times on Sansa's behalf

She reprimanded him, Ned himself had been furious with their son, an icy, cold fury he rarely showed, that had even cowed their most stubborn, headstrong boy into apologising later that night.

But seemingly, the damage had been done.

Sansa and Felix did not get along as twins should. They barely got along as siblings should. And his harsh words had made Sansa take up archery. Catelyn hadn't the heart to break her spirit again after Felix had so viciously trampled on it.

So she'd let her. Hoping it was merely an act born out of childish anger that would pass quickly.

Only it never did.

She'd asked the guards to not teach her; women shouldn't be fighters. It simply wasn't done.

But she'd never spoken to Theon.

A grievous stupid oversight on her part.

And so he'd taught her. The best archer in his age group.

And she knew Theon's reputation, knew that he frequented that brothel in Wintertown far more often than he should with the allowance her husband generously granted the boy.

So no. She did not approve.

But it seems that if Sansa and Felix shared one single trait for all the ones that they were utter opposites… It was their stiff necked stubbornness.

Sansa's fingers released the taut string. The horn bow snapping and vibrating in her hand as the arrow was set loose, flying straight and true to strike dead center of the target, Sansa's red tailed arrow standing out next to Theon's dull brown fletchings.

Her little girl smiled, and Theon had the good sport to clap politely behind her.

"Not bad not bad." The Greyjoy laughed. "Maybe next time you'll be able to make it look as easy as I d- Lady Stark!"

Theon stopped speaking, going rigid and nearly pale as he straightened where he stood, looking for all the world as though any suitable distraction would be a godsend right now.

From his perspective, no doubt such a thing would be very welcome.

Catelyn offered the boy a look, tight and faintly disapproving. She hadn't stopped him when they'd started, but by now he knew her feelings on the matter, him continuing in spite of her express wishes to the contrary, did not please her; not one bit.

But then, coming to Theon's rescue , Sansa pulled the quiver from around her body, its strap going over her head as she rushed closer. "Mother!"

Her little red Wolf smiled brightly as she drew near, cheeks flushed with the heady rush of exertion and accomplishment.

In spite of herself, Catelyn was able to return the expression. A mother should not have a favorite child, but Sansa was by far the easiest of her children. "Hello darling." She greeted, one hand rising to brush a stray lock of hair back in place for her child. "Would you join me for morning prayers?"

Sansa was also the only one of her children that had adopted her faith in the Seven. So that made spending time together easier.

Her daughter offered a pleased nod, "One moment and I'll be happy to." She answered, turning towards the racks where she'd place the bow and quiver.

Theon offered a hasty bow and excused himself, skulking away as though he might avoid the tongue lashing she would be giving him later if he vanished quickly enough.

She gave him a pointed glare, one he pointedly pretended not to notice as Sansa returned.

"Thank you Theon." Her daughter said, oblivious to the tension, or perhaps, choosing to not acknowledge it as Theon mumbled something with a nod as Catelyn took her daughter in hand.

Marching free of the training yard, Catelyn tried to hide her relief at Sansa's easy agreement to join her. Perhaps she should find more ways to keep her daughter busy. If she was too occupied with duties she'd have less time to waste on such… unlady-like pursuits.

"How did you rest sweetling?" She asked.

Sansa nodded. "I slept very well mother- though I was surprised, you and father didn't join us to break our fast."

"There was some business that needed seeing to with your father's bannerman-" She half explained, trying again, to push the thoughts of Bastards and Kin-slaying out of her mind. "-I joined him in that. I'm sorry we weren't there."

"It's alright." Sansa assured. "How did you- Arya!"

Sansa's startled call of her sister's name made Catelyn's heart skip a beat, her eldest daughter sounded horrified. And a million varying scenarios passed through Catelyn's mind as she turned her head, each one worse than the last.

At the sight of blood Catelyn could feel the blood drain from her face- but as Arya halted mid run, looking just as startled in the middle of the courtyard- Catelyn realized the truth a split second before Arya spoke up hastily.

"It's not mine!" She hurriedly exclaimed.

Catelyn felt equal parts worry and fury beginning to bubble up in her, an anger born of fear but anger nevertheless. "What happened!" She demanded, marching quickly towards her youngest girl who hastily wiped her blood soaked hands all over her own clothes as if that would somehow make the situation any better!

—

Catelyn strode off in the direction of the Winterfell stables at a pace so rapid that despite maintaining a proper gait she was breathing in a very unladylike manner. Regrettably, it could not be helped; when she tried to get an explanation from Arya, her daughter had provided little insight, going on about how "Dorte got startled" and "there was an accident" before running off again.

"Don't worry mother," she'd shouted over her shoulder. "It's alright! I'm going to fetch Maester Lewin!"

But Catelyn was very much worried, and told Sansa to follow her sister before heading in the opposite direction as fast as she could.

While the mother in Catelyn was glad that Arya was safe, as the Lady of Winterfell she knew how utterly disastrous it would be if a ward of House Stark–particularly from a vassal house as loyal, wealthy, and powerful as the Manderlys–were to be harmed, especially in light of the recent upheaval with House Bolton.

Reaching the stables, Catelyn slowed her pace and smoothed her skirts before taking a deep breath in through her nose, and briefly regretting that this was not Arya running away from her lessons instead.

Mother give me strength, if I am wishing that Arya had been in trouble.

She did not run; not quite. But she did hurry more than normal. As she approached the stables, there was already something of a crowd forming. Some servants, a handful of guards. Each of them crowding around some people laying across the ground.

"Lady Stark!" Someone called, and like children being caught the gaggle of men and women parted immediately, making way for her.

She barely had the presence of mind to offer them nods and school her features into a mask of calm she didn't quite feel; hopefully they hadn't had time to truly take in her near panic.

Drawing close she was able to hear one voice clear above the groans and hisses of pain..

"I'm sorry- this will hurt."

Finally making her way past the crowd she was greeted by the sight of the stable master; forehead speckled with beads of sweat and features twisted in pain, the red of blood had seeped into the ground around him.

And Marianne Manderly was pressing down with both knees over the injury, blood drenching her dress and hands.

"Marianne!" She gasped, reflexively reaching for the young girl before she stopped herself.

She did not know much about treating wounds or injuries, but even she knew that placing pressure stopped bleeding. Pulling her away would… not be a good idea.

The Manderly girl turned, looking at Catelyn over her shoulder with an almost haunting calm that was worrying for a girl that should not seem so at ease around such a grievous wound.

"Lady Stark." The girl that was barely two years older than her Sansa and Felix called her name. "It's alright; I told Arya to go get Maester Luwin. I can handle it until he arrives."

Far far too calm…

"You've ruined your dress." She said for lack of anything else to say to her, hands hovering by the girl's shoulders still ready to lift her.

"I'm sorry." She said before turning her eyes back towards Maynar "But still- It's just a dress."

Marianne was a sweet girl, Catelyn knew. Quiet, demure. But always a shroud of melancholy and almost doom hung about her head that Catelyn could never quite understand.

The Manderlys were a good family, and they'd sent Marianne here; nominally to be a companion for Sansa -though Catelyn suspected they wished for a betrothal to, if not Robb then Felix- at the age of six and Catelyn knew she, Ned and the children treated her well.

But always- always that melancholy lingered.

Though at the same time, her kindness toward others never left her either as could be seen right here.

Her brain finally catching up to the events, Catelyn marched gingerly around the girl to the other side of Maynard, the injured stablemaster. She caught sight of the trail of blood leading back into the stables. It looked like he'd been dragged out here.

Marianne and Arya?

No. It must've been one of the guards.

She knelt beside him. The pain on his face was clear; but his eyes were still aware, not taken by the delirium of blood loss or the pain itself.

Catelyn knelt, feeling the cold earth under her knees as she reached and grasped at Maynard's hand.

"My lady?" The Stablemaster questioned, surprised. "Please don't trouble yourself."

She offered him a smile. "It's no trouble. Maester Luwin will be here soon. Everything will be alright.

"Aye- swear on me I'll be puttin' those tools away properly from here on milady.."

She didn't quite understand, but she assumed it was related to his injury in some way.

"Dorte was startled by a rat." Marianne explained suddenly, her quiet voice almost lost in the chilled air. "She moved. Bumped into Master Maynard. He tripped and cut himself on the wheat scythe."

Her hands and knees pressed down on the wound; with its cause revealed she could only imagine the terrible, gaping gash hiding beneath those blood stained skirts.

She clutched the man's hand tighter. "I'll be holding you to that promise, Maynard." Catelyn warned in a stern voice she'd use on her misbehaving children. The Stablemaster smiled at her, appreciating the sentiment.

"What's happening here!?"

If the sight of her had been enough to make the crowd part, her husband's voice practically made them scatter. Dozens of guards, servants and other people moved clear out of the way and fell on bended knee and hasty bows towards the Lord of Winterfell.

Ned saw them, eyes immediately taking in the scene.

His head snapped towards one of the guards at his side. "Skjor."

"Aye Milord!" The man straightened.

Ned nodded in their direction. "I think a guard in full armor weighs more than a girl."

"Understood milord!" Skjor handed off his sword to one of his fellows, marching forward quickly as Ned walked up behind Marianne, gently placing his hands on the girl's shoulders.

"Get up my girl- Skjor can do this task." Ned's voice was gentle, but firm, his large hands dwarfing Marianne's smaller arms as he pulled her away.

Marianne nodded, shifting her weight ever so slightly.

Then; she surprised Catelyn. "The wound is just over his knee, but under his thigh. It didn't reach the artery. Please don't fall over it, steady, slow pressure is best."

The lady of Winterfell stared at the girl, and Skjor's features were equally surprised, if just a smidge incredulous as well.

But still, Marianne reached grasping Skjor's hand and urging him to place his knees where hers were as she extricated herself carefully. Skjor's added weight drew out a hiss of pain from the Stablemaster but nothing more.

She did, however, catch a glimpse of the ghastly wound, a red slice across his leg just as she'd said. It made her stomach turn just looking at it- let alone thinking of touching it.

That the child had done so without flinching was… surprising… and worrying.

As Ned pulled Marianne to her feet, the front of Marianne's skirt was suffused entirely with blood. The pale blue dress now dark and dripping wet.

Even so, the young girl clasped her hands in front of her, back straight and face placid; the picture of quiet, stoic dignity and poise.

"I GOT HIM! I BROUGHT MAESTER LUWIN!" Arya's voice called out; hollering across the courtyard as she ran with Maester Luwin in hand, quite literally pulling the wizened Maester behind her; Sansa hurrying after the both of them.

Ned turned and she saw his own momentary surprise and worry at seeing their youngest daughter speckled with blood .

The Maester rushed forward, and Catelyn moved aside to make room for him in her place. She patted Maynard's hand, and the stablemaster offered her a grateful squeeze before letting her go.

Catelyn made an effort to wipe the dirt and mud stains from the front of her dress, but they wouldn't be going anywhere without a good wash first.

"Marianne." Sansa gasped. "Oh- by the gods are you alright!?"

Marianne nodded. "I'm alright. I'm sorry I've made you all worry."

Ned, seeing Luwin here now nodded to himself. "Come; let's get you girls cleaned up."

Marianne, as expected, agreed easily. "Yes sir."

"But I wanna see!"

Arya; less so.

—

Her daily routine now thoroughly beyond her reach, Catelyn did take the time to change her clothes and delegated many of her morning tasks to Poole.

He did not complain; he would not. But it was unfair of her.

With some additional time now available to her; she decided to visit her sons.

It wasn't exactly hard to find them.

It was the training yard; of course.

Approaching the grounds, she could already hear the telltale sound of wood striking wood and by the sound alone she could tell that the two fighting right now were Robb and Felix.

She was not a warrior, but after so many years, she could recognize her sons by merely the sound their weapons made when they connected.

Robb was… solid. Strong. The way a northern lord should be.

Felix by contrast was a storm of strikes. Never relenting. Never tiring.

It was like a wave trying to batter down a boulder.

Honestly… more often than not- he succeeded.

She knew she should not wish it otherwise, but of the two of them Felix was the far far better warrior.

