Chapter 8
Jon was early- he and Hermione had agreed to meet on deck at sunrise. But, Robb had thrown a pillow at him for nervously pacing across their bedroom. He'd taken to walking in circles by the stern instead.
He had tried to pat his curls down into something manageable more times than he would admit to, but by the time he climbed to the deck that morning, his hair was messy, reflecting his nerves.
He’d practiced with a giggling Teddy and mocking Robb and Viserys the night before, but he felt as unprepared to ask Hermione if she would allow him to court her as he had at thirteen when Robb had dragged him to a whorehouse.
"Morning, Jon," Hermione greeted as she shuffled across the deck, yawning into her shoulder and snuffling into her loose, slept-tussled hair.
“Hermione!” he exclaimed, voice squeaky. He coughed, trying to tone back his enthusiasm. “Hermione,” he repeated, quieter and hopefully less high-pitched.
A smile played at the corners of her mouth, and he felt his heart stutter and jump. "Jon," she replied, teasing.
He laughed, his nerves releasing as he remembered how easy Hermione was to be around. His shoulders relaxed as she grabbed his hand and bodily dragged him- he was only too willing to follow her- to the bench seats she'd transfigured at the helm of their ship.
They settled in beside one another. Jon sat stiffly for a second, but then Hermione pulled her legs under her and turned towards him fractionally. By now, used to her and Teddy's tactile manner, Jon relaxed and gently tucked her into his side, nominally to keep her warm, truly to hold her closer.
They sat silently in the dark as their ship sailed South until light began to peek over the Eastern waves.
“It’s beautiful,” Hermione sighed as the sea turned into crests of mulberry wine.
“Perhaps you could wake before midday to see the sunrise more often,” he teased, gently tugging at a piece of her hair.
She batted his hand away ineffectually and glared through her sleepy lashes like an angry kitten before leaning her head back on his chest. He tried not to be conspicuous when he took in deep breaths of her lavender and spices scent, but as he felt her body shake with laughter, Jon had to acknowledge that he wasn't a subtle man.
“I’d wake up earlier for more mornings like this,” she admitted carefully, biting her lip.
Jon smiled and settled his chin on the top of her head.
“Hermione-“ Jon began, just as she said his name. He cleared his throat, refrained from sighing as he'd spent the previous minutes mustering the courage to ask her to court, and nodded for her to speak first.
"Jon," she said, not looking up at him. "I care about you a lot, you know?"
He beamed, his grin stretching too wide over his skin. This may be easier than he expected. In a brief second, a quick glimpse of his hopeful future flashed through his mind- Hermione in a long dress as they danced pressed closely together, Hermione holding his hand as he carried Teddy through a market like the ones in Bravos, Hermione fresh from the shower, her hair still wet, smiling up at him, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione.
“That’s why I need you to understand that I can’t stay here,” she continued. With startling precision, the Old Gods quickly reminded him that nothing was that easy, especially when they clearly hated him.
His head snapped up quickly, even as he held the rest of himself carefully still. “I understand,” he replied. “But, Hermione, you heard Dearil,” he gently reminded her.
"I know," she sighed, peering up at him.
Distantly, he could see dolphins playing into sun-laden waves, but he focused on how Hermione's dark eyes shifted from whiskey to amber to coal in the light.
“But I can’t base my life, Teddy’s life, on a prophecy,” she said, turning back to watch the sun.
He relaxed his chin on her head again, and they watched the sun spill bright colors over the water. He didn't push her for more; he simply gave her space, trusting her to fill it when she was ready.
“I fought a war for a place in my world,” she explained eventually, unprompted. “Even if Harry was here, I couldn’t just leave those sacrifices behind.”
A future without Teddy and Hermione began to sharpen unbidden in his mind. He shoved those thoughts away before replying, "I can't say I understand the sacrifices of war."
"You will soon," she retorted sharply. He grimaced. She was tense, with a tightness around her lips and eyes he'd learned to be wary of.
“Aye,” he said carefully, waiting.
A moment passed, and then another, before-
She tugged away from him and pushed at his chest. He moved with the force, giving her space. “I don’t understand,” she seethed. “Jon, aren’t you happy? Isn’t this what you wanted. A family?" She smacked his chest lightly with each question. “Why would you go to war over a title as ridiculous as King?”
