VI
The whole of Winterfell was in the courtyard waiting for the royal family’s arrival. It was entirely silent, but Robb and Jon’s absence rang loudly amongst them.
Ned had spent the past three nights in his solar, wondering how his carefully constructed lies had fallen apart at the arrival of two travelers. He’d come up with no answers.
His children, sans his heir and nephew, were neatly lined up by his side as the King rode in on his grand horse. The carriage behind him stuttered slowly through the damp mud and middling snow.
Ned dropped to his knee and greeted Robert. “Your Grace, Winterfell is yours.”
Robert laughed, “Ned! You’ve gotten fat.”
Ned raised an eyebrow looking at Robert’s stomach. Robert continued to laugh as the two foster-brothers embraced.
“Cat! Come say hello to your King!” Robert grinned at Catelyn and embraced her despite the stiffness in her shoulders.
With a fixed, almost pleasant smile, Catelyn greeted him, “It is good to see you, your Grace. I trust your journey was pleasant?”
Robert winced and replied, “Pleasant enough. I’ll never understand your love for the North, Ned.” Robert stomped his feet, raising the loose dirt as evidence. “Cold, miserable muck, all of it.” He turned his attention to the line of Ned’s children. He counted four, and despite not being the most present friend, he’d thought there was a fifth somewhere.
“Where’s my namesake?” Robert boomed.
Ned leaned in to whisper, “Perhaps we can speak privately, Your Grace?”
Robert turned to look at his old friend, noting the tight lines around his eyes. “Aye. Take me to the crypts, Lord Stark. I’ll pay my respects.”
Queen Cersei interrupted them. “We’ve been riding for a moon, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”
Ned and Catelyn knelt quickly at her arrival, but Robert ignored her.
“Take me to her, Ned,” Robert demanded. Ned rose and bowed to the Queen before leading his friend away quickly. Ned took the silence as a chance to examine his old friend. Time had not treated him well. His armor strained at the buckles, and his skin was tinged yellow.
Ned lit a torch as they entered the crypts.
“Tell me about Robb,” Robert asked as they walked.
“He and Jon-“
Robert interrupted him, “Your bastard?”
Ned nodded reluctantly. “Aye. They’ve gone East.”
Robert whistled. “By the Gods. Why?”
Here Ned steeled himself to lie to his oldest friend. “To see his mother’s family.”
“She’s alive then?” he exclaimed.
Ned’s chest stretched painfully as his heartbeat too fast as they’d stop in front of Lyanna’s statue. “No, but there are still some Daynes left. And Ashara was close to the Martells.”
Robert stopped in his tracks and stared at his friend. “Ashara Dayne? I knew it!” he crowed.
“Aye, and now my boys have run off to chase ghosts.” This, at least, Ned reflected, was not a lie.
Robert didn’t know how to reply. He turned and silently placed his palm on Lyanna’s crypt. “She shouldn’t be here, Ned,” he croaked, his voice thin. “I would have buried her up on a hill. Surrounded by wildflowers.”
Ned wanted to shake Robert but refrained. “She’s a Stark,” he replied. “This is where we come to be buried.”
Robert shook his head petulantly and replied, “I should have come years ago to pay my respects.”
“You married. You had a kingdom to rule,” Ned said.
Robert chuckled bitterly. “I’d have given it all up to have her instead.”
Finally, Robert kissed his palm and pressed it to Lyanna’s crypt again. “Ned, I need you in King’s Landing. Lord Eddard Stark, my brother, I would name you Hand to the King.”
Ned felt his spine curl even as he dropped to his knees. “I am not worthy of the honor, Your Grace.”
Robert snorted. “I’m not trying to honor you. I’m trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink, and whore myself to an early grave.” Ned silently wondered how soon that would be. Robert smacked him on the shoulder and said, “Damn it, Ned, stand up. You helped me win the Iron Throne, now help me keep the damn thing.”
Ned stood and interrupted Robert. “I cannot, Robert. There are whispers from the North that the Wildlings are amassing. This is the longest Summer we’ve seen, and no preparations have been made for Winter. And my sons have left. I cannot.”
Robert reared back, obviously not expecting such a blunt refusal.
“You can worry about that in the South as well!” he tried to reason.