She supposed it was fitting for a second son to have such a talent over his elder brother; but Felix was obsessed with his training. It consumed his thoughts and every waking hour.

If Robb had such talent; she didn't think he'd have let him swallow him so completely; he had other responsibilities, other matters and tasks that he needed to concern himself with as the heir.

In short, he could not afford to devote himself so utterly as Felix had.

As she approached and caught sight of her two boys she was just in time to see Felix deftly disarm Robb, the wooden practice sword clattering to the floor as Robb backed away, his hands rising. "Yield, yield." Her eldest sighed, then chuckled. "Looks like Jon's still the only one that can challenge you little brother."

The name curdled her stomach; it always did, but today it blackened her mood especially.

Felix scoffed. "If you know that, why waste my time?"

"Maybe because you can help me improve. Don't be so selfish, little brother." Robb laughed.

She cast her eyes to the spectator railings, and found the boy in question, watching his brothers with his bastard, envious eyes.

The boy must feel her eyes on him, for he turns, and finds her glare.

She sees him straighten, an expression passing over his features she can't quite read before he turns away, beginning to leave.

"Jon-" She hears Felix call, a split second before Robb realizes she's there. "Mother!"

The Bastard hesitates, no doubt having heard Felix's call before he chooses to ignore it, continuing on his way. Robb does not notice. Felix does. His eyes narrowing before he turns and looks at her, his expression placid and neutral.

If only her children could see the danger that boy poses to all of them.

Perhaps, when the story of Lord Bolton spreads they might finally understand.

Even so, Felix surprises her when he's the first one to speak.

"I heard there was an incident with Marianne." He calls."Everything alright?"

Marianne- the only other person he asked after.

In fact, she was the only person Felix ever seemed to think would be worth anything as a warrior.

A ludicrous thought.

But- yes. She did remember little eight year old Felix handing eight year old Marianne a wooden sword; insisting she train with him.

Old Nan had laughed herself almost literally to death with her breathless wheezes and the castle maids had tittered and whispered for days afterwards.

She'd found it amusing too… long after the fact. It was actually a little worrying that Lord Manderly might catch wind of his daughter being treated so… oddly by what he no doubt hoped was her prospective husband.

She'd never understood it. But other than the bastard, Felix rarely concerned himself with others. Not even his siblings. He was courteous; but only as far as he had to be. There was little warmth in him. Robb tried to reach him, and Brandon idolized him, swearing that he was the North's best sword.

But he and Sansa treated each other almost like strangers, Arya's favorite was still and always had been the bastard, and Rickon might as well not exist to Felix.

"Maynard hurt himself in the stables." She explained; pushing her thoughts away; her second son, she feared she would never truly understand. She wondered; distantly, if she'd done something wrong as a mother. "Marianne aided him; it was quite a ghastly wound, but Maester Luwin has said he should recover with some stitches and rest."

"Well I'm glad to hear that." Robb said "I also heard Lord Bolton's come. I saw their banners."

"Robb you are the heir-" She chastised as she drew close. "You must pay more attention to the occurrences of your bannermen and retainers. Your father will not live forever!"

Robb's smile was apologetic. "I- I'm sorry, mother. In truth I hadn't even heard about their arrival until they'd already met with father. I assumed it was important but I hardly wanted to interrupt."

"Hm." Felix grunted. "That's odd, isn't it? A major house just arriving with little to no advance notice."

"It is odd, which is why you should have inquired much sooner than now." She pressed.

Again, Robb's smile was apologetic, still a boy.

She sighed. "Lord Bolton is dead-" She said, seeing the surprise dance on both their faces, even Felix's.

She wrung her hands together, no doubt her next words would lead to another… argument but they needed to hear it.

"He, and his heir, Domeric were killed by Lord Bolton's bastard son, Ramsey."

Robb's surprise did not take long to shift to horror. Felix on the other hand, narrowed his eyes at her, an accusation in his gaze.

And he, blunt and straight forward as the north itself; spoke frankly.

"Is this leading to you telling us how we should be careful of Jon again?"

Robb sucked down a breath- hissing between his teeth. "Felix-"

"Do not speak to me as though I'm a simpleton Felix. I am your mother and by all the gods I need you to understand the danger you're all in."

Robb winced, sighing. "Mother- please. Jon is not dangerous. Just as not all Lords are the same neither is he the same as this Ramsey."

Catelyn closed her eyes, praying to the mother for patience and the Father for the wisdom on how to speak to her children.

Felix shook his head, scoffing. "This is pointless; I'm going to change"

Catelyn's temper flared. "Do not turn your back to me when I'm speaking to you-"

Her voice was sharp and cutting, a bit of northern winter in the bite of her tone. Enough for even her most taciturn and estranged son to stop in his tracks.

"Why can't either of you simply accept that he is not who you think." She pleaded.

"Because he is not who you think either." Robb answered gently. "Jon is a good man."

She opened her mouth, ready to answer, when Felix suddenly cut in. "I'll make you a promise, mother."

She and Robb paused, and when her second son turned to address her he looked her dead in the eye; not a hint of jest or boasting in his voice.

"If Jon ever tries to steal any of our inheritances, then I promise… I'll kill him myself."

Robb cringed. "Felix. He is our brother. And you're not a kinslayer."

"You're right." Her warrior son shrugged. "But I've already made the promise. And those should be kept."

He stared straight at her.

Her heart stuttered in her chest;

"Right mother?"

She suddenly found it very hard to breathe.

A shadow passed over them, reflexively she cast her eyes upwards, finding a raven just as it flew into the rookery.

Later she would find out the raven came from King's landing.

And that old portent held true now as it always did.

Dark Wings. Dark Words.

 

[LD1449]

Chapter 4:

Dimitri:

The Hand of the King was dead.

When a member of the royal family, and by extension, the Hand of the King, died, it was customary to alert the realm and, most importantly, allow time for condolences or other nobility to arrive and pay their respects if they were so able.

Historically; this grace period to make one's way to King's Landing only lasted ten days; though records had shown that particularly beloved or despised members could have those periods extended or reduced depending on sentiment.

Baelor, who'd starved himself to death with 'piety' had all but decomposed and disintegrated on the altar before he was finally moved.

Maegor the Cruel on the other hand barely found his body cold before he was stuffed in a stone box and shoved into a burial chamber.

Jon Arryn was not particularly loved or hated by the realm; or more accurately, Dimitri found that you fell on one side of the coin or the other, with very little in the way of an 'in between' or neutral field.

So, ten days- the standard length of time seemed appropriate. But it was extended because the Royce's of the Vale requested time to make their way down to King's landing. Dimitri was unsure if the entire Royce household would arrive or if Bronze Royce would find it a good opportunity to entrust Sylvain Royce with authority for a relatively safe and minor trip while he was gone.

But beyond that, Dimitri himself didn't expect much in the way of distant visitors.

He'd been wrong.

In hindsight; he should have expected this. He'd been an idiot not to.

Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King.

That office was now open.

His father famously did not get on well with his Uncle Stannis; who Dimitri had to admit had many of the makings of an excellent Hand.

No. Uncle Stannis did not inspire love. But that was not the Hand's job. That was the King's job. The hand was merely the iron will of the King made manifest.

And no one embodied "Iron Will" quite like Uncle Stannis.

But- father would never have him as hand.

The Realm knew this.

It was like they were just waiting in the wings. Crawling out of the woodwork the instant Jon died.

The Crownland houses all arrived if they hadn't been here already. The Emmons, the Brunes, Bruckwell, Celtigar, Cressy, Hayford, Rykker, Mallery, Stokeworth.

The Stormlanders had arrived in absolute force as if they wanted to remind the Realm that they were the King's closest vassals, not the Crownlanders. So, Brownhill, Tarth, Staedmon, Estermont, Fell, Grandison, Mertyns, Penrose, Gower, Horpe, Lonmouth.

And the Reach Lords. By all the seven gods the Reachlords. Dimitri was half convinced they were actually hiding within the walls. Ambrose, Ashford, Meadows, Merryweather, Oakhearts, Peaks, Redwynes, Risley, Rowan, The Brightwater Tyrells, Varner, Vyrwel, Webber, Willum Fossoways, Costayne's, Cuy's, Standfasts, Norridge, Graves, Appleton, Westbrooks.

Even the Blackwoods and Brackens from the Riverlands.

The only Kingdom that hadn't driven down here it seems was the North, likely due to sheer distance, the Westerlands because half of them were here anyway as part of his mother and siblings respective retinues. The Greyjoys and the Dornish because they both hated the crown, more and less overtly but comparatively fiercely.

His father was in mourning; his mother would have sooner had half of these houses flogged before seeing to them sincerely, and two of his siblings were far too young for this.

So it fell to him.

He did not particularly mind… in a way. Jon Arryn was an ally, perhaps even a friend. But he had never been as close to the old Falcon as his father was and if it helped his father, and his friends, Bernadetta and Ashe have a moment's peace because he was seeing to these affairs in their place then he could and would do it.

But by all the Gods and all the Hells there should not have been so many of these people.

Even with uncle Renly volunteering to help take on the lion's share of the arrivals by seeing to the Reach lords; his morning had barely gotten started before he was exhausted and all but willing the next nobles to arrive would spontaneously fall off a cliff that would sprout fully formed in the middle of Blackwater bay.

Or the sewers. Yes. The sewers would do. The more nobles fell into the sewers, the faster they'd see the accursed things needed to be completely overhauled so it could do its job properly and the city wouldn't stink of shit and piss.

Hmmmmm…

"You're thinking of the sewers again aren't you?"

Dimitri startled, balking at his uncle Jamie. "I- what? How did-"

"You get this very peculiar, murderous look on your face. It's quite unique."

"I do not!" He protested.

His uncle did not look very impressed.

The Kingsguard shook his head. "Honestly, you could entrust these duties to a clerk."

"I will deal with the sewers." He swore with a snarl. "Not some clerk." They'd been the bane of his existence as long as he was alive. No one would take the satisfaction from him!

His uncle stared at him.

…

…

"You meant the nobles didn't yo-"

"Yes nephew I meant the nobles."

"... If you continue to smile I can declare it treason."

"You can."

…

His uncle did not seem very afraid of future treason charges.

Dimitri sighed

Then-

"I must say cousin you are the picture of elegant nobility regardless of what Ser Lannister thinks."

The crown prince perked up, sitting straighter at his chosen desk, The Hand's desk as Lorenz Baratheon, his cousin made his way through the door.

Uncle Jamie bowed. "My lord Baratheon."

"Ser Lannister, my prince." His cousin bowed.

"Lorenz please." He laughed, standing up and marching around the desk to greet his cousin properly. "We're family." He said, offering the half Florent a firm handshake and a quick hug. "It's been too long!"

"Almost a year now, if I recall-"

"I didn't hear you coming with the Reach lords."

"Because I was not in the Reach." His cousin answered easily. "I was, in fact, touring the Stormlands."

Ahhh…

It was no secret his father was constantly… teasing uncle Stannis with the idea of giving Renly the Stormlands. Something not helped by what little love Stannis inspired in the Stormlords themselves.

Too many memories of the siege of Storm's End. Too many bitter resentments held by men who had been there, or who lost family there.

Stannis had held the castle, it was true, probably saved the Rebellion entirely by keeping Mace Tyrell tied down there for so long.

But he'd lost the hearts of what subjects he may have once ruled over.

Uncle Stannis would not go and 'make nice'.

Frankly, Dimitri doubted the idea had ever even crossed his mind.

They were Baratheon subjects and it was their duty to die for house Baratheon.

The fact that they did so merited no apology… or word of thanks.

At least in Stannis' mind.

But cousin Lorenz was a different sort of man.

Yes he was duty bound. Yes he held a strong code in his own right.

But he knew how to make friends.

Let uncle Renly have the Reach. So long as I can wield the Storm; his cousin had said once, very poetically, but very pointedly.

He would not involve himself in the internal squabbles of his family, not unless he had to.

"Still-" He changed the subject. "The picture of elegant nobility? I think you're exaggerating, cousin."