He sighed and grabbed her hands between his. “It’s not about being King,” he answered, honestly. “The moment Lord Stark took me from my mother, he started another war.”
“Explain,” she demanded, even as she let him tangle their fingers together. He took this as a good sign.
“We made a mistake,” he began, looking at her earnestly. “Robb and I shouldn’t have left so quickly or in anger. People will speak, and soon news will spread of the Stark boys with the Targaryen's. Someone will put the time between my birth and the end of the war together, and the Citadel will confirm their suspicions. And when they do, the Crown will come for Winterfell. Lord Stark will be tried for treason, at the least. The rest of the Starks parceled off as hostages and brides." Jon flushed angrily, "And then they'll come for us. I can't let them hurt Dany."
“Let’s leave then,” Hermione begged, tightening her grip on his fingers. “We can go East, find somewhere to keep you all safe.”
“Hermione, as long as we are alive, we are symbols of a dynasty that’s not yet forgotten. And the people, the lords, the smallfolk, they are unhappy with King Robert,” he said emphatically. "You showed me the numbers, yourself," he reminded her, referring to her tirades over the past sennights of Westeros's meteoric decline over the past two decades. "Thousands are starving, we're millions in debt, and you heard Dearil: there is a greater war coming."
She opened her mouth to say something dismissive and cutting about prophecies and divination, but he cut her off. “What would you do to keep your family safe?”
(Hermione didn't answer, but the truth is she would do things that Azkaban couldn't punish. She thinks of setting Snape on fire at twelve years old, of punching Malfoy in the face, of leaving Umbridge to the centaurs, of Marietta's permanently disfigured face, of the vicious curses, hexes, and spells- ones worse than unforgivables- she’d used during the war. What would she do to keep her family safe? What wouldn’t she do to keep her family safe?)
“Anything,” she answered. “Everything.”
Jon nodded slowly, noting the way she’d straightened in outrage at his question and then gradually slumped into acceptance, carefully.
“Everything,” she repeated under her breath, seemingly coming to a decision. She rolled her shoulders and sucked her cheeks in, steeling herself for backlash. “Jon, I won’t fight in your war. I can’t.” He shook his head quickly in confusion. He would never ask her to.
"I won't fight in battles. I can't do that to Teddy," she continued, not letting him interrupt. He waited patiently. "But, I can’t let people suffer when I can help,” she conceded. “As long as you stay who you are, Jon, a good man, I’ll help you win your war and keep your family safe.”
Here, Jon realized that he had a choice. He could be upset- although the thought hadn’t truly crossed his mind- that Hermione wouldn’t fight for him. Or he could be proud that he’d inspired the strongest woman he knew- a woman he’d heard speak of war in terms of children dead and women raped, instead of gold and glory- to help him.
(And maybe if he hadn’t been the kind of man Hermione had always found herself inextricably tied to, he would’ve chosen the former. However-)
“I wouldn’t have asked you for even that,” he promised, cupping her hands to his chest. “But, I will gratefully take your support and honor your trust, nonetheless.”
She looked at Jon, all dark curls and solemn Northern eyes, and was reminded of another young man of dark hair and earnest eyes that she'd sworn herself to. Jon had spoken so carefully that she felt like she was missing something that had passed between them. A frisson had shivered over her spine as he'd promised to honor her- she cursed how magic flew between words so easily here- and settled deep in her stomach.
She couldn't quite find the right words to reply, so she simply nodded. He watched her face intently, looking for something, and when he found it, the corners of his eyes relaxed. He gently tugged her back into his arms. Jon hadn't asked her what he'd planned to, but what he'd received that morning was more precious.
They watched the sunrise, warm and silent.
XXX
Harry Potter was straight up not having a good time.
When he came across the spell in the Potter Manor library, he’d felt like it was fate given the whispers around the ministry. They were quiet, but he saw the number of files that came across his desk about new Death Eater factions increase slowly starting the months after the war. He caught the patterns of purebloods funneling money between Knockturn Alley and Gringotts. He could feel something dark stirring in Wizarding Britain.
When he heard the Goblins were considering taking a side in the forever conflict of blood purity, Harry had decided that he was tired. It was exhausting fighting for a world that revered and despised him in equal turns.