Ned shook his head. “The problems of the North must come first.”
Robert sighed, knowing his friend would not leave his duties behind.
Ned inwardly groaned, knowing his friend would not stop until he’d gotten what he wanted.
“Give me a year,” Ned bargained. “Let me meet with the Northern Lords and let my sons come home. Then I’ll come South and serve as Hand until you are well sick of me.”
Robert brightened immediately. “Aye! We were meant to rule it together, you know. If your sister had lived, we would have been bound by blood. It’s not too late, though. You have a daughter. We can join our houses at last.”
Catelyn would be thrilled, Ned thought uncharitably. “Sansa is young, Robert. And no one can accompany her.”
Robert scoffed. “I am King. There is no better chaperone in the Seven Kingdoms,” he declared. “And you’ll join her in a year’s time,” he smiled mischievously. Ned thought he could see a glimpse of the brother he had once loved so much at that moment.
“I must discuss this with Catelyn,” Ned managed to stammer.
Robert pulled him in for another hug. “Aye, take the night to discuss it with Cat, and tell me yes in the morning.”
He pulled away from Robert and tried to grin at his foster-brother.
If it looked like a pained grimace, neither man commented on it.
XXX
“Elbow up, Hermione, by the Gods,” Robb called out from where he and Teddy sitting on the deck’s floor trying to train the direwolf pups. Ghost was sitting obediently and nosing at Teddy’s outstretched fingers. Greywind, on the other hand, was gambling around the pair excitedly refusing to settle at Robb’s increasingly distressed commands. The pups, however, adored Teddy and settled at his murmurs.
(Hermione had a theory that they could smell the wolf’s blood in Teddy, but wouldn’t dare say that aloud)
Jon tried not to snicker at Robb’s yelp when Hermione sent a stinging hex at his right leg.
“Aye,” Jon agreed sheepishly, “A little higher there.”
Hermione groaned and threw her sword to the ground.
“I’m done with this,” she said. “How much longer til we dock, Robb?” she asked.
Robb looked at the watch- it counts the hours of the day Robb, Hermione had explained for the fourth time before he’d fully understood- and replied, “Two hours.”
She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and responded, “I’ll go get ready then.”
Their plan was simple and based on the only useful- in Jon’s opinion- information they received at the House of Black and White. The beggar Prince was staying with his sister at Illyrio Mopatis’s manse, on the Bay of Pentos. There was to be a feast at his home celebrating the successful brokerage of Princess Daenerys’- who was newly 17 namedays- marriage to a Dothraki Khal.
Jon and Hermione were going as guests- the Lord and Lady Granger of the Summer Isles- looking to further trade with Pentos. Hermione had insisted on making something she called ‘flashcards’ and had relentlessly quizzed Jon on the Summer Isles.
“Jon!” Teddy exclaimed. “What do you uh-“Teddy paused and looked to Robb for help. Robb leaned down to whisper the rest of the question to the boy. “Do you like being Lord Granger, Jon?”
The tips of Jon’s ears turned bright pink and he cursed his brother. The other boys laughed- Robb at how obvious his brother was in his affections and Teddy at the warm and giddy feeling being around his new friends gave him.
“Go make yourself pretty, Lord Granger,” Robb said to Jon with a wink.
Jon quickly ran away to hide below deck.
Two hours later, they were docked on a private area near the northmost Bay of Pentos. The boys could see Illryio’s manse from where they were peering over the starboard. Jon was fidgeting with his cuffs, the thin and brightly colored linens of his clothes making him distinctly uncomfortable.
He looked up from his fussing at the soft thump of the hatch falling back as Hermione ascended.
Teddy wolf-whistled at Hermione, and before Jon could speak, Hermione stomped up to Robb.
“Robb,” she scolded, turning to glare at him. “Did you teach Teddy to whistle like that?”
Robb yelped. “No!” He poked Teddy in the side. “Tell her!” he demanded of the little boy who shook his head side to side and refused to help Robb.
Hermione continued to glare at Robb giving Jon a few extra moments to stare. Her hair was down and loose, not quite straight nor quite curly, falling in dark tumbles down her back. Her gown was much simpler than any he’d seen Sansa wear- no embroidery, just a drape of dark purple silk, cowled at her chest and slim fitting over her hips.