"Not at all. A Noble who diligently sees to his duties, regardless of his personal enthusiasm can never be anything but elegant in the pursuit of that task."

By all the gods he sounded absolutely sincere-

"Well I-"

"PRINCE BARATHEON! PRINCE BARATHEON!"

The shout carried, not only urgency but almost an edge of hysteria. There was real fear in the inflection; to the point that Uncle Jamie immediately put his hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it as all three of them turned towards the door.

The man who rushed at them was panting, utterly out of breath as though he'd run a full sprint across the whole of the red keep-

He was a guard of house Aryyn.

—

He hadn't been far off in his assessment.

The man practically had run clear across the bloody red keep.

Dimitri was grateful that he was in simple dress clothes. If he were armored like Uncle Jamie, and the Arryn guard was, he might be genuinely out of breath.

Hell he might not make it in time.

Uncle Jamie was valiantly chasing after him, but armored in full plate he was trailing behind, Dimitri could hear him, certainly but the only one keeping up with him right now was cousin Lorenz, who was armed with only his personal arming sword.

Still, he didn't slow down, he wouldn't dare; judging by the sounds up ahead, if he cut it any closer he ran the risk of arriving in time to just hear the clattering of horse hooves.

Grief did strange things to people but this was the first time he genuinely considered the possibility that Lysa was indeed mad.

He burst into the courtyard, cousin Lorenz at his side, few had noticed him yet, likely because all eyes were on the carriages, laden with luggage, the guards shoving a prisoner down onto his knees while another held a second man by the wall, a spear haft to his throat- Lysa Arryn screeching and berating her daughter at the top of her lungs-

And one very very dead horse, with an arrow through its eye.

The guards, the serfs and certainly Lysa had not noticed him; and so when his voice roared out of him with a furious bellow everyone in that courtyard seemed to go still as stone, the blood draining from their faces.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?"

He wouldn't be surprised if the thunder of his voice was heard down in blasted Flea-bottom with how he was feeling right now.

He stalked forward, Cousin Lorenz at his back with his hand firmly on his sword.

None of the guards dared do anything more than hastily step aside, the royal blue and white of his clothes and cloak made him look like a rolling thunderstorm bearing down on the scene of the proverbial crime. Dimitry's blue eyes lanced towards the pair of guards restraining Ashe- the silver haired boy had his face pressed into the cobblestones, a bruise forming where someone had apparently hit him with the shaft of a spear, or a halberd.

Both men looked deathly afraid as the crown prince's withering glare did not leave them.

"What. Are you doing. To my Squire?"

The words were clipped and pointed. They came hastily; because Ashe was no such thing. But honestly, he felt like making a point. Ashe was his friend, and a good man, and he had little doubt whatever this was, these fools felt able to do it because he was a commoner. Assured that there would be no repercussions.

Because there never had been before.

Enough was enough.

The two guards paled, and one let go of Ashe like the boy was suddenly on fire. Ashe himself was staring wide eyed at Dimitri's feet, as though not quite understanding what the hell he'd just heard himself.

"A-apologies, My prince." The guard that had let go stammered out. "W-we had no idea he was-"

"Well now you know. And you will remove your hands from him or I will remove them for you."

This time, the second guard moved, jerking his hands away and backing off as quickly as he could, both men falling onto their knees and practically kissing the floor as Lorenz took the opportunity to reach down and help Ashe to his feet.

As far as Dimitri knew, his cousin barely knew Ashe- but he understood what was needed right now.

Dimitri himself took the opportunity to gather his patience; pushing his fury down down down- somewhere it could not readily reach him, influence him as he turned his attention towards Lysa Arryn who stared at him with an open contrast. Her posture was submissive, hands clasped in front of her, head lowered, but her glare was heated, resentful even as she stared at Dimitri's feet.

"Lady Arryn-" He began. "Would you be kind enough to explain what exactly is happening in my Courtyard?"

"I wish to leave." The woman sneered. "I wish to leave this wretched city and this stupid girl is causing a scene!" She all but hissed at Bernadetta rounding on her with all the venom Dimitri had ever heard in her voice directed towards her daughter who whimpered under the withering fury.

"Lord Arryn-" He began. "-has not even been buried yet."

What kind of woman would simply leave before her Lord Husband's funeral.

"I am aware!" Her voice rose, turning back to Dimitri. "But I will not allow my Sweet Robin to stay here where what happened to his father will happen to him with all the… vipers in this city! I will return him to the Eyrie where he will be safe! Where no one can get to him.- Now if you will kindly excuse me-"

"You forget yourself- lady Aryn." Lorenz cut in behind him, Dimitri could hear uncle Jamie finally arrive a cavalcade of Gold Cloaks rushing in behind them. "You are addressing the crown prince! You will not dismiss him like your household servant again."

The woman stiffened, freezing mid turn.

"You may leave." Dimitri began slowly, staring past the woman. "If that is your wish. And take lord Arynn with you. He is a boy who knows no better-" Even now the… coddled child was sleeping inside his carriage, no doubt drugged on Milk of the Poppy and whatever other concoctions the mad woman had stuffed him with in her over-protective lunacy. "But the lady Bernadetta will be allowed to stay for her father's funeral."

"You would have me leave a hostag-"

"You insult his majesty's honor." Lorenz interrupted, stepping forward, almost ready to draw his steel before Dimitri held up his hand, ordering him to back down.

"She is no hostage." He declared. Not that she even could serve in that role… Lysa Arynn seemed on most days, to love only one of her children. "All here can hear and bear witness to my oath as Prince of the realm. Once the funeral is concluded and a new Hand is in place, the lady Bernadetta may return to the Vale freely."

"She will be returned to the Vale." Lysa screeched- it looks like she'd spotted his linguistic loophole.

"She will be." He promised.

He'd bought his friend a reprieve… but it seems that's all he could do for now.

Not unless he wished to make more of an enemy of the Vale.

Something, politically, the Baratheons could scarcely afford.

Lysa did not look pleased, staring at Dimitri with open mistrust as he schooled his expression to show absolutely nothing.

Then-

"Fine." She spat before turning away. "Remove her things. She will be staying for now."

The guards and the serfs hastily removed Bernadetta's trunk from the carriage, another group replacing the very very dead horse at the front of the carriage as they did.

It was likely; that was the delay that had allowed him to arrive at all.

"What happened to the horse?" He demanded as the Arryn carriage began to rush out of the postern gate.

"This one My Prince." An Arryn guard, one of the few left behind, bowed, as best he could, still holding the haft of his spear to a young man's neck. "He attacked the Caravan before they could leave."

"I'll have you know I did no such thing-" The young man said with an easy smile. He had a Dornish coloring. Dark skin, dark hair. But his features were stormlander. Odd.. "I'm just a total klutz, it was completely accidental!" He wiggled the bow still in his left hand. "I was just showing off for a pretty girl I met. Didn't work out as intended."

"I doubt that." Lorenz deadpanned beside him, glaring at the young man. "One does not kill a horse with a single arrow on accident.

The young man offered a shrug, seemingly uncaring as the guard shoved him harder into the wall with his spear. "Quiet you."

The movement shifted the young man's cloak, and Dimitri's eyes widened as he recognized the crest emblazoned on his tunic.

He racked his memory of recent happenings- it didn't take him very long to remember.

After all, it's not every day nearly an entire house is wiped out by disease and leaves everything to a legitimized bastard born boy.

"You're Claude Connington."

The young man gave an easy confident smirk. "Ding Ding! You win a prize, my Prince."

"You will speak to the Prince with the respect he is due Connington." Lorenz sneered, almost balking at the tone of what would one day be his Bannerman.

The now named, Claude, turned, his smile not dimming in the slightest. "I apologize my lord Baratheon, I seem to have hit my head a bit against the wall, courtesy of our big burly friend here." He reached over, tapping the Arryn guard on his armored shoulder. "I promise, I won't forget my manners again."

Dimitri could almost feel Lorenz grinding his teeth down to powder, but right now he really didn't have the time or energy for… whatever this was turning into. "Release him." He urged the guard.

"My Prince." The Arryn man hesitated. "He attacked a Lord Paramount."

"Pure accident." Connington repeated. "Really. I swear."

That smile, and everything else said otherwise.

But again, Dimitri did not have the energy for this right now.

He had other priorities.

And if killing that horse had been deliberate, it was still probably the only reason he'd made it here at all.

Connington had taken a massive risk doing so.

Why- he wasn't sure. He couldn't have really known Dimitri was on his way. As a noble he would be given some leeway, but the Conningtons were a house very much in disgrace; with all its members dead, its fortunes all but destroyed, its political situation in shambles.

Attacking a Lord Paramount for- as uncle Renly would say -shits and giggles; made no sense.

And yet- he'd done it.

In gratitude, Dimitri was willing to let the matter die here and now.

He sighed, turning away. "Release him please." He asked again, marching away and the guard obeyed.

Drawing closer to Bernadetta, Dimitri could feel his heart break just a bit within his chest.

The Arynn girl had her face cast downward, her tangle of hair obscuring her features as she picked up several of her fallen things. Some of the guards and servants were helping her- but somehow, it made the sight all the more pitiable.

Say what you will about his own parents, but neither of them were Lysa Arynn.

He reached forward and stopped cold as Bernadetta physically recoiled.

"Can I go back to my room now?"

Her voice cracked and the cruelest thought slipped into his mind.

It wasn't her room… anymore.

The tower of the hand was for the hand of the King.

Which… her father no longer was.

But he quashed that voice of his down, strangling it with all the fury his Baratheon blood gave him and made sure his voice was as soft as he could make it.

"Of course Bernadetta." He answered. "Cousin, Uncle-" He called. "Could you please go and make certain she arrives at her room safely and no one is to disturb her under any circumstances.

Lorenz bowed, one hand over his heart. "It would be my honor." Even uncle Jamie didn't complain.

As they turned and left, Dimitri turned to his other friend, Ashe; Jon Arynn's page was favoring his left side, clearly more hurt than Dimitri had initially thought.

"Come on Ashe. Lets get you to a Maester." He said.

"Oh… I'll. That's not-"

"A prince's squire must be seen to." He interrupted, and Ashe clamped his mouth shut, his eyes going wide.

It had come out during the heat of the moment. But he had meant the words. Ashe was his squire now.

He smiled gently; easing the "bite" his words would otherwise carry. "Don't make me order the Gold Cloaks to drag you."

—

"I heard you had an exciting evening."

Dimitri allowed himself a small, gentle smile. "That's certainly one word for it mother" he said, placing a cut of the steak in his mouth as he chewed.

They were having dinner privately tonight. It wasn't exactly unusual per se. His long tours across the various Kingdoms that took him away for weeks if not months at a time meant that whenever he did return to the Red Keep, his mother made a point of having dinner with him at least once a week, to spend time with him.

They were even pleasant things, moments where his mother could shed away the armor and pretense needed for court life and simply be with him as her son.

He had little doubt that it made Joffrey terribly jealous, and even affected Tommen and Myrcella on some level. Mother did this only with him as far as he knew. But he did not have the heart to ask her after so many years to invite his siblings.

Because even with Myrcella and Tommen, she felt she needed that armor, that pretense. To give them an example on how to behave. To show Myrcella what a Queen looked like, let Tommen see and how a 'Lioness of the Rock' acted.

That… would simply destroy half the enjoyment of these private dinners. Her half of it.

And Joffrey was… Joffrey.

He would likely destroy Dimitry's half of the enjoyment.

Or at least give it a gamely effort.

His mother huffed out a breath, sipping from her wine goblet. "That Tully was always madder than a fish in the dornish deserts".

He didn't disagree but still, courtesy demanded that he at least try.

"She is grieving…" He said, sipping a bit of his own wine. "And the Red Keep is a vicious place." He conceded.

"Still, to not even remain for the funeral proper." She snorted. "What will the realms say of that cowardice?"

He took note of her choice of words, eating a bit more.

"I imagine…" He said after a moment's thought. "-many of the Lords will not care beyond the Vale." He answered, almost thinking aloud now. "Lysa is not loved by many in the realm. And the loyalty of the valemen is to the Arryns "

"True;" She nodded. "It was smart of you to keep the girl."