The spell he found was old, ancient, and disgusting. It was a Peverell family spell added after the tragic deaths of all remaining Peverells save the much-beloved daughter of Ignotus. Sofia Potter nee Peverell, scarred from the loss of her family, had carefully created a spell that only the Master of Death could use.
She was the only Peverell left, and Death could only answer to one of its own.
The spell would send any loved ones to the safest magical nexus, no matter the space or time it was in. Harry had hoped that once he’d sent Teddy and Hermione along, he could quickly follow.
Potter luck struck.
He’d done six jumps. So far he’d landed on an aquatic planet with pale pink skin and gilled sentients; 1824 on Earth; The Swedish Prime Minister’s bathroom; the Stone Age; a desert planet with green and blue shades of sand and only scaly serpents for company; and a dimension of Earth almost identical to his own, except in place of magical wix it was chock full of superheroes and mutants- and by Merlin’s saggy tits, why would anyone fly around in a red-and-gold iron coffin?
He sighed heavily and checked his calculations for his next jump again. He was hoping seven would be his lucky number, but when had it been in the past?
XXX
Oberyn had traveled extensively- from the bright turmeric yellows and sunset oranges of Pentos to the iron and ash roads of Mantarys. He'd eaten chickpea paste and hot bread in Meereen and fried lizards on tree bark slabs in Great Moraq. He’d never managed to make it to the Summer Isles before, though.
They made port at Tall Trees Town and were greeted immediately by three tall women, each dressed in bright jewel tones and holding spears. He and Obara disembarked cautiously, taking note of the loud trills of the overhead birds, the monkeys that played freely with the Island's children, and how the small port full of armed natives watch their every move.
“You’re late,” a raspy voice greeted them in heavily accented, slippery, Common Tongue. The three women parted, revealing an elder, clad in bright red silks and white feathers. Her breasts were bare, but her skirt reached past her ankles, floating behind her in the summer breeze. Her arms were clad in enough jewels- rubies, sapphires, and emeralds- to make a Lannister whimper at the cost.
“I wasn’t aware we’d been expected. I am Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, and this is my daughter, Obara Sand,” Oberyn responded, uncommonly thrown off balance.
The elder snorted, stepping closer.
“You are here for the Grangers,” she stated, not acknowledging his introduction or offering her own.
He nodded, eyeing the women behind her, deciding honesty was the safest option here.
"Then you are late, boy," she scolded. From somewhere in her skirts, she pulled a thick walking stick and smacked him on the shins. It happened so quickly he can't deflect her. Yelping, he jumped away. Behind her, a woman sighed wearily as if she was well-used to their elder abusing visiting guests.
"Come," she ordered, walking away quickly. He obeyed, smart enough to listen to a woman in charge and sensing no danger. She led him into the leafy forest behind the port. He was embarrassed to note that he struggled to keep pace with her quick strides.
They walked for a few minutes as the elder pointed out the native flora and fauna- silver-coated tree trunks, soft-pelted, sleeping panther cubs, slithering serpents that seemingly ignored their loud footsteps. The trees began to slope higher and broader as they continued deeper into the greens until the sky itself seemed to peter off. The only light is the luminescent moss leading to a fully covered, many meters wide, sun blotting tree trunk.
The elder stopped and smiled at him mischievously before tapping the trunk lightly in a crossed pattern. There was a rough echo, and suddenly the trunk parted, exposing an entry. The elder laughed at his look of wonder and smacked his shins again. "Follow," she ordered when he glared at her.
He choked on a sudden inhale when he passed the entry and paused at the tall, glass and metal structures lining the streets of the beautiful turquoise and navy walled city he'd stumbled into. There were tall spirals of towers and homes, all carefully circling outer paths for pedestrians. Carriages were led through the streets with well-behaved animals, smaller than a horse, larger than a dog leading the way. The shops sold brightly colored and fresh-looking vegetables and fruits. He stopped and watched, amazed as a child ran by and grabbed a ripe apple from a stall without paying. No one chastised the child, simply smiled as he ran by.
"Communal living," the elder answered his unspoken question. She began to lead them more quickly to the center of the city. All the paths seemed to feed into a large, steel-floored open courtyard that held the entrance to the tallest building he'd ever seen. Its walls were made of glass and cut gems, and as the setting sun shone on them, the courtyard was bathed in rainbow lights.
Obara gasped behind him, and he turned to look. At the center of the courtyard, where the rainbow lights seemed to converge, was a young woman in a dark satin slip. She was surrounded by chanting Summer Isler's.