“I’m just messing with you,” Hermione laughed at a distressed Robb. “I taught him that.” She high-fived Teddy and gave the little boy a nuzzled kiss on the cheek.
“Alright, Jon and I will go in and act interested in financing the Targaryen’s retaking the throne-“
Robb cut her off with an injured sniff. “I am interested in that.”
Hermione coughed pointedly. “When we get them all alone, I’ll send a patronous and our charmed portkeys will bring you to us.”
She looked at each boy in turn to check for questions. When none were forthcoming, she walked to Jon who immediately offered his arm. She smiled up at him, a few inches shorter than him even in her heels and then they were off, walking the short path towards Illyrio’s manse.
Dearil had assured them they were on the guest list and wouldn’t be questioned. They would pose as friends of the Iron Bank, he’d informed them, pressing a coin that sparked of wild magic into Hermione’s palm.
Hermione’s grip on Jon’s arm tightened as they approached the steps of the stoned manse walls, guarded by men with heavy metal collars around their necks.
Jon was of the North and the North had never held with slavers, but the disgust Hermione exhibited towards slavers was beyond anything he’d experienced.
He moved his hand from where he was rubbing his disillusioned sword’s hilt and patted Hermione’s hand in reassurance.
“Lord and Lady Granger,” Jon replied to the guard that asked for their names. He tried to emulate Robb’s lordly voice, but worried that he fell short of it.
The guards bowed and immediately let them pass into a beautiful stone garden, draped with red and purple bougainvillea and already teeming with men and women in expensive clothes and fine jewels. Jon felt underdressed, but secretly thought Hermione- in her simple dress that flashed a high expanse of tan bare thigh every step she took- was the most stunning woman there.
They mingled for what seemed like hours as the moon began to rise high in the sky and the guests began to filter out. Illyrio had made no attempt to speak with them and Hermione kept insisting that they let him come to them. Jon contented himself to stand by Hermione as she flitted between guests and watch steadily every time she threw her head back in laughter.
“Jon,” Hermione hissed, pulling him from his reverie. She tugged him over to where several girls in little clothing and thick gold collars with chains trailing behind them were serving wine. She plucked up two glasses and thanked the girl before downing a full glass.
“Liquid courage,” she muttered to him when he looked at her in askance. She barely tilted her head to the right, but he caught her meaning and subtly looked in that direction. A portly man wearing orange and red linens was headed their way.
“My Lord and Lady Granger, I presume? I am Illyrio Mopatis and may I welcome you to my home,” the man said grandly.
Hermione inclined her head. “Thank you, darling. Please, I am Hermione, and this is my husband Jon,” she drawled and patted Jon on the chest. He hoped she couldn’t feel how fast his heart was beating. “We’ve heard many things from our mutual friends.”
Illyrio puffed his chest out assuming she’d heard great things. Hermione didn’t correct him.
“As have I my dear,” he replied, obviously lying as Lord and Lady Granger had only existed for three days.
Jon interrupted their pleasantries, “We hoped to discuss our business sooner rather than later. We leave for Volantis on the morrow.”
Illyrio clapped his hands together and chuckled, “Right down to business, then, Jon.” He then straightened. “The prince and princesses have been quite business with their other guest tonight, but we can convene in the parlor to speak.” He snapped his fingers and a girl rushed towards him, her long chain dragging behind her. “Have refreshments brought to the parlor,” he ordered, smacking her bottom as she scurried away.
Jon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out.
Illyrio led them into his home and into a brightly colored room with draped curtains, low seats and hundreds of lit candles. It was beautiful, but Jon’s gaze darted around until it settled on the pair sitting on the seat closest to the lit hearth.
The girl, Daenerys, looked young. He knew she was born only months before he was, but she was thin, her cheeks hollow, and her blue silk dress draped around her body obscenely. The man was just as thin, but his hair was much greasier and less well-kempt. There was a gleam in his eyes that made Jon move closer to Hermione.
They didn’t rise as Illyrio introduced them and though Jon sketched a half-bow, Hermione didn’t curtsey. They arranged themselves around the parlor quietly as a few women brought sweets and wine before leaving quickly.