Dimitri looked at her. His voice was… neutral.

But firm.

"She is my friend. Not a hostage… I couldn't stomach letting her go with Lysa. Not in the state the woman was in…" He drank a bit more heavily from his goblet. "She deserves to grieve and send off her father as any daughter should."

His mother did not comment, but he knew her well enough to know that she thought him overly sentimental right now.

Mercifully; she changed the subject.

Unfortunately it was bound to be an exhausting subject.

"What's this I'm hearing of you taking on a peasant?"

Dimitri sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Ashe was Jon Aryn's page for years. He's more than proven his work ethic."

"You are the prince of the realm" She didn't sneer with her lips; it was rather impressive how she could achieve it with her voice. "Associating with peasants is not only beneath you, it reflects poorly on our family. Jon Arryn's… pet is not worth your consideration."

"He's a good man." Dimitri defended.

His mother rolled her eyes. "When will you learn there's no such thing?"

"Oh?" He smiled, just a bit teasingly. "Am I not a good man?"

She scowled, having walked into the classic trap she'd set herself up for- and pivoted away from needing to concede the point.

"Why not one of your cousins? Or our Bannermen? Lancel for instance?"

His mother, he knew, had a tendency to surround herself with those who were obedient, not necessarily those who had genuine merit.

No offense to his cousin; but he'd take a man with half of Ashe's integrity over a dozen Lancels who would never have the courage to speak their minds.

People like him… they needed those who would tell them they were wrong. Who would stop them from going too far.

Who would prevent them from becoming Monsters?

He knew that last part above all else. Beyond the shadow of even the faintest doubt.

Because he also knew, he had what it took to be a monster of the worst kind.


He smiled, shaking his head, pushing the thoughts away. "No mother- Ashe was a good page for lord Arryn and he will be a good squire." He said. "Besides, would it not reflect poorly on me as a Lannister to go back on my word?"

His mother's eyes narrowed, detecting the manipulation on referring to himself as a Lannister but after a moment she rolled her eyes, leaning forward to offer him a kiss atop his head, which he accepted. "I will never know how you can be both my pride and joy and be the stupidest boy in all of Westeros."

"A mother's love?" He teased.

"And her tolerance." She shot back.

—

Just two days later, it was time for the final prayers in the Great Sept of Baelor.

The Silent Sisters had done a remarkable job preserving the body for so long. Yes, it was stiff, it was… withered. But it was still recognizably Jon Arryn laying there even all these days later.

His father was here; he'd been here all night, tending to the last vigil alongside Ser Barristan and a few of the Kingsguard. He looked tired, but he was dressed more finely than Dimitri had ever seen him before, sparing no expense to seeing off the man he considered his father.

The Nobles gathered, a procession through the Great sept, kneeling before the body, praying and then politely taking their leave.

A daring few… imbeciles tried to approach his father. But Robert's glower and wrathful glare told each of them it was neither the time or place, and it really wasn't.

Bernadetta cried, sitting by her father's body, alone. He could not leave his father's side, so he 'ordered' Ashe and asked Lorenz to go and help the poor girl however they could. A request both men readily accepted; there was even a very dutiful servant girl with the strangest shade of pale hair quietly seeing to her needs. Dimitri didn't recognize her, perhaps she was one of the Church's lay sisters.

Still, once the morning ceremony in the sept was done; they were scheduled to gather in the throne room.

Nobility had come to visit. And they needed to be 'hosted' of course.

Five minutes into it Dimitri genuinely felt the urge to punch something. Namely faces. Several faces.

He had no illusions that many of the assembled nobles were here to curry favor. This was Westerosi politics after all.

But the body wasn't even in the ground yet. The man's daughter was right here. His father was still garbed in mournful black. Jon Arryn had given the realm good, leal service.

This… pack of vultures and political creatures who had nothing but naked ambition oozing from their leering eyes, were genuinely sickening to watch.

They weren't even pretending.

While Westerosi mourning practices dictated that only a deceased lord's household wear official mourning colors, it was still considered extremely distasteful for others to wear very bright colors while in attendance at the wake or funeral. Yet everyone here was dressed, as Father would say, 'like prancing peacocks'. Even Mother's dress was more tasteful, forgoing any elaborate golden embroidery or expensive jewelry in favor of a black silk cut in one of her preferred styles paired with a favored necklace.

He stood apart from the crowd, near his father who was already in his cups, miserable and sobbing. A handful of lords with whom father had fought alongside during the rebellion elicited chuckles with their stories, others listened to Robert's nostalgia; but that was the extent of those who came here looking to ease the King's troubles.

For everyone else… well…

"I am so sorry for your loss, My Prince," A young woman said in a false, simpering voice that he'd heard more times that day than he'd cared to count. She was pretty; and if he did not mistake her house she was an Ashford from the Reach. No doubt if Mace Tyrell were present it would be Margery here instead. "If there is anything I might do to relieve your pain and grief please, just ask." A blind man could have seen the suggestion. "Let me know and I will gladly assist you."

Still… better him than his father right now. To take his mind off of the recent passing, Dimitri had little doubt Robert might accept.

That's why he was standing here; right here. So that most girls would spy him first, not his father.

His uncle Jamie joked under his breath about all the many "stray arrows" he was catching.

Dimitri smiled his most charming court smile and said "A kind offer, my lady, but I am alright. However, I am sure Lady Arryn would appreciate knowing she has your support in her time of need," and watched with equal parts annoyance and satisfaction as the smile slipped off her face before being quickly pasted back on. The curtsey she bobbed this time, he noted, was quick, perfunctory, and shallow, but she took his advice and headed to the area of the throne room where Bernadetta Arryn was seated next to his 'squire' Ashe.

Not that he'd left his genuinely grieving friend to field these things. He'd asked several of his friends to genuinely help; and he'd even caught a few volunteers.

Before the girl had even closed half the distance, Connington came swooping out of wherever he'd been hiding, his half dornish, exotic features allowing him to charm the girl quite readily as he distracted her and slipped his arm with hers for a little chat, 'rescuing' Bernadetta yet again this time very much deliberately..

Even so… this was… distasteful.

He… no one should be playing politics right now.

A good, honest man was dead.

And the realm did not care beyond how it might favor their ambitions.

As he took in the sight his hands clenched into fists behind his back, and he had to force them to relax.

He had to remind herself that there were at least a few good people who were genuine with their condolences. Uncle Stannis had come of course; and with him his presence had allowed him to give the benefit of the doubt to the Bannerman at his side, Davos Seaworth, whose sons and daughter were helping with Bernadetta. The sons being men helping by charming the girls he sent their way, like Claude, and. His daughter, a very beautiful woman named Dorothea Seaworth with pale skin and brown hair was even now gently sitting by Bernadetta, coaxing shy smiles and easing anxieties like she'd been doing it for years.

It was a sight better than how Bernie had been before, sitting alone, sobbing her eyes out for the death of the only parent who cared about her.

He wished he could have helped more directly.

But he was the crown prince, heir to the iron throne; he had to stand here in uncomfortably hot silks gritting his teeth and accepting false well-wishes, keeping his distance and overseeing the hall to make sure nothing went wrong. Because heaven forbid people act humane during this time of mourning.

He glanced at his father–who wasn't even trying to hide his annoyance as a sycophant lord marched up to him –and realized, perhaps for the first time, just why his father loathed being King.

—

His father made the declaration the day of the funeral.

They would go North.

It didn't take a genius to recognize what that meant.

The lords grumbled and snarled in private, and wished them all the good fortune and safe travels in public. Preparations were underway almost immediately and the day they were finally meant to begin their long journey north, the Red Keep was a suffocating hive of activity. Much more so than even the funeral had been.

His father was heading north with seemingly the whole court trailing behind him.

Even though the Noble houses all knew he was heading to Winterfell to get the warden of the North to be his Hand they almost seemed doubly determined to seek out his favor.

His uncle Jamie had been a godsend truth be told; using his rarely flexed authority as a Kingsguard, the man was more than happy to glare and snarl anyone and everyone away from Dimitri to give him some peace at long last.

Normally he was more than happy to be polite and greet everyone, but the last few weeks had been… exhausting. Beyond exhausting really.

Hopefully the open road would be better, less suffocating. Less crowded and stuck together.

Yes they'd be traveling in a long, exceedingly packed column of nobles and their retinues- but at the very least he could ride ahead with the excuse of hunting or scouting if only to get a moments' peace.

With that thought in mind, he was almost eager as he made his way out of the Red Keep and towards the stables., where an army of servants had gotten to work long before he himself woke up.

Some recognized him, eagerly bowing and paying their respects before he held up a single finger against his lips, urging them to be silent. The last thing he wanted was for there to be a whole hubbub about him.

Most of the servants knew him, and liked him, well enough that they simply smiled, nodding happily and restricting themselves to quick half bows for the sake of propriety in case they were spotted by someone less understanding- like his mother or some of the Kingsguard or Gold Cloaks for instance - before continuing about their duties; pretending as though they hadn't seen him.

Which was perfect.

Making his way to the stables Dimitri was ready to saddle and brush his horse, a white destrier gifted to him by uncle Renly, courtesy of the Tyrells.

He'd named him Loog.

His father said it was a stupid name.

But his father's horse was named 'Hammerhead' which was… not surprising in the least given who his father was.

Still; the point stood. His father had no room to judge his naming skills when he called his horse 'Hammerhead'

Making his way into the royal stables; Dimitri was particularly surprised to find that the task had already been started.

"Ashe!" He balked.

The silver haired peasant boy turned royal squire startled, almost leaping off the ground before he turned, thick brush in hand. "Oh- Prince Dimitri."

"It's just you and I here, Ashe, you know you can just call me Dimitri." The Prince answered. "But what are you doing here? I thought you might still be asleep."

Ashe blinked, staring at him as though he'd just asked a rather unbelievable question. "I'm… your squire? Readying your horse is part of my duties now."

They were but-

"It's been a trying few days, Ashe." Dimitri said, not unkindly. "You can take your time before taking on your duties in full."

The young man shrugged, smiling sadly. "I… I'd rather not simply sit around in my room all day. I can't serve house Arynn anymore, but I can serve you- and that's enough." He bowed, and he sounded sincere.

Still… He felt bad for his friend. He'd lost Jon Arynn, and in one fell swoop he'd lost his homeland, and would soon lose his friend, in a way, when Bernadetta had to return home. It could only be put off for so long after all.

…

Lysa Arynn was a fool. A cruel, blind fool.

Dimitri sighed, reminding himself, not for the first, or the last time, that he couldn't fix everything.

Stepping forward he placed his hand on Ashe's shoulder, taking the brush from him. "I understand." He said as kindly as he could. "Still; why don't you go and prepare your own horse. I'll finish up here."

"Are you sure my prince? I can-"

"I'm sure Ashe." He smiled. "I did come down here intending to do it after all. Besides, a squire reflects on his master. Your steed must look just as good as my own."

His friend smiled softly, nodding. "Of course my prince, I'll get started right away."

—

They were supposedly leaving in the morning- but it was half past noon by the time the royal party actually set out from King's landing.

"Not even the first day and we're already behind schedule." Came the haughty sniff. "It certainly does not speak well of how the rest of this journey will go."

Honestly Dimitri agreed, but trusted his cousin Lorenz to be the one to say it out loud about as bluntly as a bludgeon while within earshot of the royal party.

Only idiots said he was nothing like uncle Stannis. Once you got past the flowery exterior Lorenz Baratheon was exactly like his father in many ways.

"Oh I don't know. Taking in the scenery is important too, My lord Baratheon."

Dimitri's latest acquaintance, Claude Connington, smiled in that way of his. The one that was sincere in the way a man laughing at a private joke was sincere. Dimitri wasn't sure why the Lord of Griffin's roost was journeying with them; but he would hardly begrudge his presence.

After all, without him he might not have had the opportunity to reach Bernadetta before Lysa had dragged her off.