Unbidden, his feet carried him closer to watch. The elder didn't stop him but instead seemed pleased he was moving to their destination without needing a smack on the shins.
"Who is that?" he asked when they were within feet of the loose circle. He noticed a group of three young men speaking quietly and watching the young woman carefully but not participating in whatever ritual she was performing. He gasped when the tallest of the men, a redhead with broad shoulders, moved aside and exposed the Targaryen girl.
The elder chuckled, “You came for the Grangers. Here are the Grangers.” She used her walking stick to point at the young woman. “Lady Granger.”
Behind him, one of the women muttered, “Hermione, mama. She prefers Hermione.”
The elder pointed to the little boy in the Targaryen girl's arms. "Little Lord Granger." Then laughing, she pointed to the dark-haired boy standing next to a thin blonde he recognized as Prince Viserys. “Lord Granger.”
“Mama,” the woman chided sharply.
“Fine, fine, Amoye,” the elder said. “Jon Targaryen,” she reintroduced. Oberyn stumbled back, shocked, noting the man's distinctly Stark features.
“Mama,” Amoye scolded.
The elder rolled her eyes and ignored her daughter. “No fun,” she pouted. “Jon Snow,” she
Oberyn thought carefully on the scandal of Ned Stark's bastard as he noted the boy's almost indigo eyes and unfairly high cheekbones.
Right as the missing pieces of Lyanna Stark clicked together, revealing an earth-shaking truth to Oberyn, Lady Hermione closed her eyes and hummed. The chanting slowly died down, and when her humming reached its highest pitch, the city was silent. The birds stopped chirping; the children no longer laughed in the streets; the air barely flittered through the trees.
She suddenly stopped humming and stated, “I’m ready.” Everyone sprung into action.
The little boy slipped down the Dragon Princess’s body and clamored to Lady Hermione as she pulled a small bag from her waist and pulled three large dragon eggs from it. He couldn’t decide if he should focus on the dragon eggs or the bag that was too small even to fit one of those eggs, let alone three.
Those who'd been previously chanting began to light a ring of fire around them. Lady Hermione placed each egg carefully on the stands the redhead had set out for her. She stuck her arm in her bag, and Oberyn watched in increasing awe as her whole arm disappeared in it. Digging around, she grimaced and pulled out two athames. She handed one to the newly found dragon, Jon, and kept the other for herself.
The elder stepped into the circle, leaving Oberyn and Obara to watch from the sidelines.
Hermione smiled at her. “High Priestess Abdala,” she greeted.
The High Priestess smiled up at her, gently tapping the younger woman on the arm with her walking stick.
Oberyn sourly noted that she didn’t get smacked with the stick. Doran would call it a blessing to be hit by a High Priestess, though, he mused.
“Prepared?” she asked.
Lady Hermione nodded firmly.
“Good,” the High Priestess responded, stepping back and letting Lady Hermione begin.
She cleared her throat, and the chanting began. The words moved together so quickly that they became a song of strung together syllables. Oberyn felt the air become heavy with condensation and static.
“Damu yad amu yanga, mage putage le, dhiiga dabka,” Hermione recited carefully, softly to start, then progressively louder. On her fifty-first iteration, the High Priestess nodded at Jon, and he moved to quickly cut his forearm, spilling blood onto the middle dragon egg. A fire promptly erupted beneath it. He did the same to the other eggs.
Hermione switched her incantation, “Mto wa mwili wangu, mage putage ginna, dab qalbigaya.” She sliced her arm from elbow to wrist and dripped blood onto each egg. Oberyn watched, wide-eyed, as the thick shells began to splinter.
She continued chanting as the air became thicker and her hair sparked violently. She seemed to be running out of breath. He could see her sweat through the satin slip she was wearing, and the redhead had to hold back the little boy to keep him from running to her.
Still, she kept chanting, even as she barely whispered the words, leaning against Jon heavily, even as they bled heavily on one another. Just as he thought she would pass out from exhaustion and blood loss, the middle egg cracked fully down the side, and a small ivory-colored snout peeked out, snuffling.
With a sudden burst of strength, Lady Hermione straightened and began to chant louder. The left-most egg cracked open at the top, revealing a ruby red dragon, covered in sticky membrane as it mewled, pulling itself out of its egg. It looked around wildly before its eyes landed on the Dragon Princess.