“Prince Viserys. Princess Daenerys,” Illyrio inclined his head to the silver haired pair. “Lord and Lady Granger of the Summer Isles,” he waved graciously to Hermione and Jon as he introduced them. “They’re interested in investing in Westeros’s future.”
“Are they?” Viserys asked. His voice was higher pitched than Jon had expected. “What is the Summer Isle’s interest in Westeros?”
Here Jon took over so that Hermione could discretely cast spells around them.
“The usurper and his vassals are rather prudish, I must admit. They’re not interested in trading with us. They call us savages.” Jon said. Viserys however nodded seriously in agreement. “But, the Summer Isles has always had a great relationship with the Targaryens. We’d like to see that continued.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Illyrio agreed excited and greedy for increased trade.
Viserys’ eyes glinted in the candlelight. “And what would you bring to our relationship?” he asked. “My sister is marrying a Khal. What need do we have of you?”
Illyrio stammered as he tried to stop his impetuous charge from ruining a relationship with potential allies.
Hermione interrupted their conversation with a furrowed brow as she looked at Daenerys. “And how old are you, Princess?” she asked.
“My seventeenth nameday was a moon past, Lady Granger,” Daenerys said smoothly, her voice quiet and meek in a way that neither Arya nor Sansa had ever been.
“And this Khal? His age?” she asked.
Illyrio piped up, “The Dothraki do not keep record of namedays, my dear.”
“Guess,” Hermione demanded flatly.
“Forty-five or so.”
Jon couldn’t help himself as he reared back. That was older than his father!- ‘uncle’ he reminded himself.
“Right then,” Hermione stated and in a split second, she’d whipped out her wand and cast a visible thick yellow bubble around their group. None of the guards stationed around them noticed.
Illyrio stood quickly as did Jon, but Viserys cowered back in his seat and hissed, “Witch.”
Hermione nodded calmly, “That’s correct.” She looked at Illyrio. “Stop screeching and sit. They can’t hear you.” Illyrio looked murderous but sat. Daenerys had barely moved a muscle.
“Jon,” Hermione prompted. She tugged at his hand and he held it gaining strength from her steady presence.
“Aye,” he said. He faced Daenerys and Viserys squarely. “My name is Jon Snow, but my mother, Lyanna Stark, named me Jon Targaryen. I am your brother’s son.”
Viserys grabbed Daenerys wrist and stood, dragging the girl up with him. “Lies,” he hissed. “You’ve come for our throne, Blackfyre bastard.”
Jon looked very offended at once again being called a bastard. “My parents were married! There’s record of my parents’ marriage at the Citadel.”
Viserys tightened his grip on Daenerys arm until the girl hissed in pain. There was silence for a moment before a sharp crack echoed through the room.
Hermione’s eyes turned murderous. With a wandless spell, she’d pushed Viserys back into his seat and stuck him there. He screeched in outrage, but she ignored him. She took slow steps towards Daenerys giving the girl a chance to recoil, but when she didn’t Hermione offered, “I can fix that for you.”
Daenerys eyed her, but then nodded in agreement, her eyes wet. Hermione quickly fixed her wrist. Illyrio made to speak but Hermione held her hand up to silence him. “Sit,” she hissed and motioned for Jon to continue.
“Daenerys, we know you don’t trust us.” Daenerys shrunk back as if expecting to be reprimanded. “That’s alright,” Jon reassured her. “I’ve only come to see what was left of my family.”
Hermione cut in, “But now, I think plans may have to change. I’m not leaving you here to marry a man nearly thrice your age.”
Viserys protested loudly. “My sister will do her duty!”
“Oh, shut up,” Hermione said as she shot a silencing spell at him.
Daenerys looked torn between relief and disbelief.
“But, our claim. Our birthright,” she protested weakly.
Jon spoke before Hermione could begin one of her many diatribes on the lack of logic in inherited seats. “Aye, your birthright.” Hermione let him switch places with her and Jon held Daenerys’s fixed wrist, much gentler than Viserys had. “I cannot promise you a throne, but I can promise to be your family,” he offered.
She stared at him considering his words. She had no proof that he was who he said he was, but these strangers had shown her more kindness than her brother had in years. “Okay,” she agreed, and Jon grinned wide.