Cousin Lorenz however, did not share Dimitri's tolerance, staring down his nose at the Connington like something to be scraped off his shoe. "Do not be absurd. This trip to Winterfell is already emptying the court unnecessarily. The affairs of the realm are practically being neglected for several weeks at a minimum and likely months with how slow this is already turning out to be. This isn't Griffin's Roost. No King and no Hand will lead to disaster before long even with my father here to manage things. Honestly, his Grace should have simply sent a raven summoning Lord Stark. I'm certain the Warden of the North would have come, Noble and dutiful as he is."

"Yes." Uncle Jamie chuckled, and Dimitri knew him well enough to know he was annoyed. "Noble, Dutiful, Honorable Lord Stark."

Dimitri would have raised an eyebrow; but he knew that Ned Stark had been the one to ride into the throne room, seeing Jamie covered in the blood of the Mad King and had been the one to declare him Kingslayer.

Doubtlessly; his uncle had some… mixed feelings about the man.

Still- Lorenz was not wrong, in any respect; but his needling of the lord Connington seemed almost personal. Like there was a history here Dimitri wasn't quite privy to.

"My father wishes to pay Lord Stark his due respect." He said in lukewarm defense to this… endeavor. "And honestly; it shows the realm that the Baratheon and Stark Alliance is still strong, even if they have not spoken in a while."

That was probably the only political benefit to the whole affair- and it was a distant one. The Lord of Winterfell marching down from the North at his father's summons would have been just as firm a showing and could not be interpreted as the crown kowtowing to a one of the greater houses as though they were owed obeisance of some kind.

He had to remind himself that this was his father's choice. Lord Stark probably didn't even know they were marching up there and by the time he did it would be far too late to do anything other than set aside the food and gifts to welcome and host them in the great hall of Winterfell itself. Lord Stark didn't deserve Dimitri's ire even if the young prince was finding it so very difficult to not resent the whole trip in general.

He sighed; but soon heard the clomping of horse hooves coming closer and was reminded that there was indeed one more benefit to this.

He, Lorenz and Claude turned, and Dimitri smiled as Ashe and Bernadetta joined them.

Bernadetta was dressed in riding leathers, a bow across her back, looking more free and cautiously happy than he'd seen in a long time even with the death of her father being so recent.

She would never have been allowed this… if Lysa Arryn were still here.

"Bernie-" He smiled. "It's good to see you."

"I-it's good to see you too Prince Dimitri." She offered a hesitant, gentle smile. Still unsure. Still sad.

But… better.

More horse clomps, and when they turned this time, it was to the sight of his father and two of the Kingsguard, Barristan and Oakheart. "Alright." The black bearded King groaned. "Lets get on the blasted road already. Fuckin wheelhouse is gonna slow us down enough without everyone needing to stop and take a shit every other damn mile."

His father seemed to finally take notice of Bernadetta, stumbling with a double take before raising an eyebrow. "Lady Aryn." He greeted unsurely. He must've expected her to be in the wheel house.

"Your g-grace." Bernie stuttered, practically hiding behind Dimitri.

He rushed to her 'rescue' quite easily.

"Shall we ride ahead father? Get some wind in our hair?" He asked.

Robert huffed, distracted from Bernie riding along with them very easily in his excitement. "Aye boy. Lorenz, you joining us in the ride? Your father never liked riding ahead. Didn't take after him there did you?"

"I'd be happy to, Your Grace." His cousin smiled.

"Hah!" Robert smiled. "Good on you lad- And it's uncle Robert. None of that 'Your Grace' nonsense. I get enough of that from all the other shits." He didn't address anyone else. Dimitri wasn't even sure if he even noticed Claude Connington beside him. His father often… neglected the details.

Which might be to Claude's benefit in these circumstances all things considered.

Robert settled onto his saddle, kicking his steed into a quick canter. "On to Winterfell! It's about time you met Ned boys. Best man I know."

"I'm looking forward to it, father." Dimitri answered diplomatically, genuinely wondering if the statement was true, or if it was perhaps his father's nostalgia coloring his memory again.

Riding out of the red keep, he supposed that in just a few more weeks; they'd find out soon enough.

(X)(X)(X)

As usual there are 2 chapters already published ahead of this one on Patreon. So go join us there if you like what you've seen here and wanna get a bit ahead of the rest of your fellow readers

 

[LD1449]

Here is the link to the House family trees of "THE NORTH" some reveald, some as of yet, unrevealed to avoid spoilers. But I'm sure you Fire Emblem Sleuths will pick up at least who might be in the North from our beloved group of students.


View: https://imgur.com/a/G4xOmkF

And here is a backup link to Patreon just incase

https://www.patreon.com/posts/famil...paign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

 

[LD1449]

Chapter 5:

Dimitri:

The morning air was cool and crisp as the crown prince stepped out of his tent, rising with the sun itself. The serfs and servants were also already up, getting ready to pack up the camp and continue on their journey.

It was the fifth day of their journey and they were only just now, scarcely crossing the border into the Riverlands.

In another, they'd be at Harrenhal. Hopefully. Their pace was excruciatingly slow, what with his mother's wheelhouse and the sheer size of the column.

"Ahhh."

The crown prince of the seven Kingdoms was surprised to hear the voice of his father, turning to find the King emerging from his own tent with, quite literally a spring in his step. His cheeks, normally flush with color from alcohol now seemed red with just childish delight.

It looked like he'd inherited his enjoyment of being away from court from at least one side of this family.

"Father." He called.

Robert turned, and his answering smile lit up his face. "Son." He said simply with a nod. "You're up early."

"We'll need to break camp soon if we wish to reach Harrenhall in a timely way." Dimitri said by way of answer.

His father snorted. "You and I both know this camp isn't moving a bloody foot until your mother's whittled the morning away just deciding what fuckin dress she's gonna wear to ride in that fuckin wheelhouse all day where no one's gonna see it anyway."

His father… was not wrong.

The great black haired man sighed, shaking his head before he reached up with one, big meaty paw, clapping Dimitri's shoulder. "Come on son- lets go for a morning ride, we can at least get some fuckin wind in our hair.

"I'll call-"

"No no." His father interrupted staring at him with an eager smile that lightened his face by years.. "No calls, no followers, no bloody well wishers. Just you and me. A father can damn well take a ride next to his son."

They really shouldn't. Many things could happen on the road, and they were the King and heir to the throne. If anything did happen, witnesses needed to be there for any number of reasons.

But…his father's look was so openly honest and eager, that Dimitri really didn't have the heart to ruin it.

So instead he simply nodded. "I'll get my horse ready."

Robert smiled, clapping his shoulder again. "Good lad. I'll do the same."

Dimitri did take the precaution of informing Ashe, with very strict instructions not to inform anyone else until at least twenty minutes had passed after they left.

—

Riding up the dirt, mud and barely laid stonework mess that was the Kingsroad in its current state father and son reached the crest of the hill that marked the very edge of the border.

"Ahh the Riverlands." His father sighed, squinting into the distance. "Huh. Funny. I could have sworn we should've seen the Gods eye from here." He remarked.

Dimitri glanced around too, but the great body of water was too distant still to make out. "Soon enough." He consoled. Then a thought occurred to him. "Is it true that back when you were young Pegasi could be found there?"

Robert's face grew irritated and stone-like. "I'm not that old boy." He growled, making a threatening fist as Dimitri felt a smirk tugging at his lips.

"I don't know, father. You were born back when the Tyrells still had a whole cavalry division of them." He teased

"Hah!" His father's stony visage cracked and fell away, leaving him smiling happily. "You ever hear the story on how those flowery cunts lost their preening feathery ponies?"

He had, but he listened to his father retelling the story of the siege of Storm's End.

The ancient Baratheon seat was a monstrous fortress, nearly impossible to take by force. But still the Tyrells had tried. With an army's worth of seven hundred mounted Pegasi Knights they'd stormed the castle walls with siege equipment, ladders and on winged mount to simply soar over the walls.

Uncle Stannis had bled them for it. The Tyrells had lost nearly a third of their infantry, half their brave flying Knights and their mounts while the Baratheon men were still strong and hadn't run out of food, arrows in their quivers or bolts for their scorpions.


Led by the head of House Tarly the remaining Knights had flown close to the inky blackness of the Storm sea by night. Hoping to catch the defenders unprepared by the ocean side of the castle walls.

Then the Om rose from the depths.

Dimitri wasn't sure how much he believed the tale. Given that it was only told by Reachmen survivors.

Most scholars, and Dimitri himself were inclined to believe that simply a lucky storm had caught the Greenland Knights by surprise and dashed their bodies against the rocks; rather than believe some great, massive monstrous tortoise that could control the sea and bend the very heavens to its will- a beast from the literal mythic era of creation had rose from the depths to single handedly destroy their Knightly contingent before vanishing as though it had never existed.

Either way; whatever the case; it was the deciding blow in the siege. Mace Tyrell would not launch another attack, merely determined to starve out the defenders, which weakened the royals which led to his father's victory over them.

The rest was history.

Now the Reach houses could barely count on, at most Fifty Pegasi in total. Twenty of them were in the Tyrell household. Practically given to House Tyrell so that Wylas, a legendary breeder of horses in his own right could hopefully bring their numbers back to the rebellion's days of several hundred. A long and arduous process. Not the least of which because Pegasi only bred once every few years; their longer lifespan allowing for such… stretches of time being 'off season'

His Grandfather, Tywin, had purchased one as a foal for his aunt Ingrid at a princely sum from what he'd heard.

"Feh." His father snorted. "Fucking flowers. Only flowers would find it at all fitting to die to a fucking turtle rather than a storm."

In spite of himself, Dimitri couldn't stop the sharp bark of almost laughter that escaped him.

It really was a ridiculous story.

Glancing a bit further up the road, the crown prince found himself squinting. "What's going on over there?" He asked.

His father followed his gaze, also now peering into the distance. "That right there is a looker son." His father teased with a bawdy chuckle, elbowing his eldest son in the ribs. "I didn't know you had a thing for redheads. Ya shoulda said something son."

Dimitri tried not to roll his eyes but it was quite an ask. Every time he even looked at a girl his father would tease and try endlessly to get Dimitri in bed with her. 'Encouraging' his eldest son as only Robert Baratheon knew how.

Honestly. Any girl. The only one who seemed safe was Bernadetta and Dimitri had no doubt it was for the love his father had for Jon Arryn- otherwise she too would have been on the proverbial 'menu' so to speak.

In one of his drunken stupors he suggested he bed that 'fine looking lass over there'. To this day Dimitri hadn't quite managed to tell him he'd been encouraging Dimitri to bed his own cousin. Lorenz.

He thanked the Gods that Lorenz was nowhere in earshot, and that the Kingsguard were forbidden from laughing about it under pain of death.

One of these days he'd carry out the threat too!

Still; today wasn't that day. "It looks like the wheel of their cart broke."

"Seven fucking hells if I have to hear about another broken spoke on another fucking wheel-" Robert snarled.

Still Dimitri couldn't help but smirk. "Do you see now why renovations and repairs for the road are a good investment?"

"Aye. But you'll be putting bloody carpenters and wheel makers out of business." Robert shot back.

The laughter this time on Dimitri's part was entirely genuine.

Robert turned in his saddle. Sighing. "Ahh bollocks." He groaned. "Looks like they finally woke up."

The crown prince looked over his shoulder. White armored Kingsguard and Baratheon bannermen were riding towards them. Not many. Perhaps a dozen.

But it seems like their father son time that Robert had been enjoying… was done.

Dimitri did feel bad, knowing that he'd been the one to tell Ashe, so to console his father he reached out, patting the man on the shoulder. "We can extend their travel time by going over to see if the lady needs help?" He offered. "She might not even realize you're the king at first."

Robert chuckled. "Aye. The look on her face will be a good one if that's the case eh."

They trotted forward at a brisk pace. Not quite galloping away from the approaching troupe of bodyguards… but definitely faster than a light canter.

"Honestly boy-" His father said. "When are you gonna go and find yourself a nice girl to keep your bed warm at night? You're a man grown now. It's natural."

Briefly, Dimitri's thoughts flashed--a glimpse, a shadow–of blue hair.

"I imagine I'll be betrothed to the most important political alliance." He mused aloud.

The Reach. Or Dorne perhaps. Build bridges. Mend the scars of the war.

Margery Tyrell and Arianne Martell were gorgeous beauties as far as he'd heard.

But he doubted either of them had the blue hair he'd see in his dreams sometimes. Or the scent of jasmine and lilies.

"Says who?" Robert answered him.

Dimitri blinked, confused. "Pardon?"

Robert was quiet for a time staring straight ahead towards their 'destination'. In this space between the woman's cart and the approaching bodyguards, they still had some semblance of privacy.

So, the king spoke.

"I didn't marry for love." He said.

No. His father hadn't. Even if the enmity between his father and mother weren't as sure and clear as the sun rising every morning- Robert Baratheon's 'Love' for Lyanna Stark was woven into the tapestry of song.

"I know you know that." The King said, uncharacteristically gentle. Almost soft. "But I would've. If things had been different. Ned didn't marry for love either. But he would've. If things had been different. So who the hell says you can't have what I couldn't. Fathers should always give their children what they never had right?"

Dimitri turned his head, staring at his father who kept looking straight ahead, not meeting the crown prince's eye.

The sentiment was touching- it really was but-

"I'm the prince." He answered dumbly.

A prince did not marry for love. A prince did not have that luxury.

"And I'm the fucking king." Robert grumbled. "That means I get to do what I want-"

Again… not quite how it worked. But Dimitri didn't have it in him to argue as his father reached over, thumping him in the chest with a meaty fist.

"-So if you ever come to me, and you say 'This is the woman I want to marry' 'This is the woman I love' I'll back you. No matter what your mother or grandfather or anyone says. She can be a princess from bloody Yi-Ti to a damn peasant. As long as you're sure."

Dimitri… didn't know what to say.

And Robert seemed content to let them fall into silence, kicking his horse lightly to speed up the beast's trot as they finished approaching the wagon.

"Oh Hi!" The woman-a young, beautiful lady with flaming red hair-smiled brightly despite the state of her wagon. "Fine silks, fine armors. I know money when I see it!" She winked. "Care to buy any of my wares, dear gentlemen!?"

"Not quite my lady." Dimitri smiled. "Our party will be passing through here, we merely wish to see if there was anything amiss.

"Wheel broke. But don't worry-" The lady winked, smiling even wider. "My buddy here-" She gestured to a pair of feet Dimitri could see poking out of the front of the mule drawn wagon. No doubt her 'buddy' was currently working on the axel. "-will get us where we need to go. I'm Anna by the way- and you are?"

Just then, the thunderous rumble of horse hooves rolled over them as the column of guards that had belatedly followed them finally caught up.

"Your Grace." Barristan breathed in a mixture of relief and annoyance. "You should have woken us."

"It's fine Barristan." Robert answered, though the prince very much doubted Barristan agreed with that statement.

The woman–Anna's–reaction was… odd. He noted her mumbling the words 'Your grace' and the slow dawning realization on her face before the prince could practically hear the clink of Gold dragons in her imagination just as he saw her eyes gleam with absolute glee at an imminent profit.

That was… perhaps a mite concerning.

"Hey, Balthus, how close are you to fixing this thing?" Anna the Merchant called lightly kicking 'Balthus' in the foot.

Oddly though, his father's features scrunched up and Dimitri heard the name mumbling from his lips. 'Balthus?'

"Huh? Fix? I was just taking some shade under here. Its fuckin hot out there Anna."

The Merchant blanched. "WHAT! YOU IDIOT!? YOU TOOK A TOOL BOX DOWN WITH YOU!"

"What? It makes a pretty good pillow if you put some wool over it."

The man that began to extricate himself from under the carriage was massive. The Mountain born again; easily. His armor was thick, black plate and the surcoat was a coat of arms he recognized;

Jeralt's Ashen Beasts.

The sigil was distinct. A Dragonbone Regalia in the shape of a sword.

The Regalia were rare artifacts. As rare as Valyrian swords. Indestructible. Made from the ancient bones of what could only have been dragons. Often they were fashioned in the shape of weapons though they were useless as such things.

The Maesters at Old town speculated that they were once symbols of prestige. Badges of office or pieces of greater rituals that had been conducted in Valyria before the doom.

Now they were still symbols of prestige. But they were purely decorative in society today.

The Targaryens had held several of them in their vaults, including the ancient Regalia of house Stark, given to Aegon the Conqueror by the King Who Knelt as a formal symbol of his surrender. His father had kept some when he'd found them. Gifted others to the houses that supported him. Arryn, Lannister, and returned the ancestral Regalia of house Stark to House Stark.

But still… come to think of it none of the Regalia in the Targaryen vaults had been in the shape of a sword. Odd.

Regardless; Jeralt's beasts were well known even beyond the peculiar oddity of their sigil of choice being such an esoteric decoration piece. Why the man had decided on that, none knew. But it mattered not; he'd given it infamy through his deeds, like the Golden Company in far off Essos Or the Second Sons.

The Beasts were a smaller band from all he'd heard, but their leader was friends with his own father.

Still, as the massive man stood up to his full height; a friendship didn't quite explain the reaction he saw between Balthus and his father.

His father gaped, then a smile lit up both men's faces.

"Hey old man." Balthus grinned, waving; and it took Dimitri a moment to recognize that he was actually addressing his father. The King.

The whole troupe behind them was similarly flabbergasted; and the gleam of coin vanished from Ana's eyes as she stared at Balthus with a dumbfounded, horrified look.

"You are addressing the King of the Seven Kingdoms mercenary-" Boros Blount spat. "You will show due respect or I will see you flogged!"

Given the sheer size of the man; they'd need quite a few men to subdue him to make good on that threat. And a very large flog.

"Nevermind that!" Robert barked. "Lancel! Lancel! Where is that stuttering shit? LANCEL!"

"He's at the camp Your Grace." Barristan said, his eyebrow hiked to his receding hairline.

"Fuckin hell the one time I actually need the little shit! Arys!"

"Your grace." The Kingsguard bowed as best he could in his saddle.

"Puttin' you in charge of it. Make sure this girl and this boy get whatever they need to fix this wagon!"

The Knight was visibly very confused.

Dimitri couldn't blame him really; he was confused as well.

But there was no denying the King. "As your grace commands."

Robert nodded. "Good man." He looked down at the two. "Where are you two headin'?"

"Vale." Balthus answered. "Heard old man Arrynn died. He was always good to me and Mya. Figured it was as good a time as any to head home, pay some respects. Check on Big Sis. Ya know? Anna here was headin' that way to sell some wares then head across the sea to Bravos to do some more trades for silks and spices." The large man grinned, pointing to himself. "Ol cap'n Jeralt asked me to bodyguard her."

"More like you were eating them out of house and home like you're trying to do to me!" Anna complained, glaring at him.

Dimitri's eyes widened, the realization hitting him like a sharp slap to the face.

Mya. Mya Stone.

His half sister.

That made this man Balthus Stone.

Dimitri's own half brother.

—

They did make it to Harrenhal that night.

It was late at night. Of course. Late enough that it might perhaps be early morning soon. Lady Whent greeted them with all the pomp and splendour she could afford. Which was not much truth be told. The King declared that they would stay in Harrenhal three days. To rest and recover before continuing.

It was no doubt going to put an unbelievable strain on Lady Whent's reserves of food and coin; but truth be told Dimitri couldn't help but be glad of the brief stay. . Mostly because Harrenhall would be the place where no doubt many of the entourage would take their leave of the royal party. Their connections made, their kowtowing and bootlicking done. They must've seen that the King wished for no other hand other than Ned Stark by now

Most would go home, speeding up their travel considerably.

Balthus and Anna had followed along with the convoy, with the red headed merchant hawking her wares under the watchful eye of the seemingly laid back attitude of the massive mercenary at her side.

Truth be told, Dimitri would consider any man that would try to steal something from a woman with him as a guard a supremely stupid example of the population.

But more than that, Harrenhall; blasted ruin it may have been; it was still titanically large.

It offered a lot of room for one to get lost in, and have private discussions in.

Something he was ready to make use of come nightfall- well… come the second day's nightfall. The first night when they arrived the royal party were greeted by Lady Whent and promptly went to their rooms to sleep.

But tonight; after all the pleasantries, all the mindless mingling, all the pomp and ceremony, Dimitri did find the time to slip out of the… soiree. Uncle Jamie wouldn't hear of him heading off alone so he did accompany the crown prince, albeit with a very heavy woolen cloak hiding that white Kingsguard plate.

Dimitri similarly, made sure to dress… lowly? Was that the word? It was hardly peasant garb but certainly below the usual quality he enjoyed in his clothing; with a brigandine piece over his surcoat and trousers he looked more like a guardsman really.

Add a procured helmet and it just completed the look.

Uncle Jamie did not look the least bit pleased being stuffed into a bucket helm either.

Still, the task was done and so Dimitri Baratheon quietly slipped out into the camp housed in the main courtyard.

Harenhall did have more than enough room to house everyone of course; the monstrous castle was obscenely large and could have housed three times as many people as those in the royal column easily; but it was simply easier logistics wise, for the nobility to know where their servants and guards were and likewise, simply keeping the royals to one wing and the nobles to another wing simplified security measures needed for all parties. Something that would have been much much more complicated if they gave everyone individual rooms of their own.

Not to mention the possibility of mix ups and 'lost items' when luggage and valuables moved hands between servants and it was just much much simpler this way.

Even so the courtyard of Harrenhall was still much much more comfortable than the road, with its paved stone flooring and solid walls and boundaries, clear lines were drawn between the various house staff and an impromptu mess hall and tavern had already been set up by the men, who laughed and roared in high spirits as the night wore on; glad that they were getting a reprieve of the constant travel.

That's where Dimitri found… well… his brother.

"COME ON!" The crown Prince almost felt Balthus' voice more than heard it, the titan of a man laughing happily as he planted his elbow on the table, a solid stack of coin at his side being overlooked by the giddy Anna who's eyes almost gleamed like Gold Dragons themselves. "WHO WANTS TO TAKE ON THE KING OF ARM WRESTLING!?"

One of the men, a stout westerlander no less, stepped up his mates laughing and cheering him on as the man planted what looked like a silver stag on the table, his own elbow landing on the wood a moment later as he grasped Baltus' hand.

It was almost comical how ridiculously large Balthus seemed next to him.

The outcome was predictable.

And then another man stepped up and another and another and another.

Ale flowed freely and that pile of coins grew ever larger and larger and larger, tempting more and more men to take their chances because hell; maybe, just maybe the Ashen Beast mercenary was finally tired.

Deep in his cups, Baltus turned, searching for any new challenger as the other men jeered at him good naturedly.

His eyes landed squarely on him.

The black haired giant smiled wide; arms opening just as wide. "Lil Br-urp." Luckily the word he was no doubt about to say died in his throat with a burp that somehow looked acidic as his elder half brother swayed on his legs. "Anna- Coin's all yours." He laughed, stumbling forward towards Dimitri.


The merchant's smile was almost demented.

Dimitri for his part, was left wondering just how deep in his cups his brother possibly could have been to recognize him so easily; given that no one else had.

But as the much much larger man reached him, placing his meaty paws on Dimitri's shoulders similar to how Robert himself would do, he didn't resist much as his half brother man-handled him out of the tent; Uncle Jamie right behind them.

As soon as they exited the tent Balthus' demeanor changed completely. Half stumbling and certainly drunk becoming a barely tipsy individual in a second as he breathed in the cool, crisp night air outside of the tavern tent. "Ahh! Now that was great." He laughed.

Dimitri blinked. "You were… faking how drunk you were?"

"Of course." He laughed. "The High rollers always think they're the only ones that've thought of waiting for the big guy to get tired and drunk before they step up to win it all." He offered Dimitri a smirk. "Got more ale on the floor than in me."

Now that he mentioned it Dimitri did remember several boisterous and overly enthusiastic toasts that spilled plenty of Ale more than once. Or slamming his cup down on the table, or a particular bout of dancing rather ridiculously as he joined some stormlanders in a merry song, drink in hand and spilling everywhere.