Viserys shrieked and Illyrio started to protest again, but he stopped at Hermione’s sharp look.
“My brother?” she asked.
Jon clenched his jaw.
“He wasn’t always like this,” Daenerys offered. “He used to run around Braavos and pick through the trash to find me pretty things. He was good before the madness began to set in,” she trailed off.
Jon nodded sharply, still tense.
Hermione replied, “We’ll bring him along, but he’ll be restrained.”
Illyrio had finally mustered enough courage that even Hermione’s sharp looks couldn’t stop him from speaking. “You cannot simply take them and leave!” he protested. “You need me to take back the throne!”
“Oh? And what can you offer us?” Hermione asked in a mockery of Viserys earlier words.
Illyrio started spouting answers- wealth, armies, jewels- but no one- barring Viserys- was interested. Until he said dragon eggs.
“Dragon eggs?” Daenerys asked in awe thinking of the old Valyrian dragon-riders.
“Dragon eggs.” Hermione said flatly thinking of her first-year and Hagrid.
“Yes, yes, Dragon eggs,” Illyrio said. “I have three, but you must let me call for my servants to get them.”
Hermione snorted. “Servants? Slaves you mean.”
She whispered an accio and molliare before grabbing her beaded pouch from where it hung disillusioned at her side.
They all watched as three stone eggs flew towards her. She plucked them out of the air with ease and put them in her bag. Daenerys eyes widened as she watched Hermione fit the large eggs in her small bag.
“Anything else?” Jon asked.
Illyrio didn’t reply.
“Take them back to the boat, Jon,” Hermione suggested. Jon nodded and offered his arm to Daenerys who took hold of it tentatively. He sighed and put his hand on a still struggling Viserys shoulder before saying, “Padfoot,” and disappearing in a whirl of magic.
Hermione looked at Illyrio in contempt.
“Now, Illyrio, let’s discuss how I feel about slavers.”
XX
Prince Doran Martell rarely met with anyone without his loyal guards. But he and Oberyn were the last of his mother’s children left, and the news he had was sensitive. There were allowances to be made.
His brother arrived in his usual unaffected whirlwind of heavily smelling sweet Lyseni perfumes while unconcernedly eating an apple. He greeted Doran with a kiss on his knuckles.
Oberyn poured himself a glass of pear brandy and settled on a lounge chaise indolently.
“Areo asked me to come immediately,” Oberyn said, his voice lilting at the end in question.
Doran replied, “There is news of movement in Pentos.”
Oberyn straightened immediately, his eyes glinting. “What news?” he asked eagerly.
“The prince and princess have disappeared.”
“How? Have grumpkins come and kidnapped them?” Oberyn asked, laughing incredulously. They’d kept careful watch of the remaining Targaryens over the past years. It was near impossible that they could have slipped their gaze.
Doran fixed him with an impatient look. “Illyrio Mopatis’s home has been razed to the ground. His slaves were freed. The man himself is in Braavos, custody of the Arsenal.”
Oberyn winced. Even he would not try his hand against any of the Arsenals.
“And there’s no sign of the dragons?”
Doran sighed. “None. The night before their disappearance, Illyrio hosted a gathering. The only guests out of place were the Lord and Lady Granger.”
Oberyn tilted his head to the side in askance, “I’ve not heard of House Granger.”
“Nor have I,” Doran admitted.
“Are they Westrosi?” Oberyn asked, surprised. His brother was uncannily well educated in the banalities and intricacies of every house in Westeros.
Doran replied, raising his eyebrows in acknowledgment of Oberyn’s surprise. “No. It seems they hail from the Summer Isles.”
Oberyn leaned back in his chaise. From the relatively uninvolved Summer Isles, two unknowns appeared at the Mopatis’ manse and absconded with two dragons. This was the making of a bad song.
“Anything else?” Oberyn asked, knowing his brother wouldn’t have called him without a solution in place.
Doran hummed. “There was news of a Lady Granger at the House of Black and White. It seems they are traveling South across the coast.”
Oberyn caught on quickly. “Aye. I’ll take Obara. We can reach Myr within the fortnight.”
“No,” his brother replied. “Tyrosh.”