His eyebrows rose up to his hairline, surprised and… admittedly somewhat impressed.

"I thought-"

"That I'm just like the old man!?" Baltus interrupted smirking. "Well- I am." He chuckled. "But I got Anna with me. Damn girl knows a thing or two about makin' money!"

Dimitri blinked "I see." He… really didn't but- "So you've been with her for long then? I thought this was just a temporary posting for you-"

"Oh it is. But I've known Anna for years." Balthus shrugged. "She's one of the regular tagalongs with Jeralt and By and she ain't afraid to tell me what's what when she needs to."

"Hmm. Jeralt's Ashen beasts yes?" He began to walk, hands clasped behind his back, Balthus walking alongside him, hands behind his head and Jamie behind them; one hand resting over his sword. "How long have you been working with them?"

"I dunno." His half sibling brought his eyes upwards. "Jeeze, almost fifteen years now. Joined up when I was five or six.."

"That young!?" He asked, aghast.

Balthus shrugged as if the answer was obvious. "Well… yeah. Mom got sick. Someone had to get us some coin-" He placed his thumb on his chest smirking wide. "I was the man of the house! So it was my job."

"And…" He hesitated. "You don't resent father for that?"

Balthus shrugged. "Didn't feel much of anything about it honestly. Life is what it is. It's up to you to punch it in the face, not sit around bitching about it."

That was… straightforward?

He was fishing for words, something to say but before he could actually do so Balthus continued.

"Far as I heard the story, it was kind of a one two punch for the old man. That Lyanna lady died, and then mom died almost right after that too. So I figure if he did care about her, and I think he did- he didn't need me adding to anything by holdin' a grudge." He shrugged again. "Besides- I'm doin fine, big sis Mya's doin fine and that's what matters.

"I've never met her." He confessed. "I've heard, of course. And tried to seek her out when I was in the vale but I wasn't able to find her."

Balthus raised an eyebrow, lips pursing. "Hrmm… You probably did."

Dimitri blinked. "N-no." He promised. "I asked around and-"

"She probably told ya she was someone else." Balthus answered with a shrug. "Her mule boys backed her up."

He blinked. "But- why? I only wished to meet her."

"Ehh." Balthus rubbed at the back of his head, looking… mildly uncomfortable. "Big Sis isn't like me. She either thought you were there to pity her, or give charity and she wouldn't like either comin from the old man or you."

Dimitri's mouth opened, and then closed, then opened and closed again.

He'd… only wanted to meet her.

Though… he supposed she could never have known that… and she had a right to be angry.

Bastards suffered cruelly and unjustly.

He tried to think back to his time in the Vale, vaguely remembering a woman that owned the collection of mules and mounts that would travel up and down the mountain and through the checkpoints.

Black of hair and blue of eyes.

Respectful but… cold. Distant.

He'd chalked it up to mere nerves not…

Well.

Balthus' hand clapped him on the shoulder, laughing boisterously. "Don't feel bad about it lil-bro. She barely even takes my money when I send it and I'm pretty sure she's gonna hit me with a shovel for something when I visit this time around too!"

That… didn't make him feel much better.

Though he was trying to decide how he felt being called 'Lil- bro' for the first time ever.

—

Before long, their travel continued through the Riverlands.

As expected; the majority of the houses that had initially joined them in their march fell away; their heads and heirs returning to their homes and castles.

Though the desire to, perhaps, move faster as the train diminished in size was dashed as his father (and mother) stopped by every castle and holdfast along the way, sometimes staying for days at a time in some of the larger ones.

Sometimes it felt as though they would never reach the North.

But little by little, bit by bit- they inched their way up the King's Road.

Balthus and Anna had left them shortly after Harrenhall, diverting east to the Saltpans to continue towards the Vale as they'd intended.

The loud mercenary had kept his departure quiet, as had his father… he wondered if that said more about them or the presence of his mother here and the… possible ugliness that would arise if she found out about Balthus.

He knew his mother well enough to know she would not react well and after much cajoling he'd eked out a promise from Uncle Jamie that he'd say nothing either.

That was, thankfully, one crisis averted.

Even so, he'd managed to convince his father to (thankfully) not add to their already slow pace by diverting them westward towards Riverrun and merely continue through Harroway towards the Oldstones.

Once there; the Twins.

And finally the North.

Another week. Two at the absolute most and they'd be in the North at long last.

Of course; they still needed to pass through Greywater Watch, Moat Cailin and either White Harbor or Barrowtown, then Cerwyn before finally finally reaching Winterfell-

But reaching the North itself marked the halfway point of their journey.

This morning, his father wanted to hunt and in spite of the diversion, Dimitri found himself agreeing. Boar or Deer meat sounded very good for tonight's dinner.

And so it was with the sun rising he joined his father, mounted on horseback and with lance in hand.

"Father." He greeted.

Robert smiled at him. "Good lad!" He looked behind them. "Ya think any of these pansies will join us?" He asked with little real heat. More reflex than truth honestly.

Dimitri nodded. "I think they will."

As if waiting for his words, several other horses began riding up the slope. Cousin Lorenz, Ashe and surprisingly Connington of all people.

But the one that caught his father's eye immediately-

"Bernie?" Robert asked, bushy eyebrows rising up to his hairline as the oft times shy and reserved Arynn daughter makes her way over.

Bernie is of course, a stuttering mess but she still manages a bow in her saddle, eyes planted firmly somewhere on the floor. "Y-y-your g-grace!"

"I… well- Jon's daughter is always welcome to be with me." His father said, acquiescing easily.

Turning to look at Dimitri though his eyes were still wide and… somewhat dismayed? Concerned?

He leaned closer to the crown prince and Dimitri leaned in to listen.

"Since when does Lil Bernie know how to shoot a bow?" His father 'whispered' and Dimitri had to resist the urge to facepalm.

"Since forever!" He 'whispered' back. "She's a better shot than any of us."

Robert's eyes were wide as dinner plates, as if he just woke up from a long nap only for someone to reveal the Sky was green and Magic had returned.

Still; he didn't make a fuss about it… probably because he was immediately distracted by the next thing that caught his eye.

"Connington!" Robert balked. "You lot are showing your faces here!?"

Dimitri did sigh, rubbing at his forehead. "Father- Claude's been with us since we left the Red Keep."

"What!? And you didn't tell me!?"

"I… was fairly sure the griffin banner gave it away." He answered helplessly

"You have to admit your Grace-" Claude smirked, seemingly not put off in the least by the King's sudden notice (and ire) "I wasn't exactly hiding this pretty face."

Robert squinted at the half Dornishman. Sizing him up and down. "You don't look like that ginger haired Rhaegar lover."

"No I do not." Claude shrugged easily, bowing in his saddle with all the grace of a man that could control a Ballroom just as easily. "Claude Connington. My father was Ronald Connington; who was Brother to Jon Connington. The 'Ginger haired Rhaegar Lover' I assume you were referring to."

"And why the hell are you here?" Robert demanded.

Claude shrugged. "Simple. Jon Arryn was the man who legitimized me. I figured it's only right I pay my respects and well- I stumbled into acquainting myself with the crown Prince." He nodded in Dimitri's direction. "Shot a horse through the eye -purely by accident of course- rescued a princess-" He tossed a wink towards Bernadetta. "It was all very dramatic. I'm sure the Bards will start singing any day now."

Robert, and Dimitri certainly couldn't blame him, did not look as though he believed him- frankly, when you summed it up like that it sounded rather… absurd.

The King looked to his son in askance and Dimitri could only shrug. Nothing Claude had said was strictly untrue…

The King huffed out a breath. "Whatever. I can't keep track of half the fuckers following us anyway. Let's go and kill something- and Connington if you take a shot at me I swear to the mother you'd better not miss or I'll bring back the Mad King's execution method just for you!

"I'll keep it in mind, your grace." Claude answered easily drawing a sharp bark of laughter out of Robert at that.

Yet another crisis averted it seems.

And he didn't even have to do anything this time!


—

"Gods be good what a fucking shot." His father said in a rare moment of genuine praise before smacking Dimitri on the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me little Bernie could shoot like that!"

Dimitri chuckled.

It had indeed been an incredible shot. From Horseback no less.

They'd been chasing down an elk. It had been startled before they could get into proper range, but luckily Ashe, Lorenz and Claude had been in position to herd it towards the open field where their horses could chase it down.

So they gave chase.

And Bernie, lighter than all of them had pulled ahead, drawing back on that bow with all the skill he'd ever seen and had shot the Elk straight through the neck at full gallop, the arrow sailing straight and true.

The surprise and momentary flash of pride was all the more beautiful and tragic for how fleeting it was. Ashe and Lorenz rushed up to her, showering her with praise she didn't quite know how to handle as Claude made his way closer to the downed kill to secure it.

"Father-" He called in their momentary privacy, only ser Barristan and Oakheart were here with them now. "May I ask you something."

"What kind of question is that?" His father said. "You can ask me anything."

"Balthus and Mya's mother." He answered quickly, turning to look at his father. "Might you tell me about her?"

His father looked startled, his whole face going through a rictus of emotions; too many to really count. "I… well-" He sighed, his horse shifting in its place as if sensing the King's discomfort.

Robert held his silence, long enough that Dimitri began to wonder if he'd answer him at all.

"Her name was Alya." He finally said. "Met her when me and Ned were still fostering in the Eyrie"

"And around that time is when you and she had Mya."

"Aye… I almost married her, ya know. Would have married her if Jon hadn't found out." His father confessed. "She was my… well" He trailed off. Though Dimitri could guess what he was about to say.

"Did you love her?" He asked. He tried to keep the melancholy out of his voice. He knew his father did not love his mother. He'd made peace with that long ago.

It didn't stop that knowledge from squirming and writhing somewhere in his chest.

"I did." His father said candidly. "Think it's the one thing I ever resented Jon for. Stopping me from marrying her when I tried." He confessed.

Then he took a breath, reaching over and grasping Dimitri by the shoulder. "But. Then again; I can't stay mad at him for that either. Because if he hadn't. I probably never would have had you. Much as I loved her, I wouldn't trade you for her ever."

That…

"Thank you father." He said. "But… the reason I'm asking- Balthus and Mya. Why did you never legitimize them?"

"Thought about it." He answered. "But… never a good time. First, fostering with Jon. He wouldn't hear of it. My parents neither. After, when I was lord of Storm's End; the King was, well. Fucking madder than a march hare. Then- everything happened. The War. Lyanna. Jon was the Hand and you were on the way. Before I could even stop to catch my breath- Got word Alya was dead and that Balthus had gone off to join ol' Jeralt and make his own way."

Hmm. Dimitri supposed that made sense on some level.

But still…

"I would like to do something; for the both of them, when we return."

"Got something in mind?"

"I… was hoping you might have an idea." He confessed, finally reaching the downed Elk that Claude was beginning to tie up for transport. "I don't know them at all or what might help."

Robert nodded, smiling at him. "Aye. When we return, you and I we'll think of something. Promise."

Dimitri smiled, nodding before proceeding to dismount to help Claude.

—

The remaining journey through the Riverlands lasted longer than he'd wished, but was faster than he'd feared.

The Twins, of course, had been their final stop at a castle before they would pass Greywater watch and arrive at Moat Cailin. His father hadn't wanted to stay for more than a single day, though they had to stay for two to fully resupply and give the horses enough rest to continue.

Walder Frey had prepared a lavish feast for them and even had the bards sing songs that glorified both the Westerlands and the King. From the Rains of Castamere to the ballad of Robert's final duel against Rhaegar upon the waters of the ruby ford.

If he had to hear one more song of Rhaegar riding his great Wyvern one more time-

Well… he took a deep breath.

It was quite literally behind them now.

Greywater watch was a swamp. The second to last barrier between the North and the south; the final line of course being Moat Cailin.

His mother's wheelhouse stalled and delayed their travel ever more by the day in the bogs and more and more he wished to politely insist his mother return to King's Landing- but he did not want to be… well… a bad son.

And frankly, as much as his mother complained, time outside of the vipers nest that was King's Landing was good for her.

It was certainly good for Tommen and Myrcella, who were overjoyed and amazed to see all these new places and people and things.

And so, they plowed on.

And then; one day, peeking out of the Gloom; he finally saw it.

Moat Cailin.

The ancient fortress was withered. Like an old beast, long dormant. Its battle scars were visible and proud upon its features.

But its walls were strong, and their placement well thought out. Even in its old dilapidated state, it would take a great host to lay siege to this place, and with the Bog making it all but impossible to field such a force… well…

He could understand why this place was called the final Bulwark of the North.

Even so, Dimitri was surprised to find a banner flapping atop the foremost tower. As the column drew closer, and the flickering of torchlight began peeking through the fog and gloom, he saw it-

The distinct and unmistakable image of a sword made of bone

As soon as his father saw the emblem of Jeralt's company flying atop Moat Cailin, he could not be stopped. With the expression upon his face looking as though his nameday had come early, Robert slapped Hammerhead's reins, urging the destrier forward at a full on gallop.

Having little choice but to follow, lest the king be left alone in what was potentially enemy territory, Dimitri urged Loog forward as well, and heard the Kingsguard follow suit, their horses closely behind and then in step with his.

As Ser Barristan came up beside him the two exchanged a look of curiosity and perhaps exasperation at his father's habit of riding off ahead like an excited child, before turning forward and urging their horses ahead once more. It would not do to lose the king in the fog, after all, and he knew his father would loathe having to be pulled out of one of the many bog pits that littered this section of the Kingsroad.

'Still,' He thought wryly, 'At least if that does happen I won't have any problems convincing him to pave the damned thing.'

The approach to the castle gate was rather precarious. Thick mud reached up past the Horse's hooves, the wooden boards that were strewn about to give some firmness to their footing felt slick in the damp atmosphere and more than one of their horses looked rather unsure as they struggled up the hill.

How in the seven hells had his father pulled ahead of them so fast? Did he or Hammerhead grow wings when Dimitri wasn't looking?

When they finally caught up to the king, his father was standing in the courtyard of the old fortress and laughing boisterously with another man. Said man was dressed in well maintained–though older–metal plate with the sigil of Jeralt's Beasts emblazoned on the chest. He had a thick mustache and a full head of hair he seemed delighted and laughed just as loudly as Robert did; the king clapped him on the back hard enough to send most men to the ground.

"Father!" He called in greeting as he and the kingsguard dismounted. "We almost lost you in the fog" He said as he walked over, managing to inject only a small amount of disapproval into his tone. He would let Ser Barristan take the brunt of those responsibilities.

"What my big ol' self?" Robert chuckled. "Nonsense," His father dismissed.

Dimitri sighed, turning his eyes on the man next to his father, extending his hand to greet him. "I presume you are the Mercenary leader, Jeralt. I've heard much about you.." He said, giving a slight, respectful incline of his head to the other man, only to be caught off guard when both men burst into laughter once more.

"Son," His father said once he tamped down his laughter enough to speak, "I'd like you to meet Alois Rangeld, First Lieutenant of The Ashen Beasts and the funniest damn man I know!"

"Well, mayhaps not funniest, Your Grace," The newly identified Alois said jovially, before bowing in greeting to the prince. "But I can certainly Ran-GEL a laugh out of out anyone!"

Dimitri did not react.

His father on the other hand, roared with laughter, which made Alois laugh as well. "Ran-GEL? WranGLE? Get it my prince?"

Dimitri thought perhaps it was a good idea to return to King's landing. The northern air did strange things to people…

"Ah, relax, Alois, the boy's got no sense of humor; it's the Lannister in him." The King clapped the sellsword on the back and guided him into the fort, the world around him completely forgotten. "Now c'mon, man, what say you an' me go find where ol' Jeralt's hidin' and drag him out for a stiff drink! Just like old times, eh?"

—

The eponymous "Ser Jeralt" turned out to be in Moat Cailin's Northernmost Tower, taking inventory after the Ashen Beasts' most recent job.

After everything he had heard of the man, particularly given his position as the captain of a well-known sell-sword company that fought in the Rebellion and as an old war buddy of the king, Dimitri was rather surprised at how…unassuming he looked, with armor that looked to be a mix of steel and sturdy, undyed leathers.

His long surcoat covered the front of his dark plate, trailing down almost to his knees, the bone sword Regalia crest emblazoned proudly on the chest.

His hair was the color of dried straw, his features had an aged look to it that spoke of more than just years battling the elements or scars from fighting, and there was a sharp intelligence behind his grey eyes, but even so, Dimitri could tell several of the lines were from laughter, a fact made more evident by how his face broke into a grin when he noticed their approach.

"King Robert Baratheon, as I live and breathe," He said, moving to take a knee, before said King told him to "Get the fuck up ya sodden idiot." Robert laughed, clapping the man on the shoulder. "What are you even doin' here!"

"Honestly, just passing through. Greywater Watch suspected that bandits were hiding in the swamp to raid the north and the south. Howland asked Ned if he could use the fort to help set up a staging ground to hunt them down. We happened to be in the area, needed some time to restock and rest up. Been here now for about three days. Howland is pretty sure he should be wrapped up in another two in terms of tracking down where the bandits are. After he's done we'll be heading out."

"What, not hunting them down yourself?"

"Not as simple as that." Jeralt held up a hand, fingers rubbing together in the universal gesture of 'Coin'. "You know Northmen. They would never pay a swellsword to hunt down bandits on their land. But if, perchance, the local lord allows an old war buddy to stay somewhere for a few days after a recent job, and that location were to have a bandit infestation, well…it would only be right to do something if we happened upon them."

Robert snorted. "True. Still, last I heard you were in Braavos. Bit of a ways away from Moat Cailin."

"Figured it was time to come back. By should see our homeland." But Dimitri could tell there was something the Bladebreaker wasn't saying, and he wasn't comforted by the thought.

"Bah!" His father said, and waved a hand dismissively, inadvertently cutting through the prince's inner turmoil, "Whatever your reasons, it has been too long since we've seen each other last!"

And with that, he practically dragged the other man in the direction of the door, all thoughts of inventorying left behind.

—

Dimitri did join his father, at least for a time; While there was no 'Tavern' in the near abandoned Moat Cailin, the Mercenary band had been here long enough that they'd taken one of the buildings to be their 'Mead Hall' So that's exactly where his father went.

Of course Dimitri wasn't one to drink overmuch during the day; but he honestly could have tolerated it just to meet and mingle with some of the people beyond the Royal court. Traveling for so long and meeting only the same people was a recipe for looking for diversion; any diversion, even drinking in a mead hall.

Unfortunately; well… Only one of his parents approved.

His beloved Uncle Jamie had practically run towards him, warning him that his mother was very much on the proverbial Warpath; with an immediate hatred of the bog, a dislike of the northern climb and now hearing her husband and son were drinking in a "mead hall" with peasants had thrown her right off the proverbial edge.

Dimitri considered himself a brave young man.

He also considered himself wise enough to know when to run away.

So off they went on an impromptu hunting trip.

What exactly they would hunt in the middle of a Bog he had no idea.

But hunting trip meant time enough away for his mother to calm down. And hopefully not scold him too harshly when he returned.

Which of course, led them here

"By all the gods I've never seen an animal like that!" Ashe whispered as quietly as he could.

Dimitri could hardly blame his squire for his astonishment; he had set out with no expectations of truly finding anything and yet here they were standing in front of a… well… wonder.

Like his encounter so many years ago with the Blue Lion of the Westerlands.

If every other member of their group were not staring in shock at the bright red horse placidly eating swamp grass not 100 paces in front of them, he would think himself mad. Indeed, he had never seen cousin Lorenz so closely resemble a fish.

'A Dothraki Blood Steed. It must be.'' His cousin whispered.

The horse was massive. It looked like it could kick down a castle door with its hind legs, and the blood red pelt–the unique coloring for which the breed got its name–stood out amidst the drab browns and greens of the marsh landscape like it simply did not belong here. An artist's rendition on the wrong painting.

He had only learned about the Great Blood Steeds of the Dothraki Sea during his travels, from stories out of Essos and tomes from the Citadel. They were known as vicious mounts, impossible to tame. Most books said that they chose their rider, not the other way around. Many an ambitious Khal were said to have found themselves killed by the beasts they tried to forcibly subjugate, or so the legends went.

As a result, reliable knowledge on the breed was so scarce, many of the maesters of Oldtown thought them to be little better than children's bedtime stories.

"What on earth is it doing here?" He whispered back towards his squire.

"Dunno." Connington said at Dimitri's other side. "Definitely far away from home that's for damn sure. But I see no saddle on it… that means catching it is fair game as far as I can tell Prince Baratheon."

It was dangerous; but by all the seven gods was he tempted, if for nothing more than to show the court before releasing the beast in the Dothrakki sea again.

"Do we have enough rope on ha-"

"Please don't interrupt Mr. Fish while he's eating." A young woman's voice–flat, monotone, and low-pitched–interrupted Dimitri' as he spoke.

The interruption was so unexpected–so bizarre–that it took a moment for the reality of what had occurred to sink in, and when it did the whole scene played out as though they were performers in a mummer's farce:

In unison, as though they had rehearsed, the group spun around to face the interloper, surprise and panic on each face as some reflexively went for their weapons.

In any other scenario, that would have been the natural thing to do, but on the muddy, wet terrain of the Neck, it was an error of near comical proportion:

Uncle Jaime, slipped on some moss or wet mud. He nearly tripped and fell several times in his haste to unsheathe his sword and get in between Dimitri and the interloper, and was not helped by the fact that his famous white cloak–normally so pristine as to be recognized anywhere in a crowd–was caked in so much mud at the hem that it ruined his balance.

Dimitri himself fared little better, nearly pitching backwards to fall ass over end down the little hill; saving himself at the last minute by using his lance to keep upright. Glancing to the side he saw Lorenz didn't quite manage the same and tumbled down the hill. Only Connington, who'd been standing just a bit further away from the rest of them was able to turn his torso without moving his legs; thus maintaining his balance was staring at whoever this was, utterly gobsmacked. His mouth hanging open enough that bog flies were sure to go down his throat soon.

Poor Ashe, though, who had rarely been anywhere beyond King's Landing or the Rocky foothills of the Vale, was even worse; for a moment his arms bore a comical similarity to the cheap pinwheel toys Myrcella and Tommen used to play with, before falling face first in the mud.

Dimitri finally managed to glance up at their mysterious "surprise" attacker.

His heart all but stopped.

It was no joke, no exaggeration, no poetry or romanticized fable when the first thought crossed his mind at the sight of her.

You are the woman from my dreams.

He's seen her before. Pale of skin, dark of hair.

She was beautiful. Impossible. He wondered if perhaps this was what it felt like to die for a single instance.

The woman's gaze all but passed over Uncle Jamie and his drawn sword to look at the four of them instead.

When her eyes fell on him he felt warm. He saw a smile dance upon her lips, soft, gentle… and happy.

"Watch your step."

(X)(X)(X)

Hello friends

Now; usually when these updates come out there are 2 others in advance already written and available, that isn't the case today because honestly its been a bit of a tough week, between the Storm and the fact that I wont have stable Power until Friday (or so the power company declared for my sector) its been a bit of a drag and I kinda wanted a bit of a pick me up for my own 'morale' so to speak.

So I decided to post this chapter a smidge early.

The advance chapter should be finished and posted as usual by tomorrow or Thursday at the absolute latest. (Just to be clear there is still ONE chapter held in advance with Edelgard ahead of time still at this moment, just not the second one as per usual)

Anyway; yeah. Just wanted to finally get to show off this chapter where we can *really* see the depth of the 'changes' to Bobby B as a character and we can see how exactly one might think of him as someone you'd want to have as a friend rather than the canon Bobby B who was just a straight up asshole.

There are still *elements* of that Asshole/Frat bro personality there, of course. But the edges have been smoothed out just a lil bit.

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed and for you advance readers over on Patreon don't worry, your chapter comes tomorrow.

PS: Also, this story is still in need of a beta if anyone is interested in volunteering