Quite literally a dragon princess, Oberyn thought to himself hysterically.
The rightmost dragon jumped out of its shell all at once, cracking it open with a wide stretch of its wings. Its emerald scaled neck twisted only once before its gaze land on Jon. It slowly began to shuffle towards him.
Lady Hermione's eyes started to drift close, and Jon dropped the athame to catch her as her knees gave out. The redhead- the eldest Stark, Oberyn finally placed the boy- could no longer hold the boy back, and he ran to his mother quickly, ignoring the two hatched dragons. Lady Hermione smiled tightly at the boy as he sat next to her on the ground but continued to chant as the ivory dragon fought its way out of the middle egg slowly. When it finally stuck its head through the cracked egg, she slumped in bone-deep relief, sinking into Jon’s arms.
The ivory dragon jumped out of its egg and shook off its membrane with a dismissive snort before taking a quick dive into the little boy's lap. The boy eagerly began to pet the baby dragon as if it were a small dog. “Moony,” the boy crowed. The dragon’s pearlescent scales glittered sharply in the light of the fire as it chirped in response.
Lady Hermione had the strength to gape in disbelief at the sight, flail her arms in exasperation, and curse, “For fuck’s sake,” before fainting in exhaustion.
XXX
Catelyn Stark was once a Tully, and she remembers floating through spring streams and dipping her fingers in red poppy fields and staining them pink more vividly each day she spends in the frozen North. But as her girlhood days of windchimes and summer breezes ring in her ears, so do her house's words: Family, Duty, Honor.
So, she sat, in the solar of a man she equal parts hated and loved, supporting him even as she knew he'd condemned them all.
As he read the coded letter she’d brought him from the Maester, his face drained of what little color it had, and his brow furrowed deeply. He read the letter once, twice, thrice before setting it down and staring into the fire.
"My lord," she prompted firmly.
He turned to face her. They’d not spent more than a few minutes together since the boys had left four moons ago.
(“How could I leave my sister’s son, Cat?” he begged.
“I cannot say I know, my Lord, but you have ruined us all,” she swore.)
“It’s from Stannis,” he said, offering her the letter to read. It was a simple scroll on trade between Dragonstone and Winterfell. Lord Stannis claimed to want more furs as the weather on Dragonstone became increasingly unpredictable and chilled as their summer dragged on. “Every sixth letter, skipping the ones with a curled line,” he clarified so she could read through the code.
Catelyn worked through it carefully, her stomach dropping as each word clicked into place. She gasped, dropping the letter and pushing away from the desk quickly. "Bastards?" she asked incredulously.
What kind of woman would cuckold the King? she wondered. A godless one, her mind replied. An unhappy one, a small part of heart whispered.
“What will we do?” she asked, begging Ned with her eyes for a safe answer, for an easy out.
He clenched his jaw. “Stannis has left for Dragonstone. He’ll send a raven to Robert and the other major houses with the Queen’s deception in a moon.”
Catelyn suddenly shrieked. It’s caught halfway between her lungs and her mouth. She reached forward blindly and grabbed Ned’s hand for support. He’s surprised by her touch- she hadn’t let her near him in moons- but held on tightly. “Sansa,” she whimpered. “Ned, they have Sansa.”
He exhaled heavily, "Aye, my Lady." He thought of his bright-eyed daughter and wondered if she'd forgive him for sending her off to a viper-filled pit with tall tales of a golden prince and a beautiful song.
“We call upon the Lords,” Catelyn decided firmly. There was no time to dally if she was to protect her daughter and this family. “Winter is coming, my Lord. Surely, it is time to discuss preparations for the coming season.”
He blinked at her slowly, turning over her words deliberately. "In a moon, the lords will come, and we will present Stannis's letter." She nodded in agreement. "We will have two choices then, to support Stannis's words or the Lannister's."
"Lord Lannister will not allow his family to be shamed by such a scandal," she said warily.
“Aye. But Robert will not allow such a humiliation any mercy. The Queen and the Kingslayer will be executed immediately.”
Catelyn dug teeth sharply into the side of her mouth to keep from screaming. “It’ll be war,” she rasped.
“Aye.”
“And us?” she asked, carefully not thinking of Jon.
Ned was silent for a long moment, and Catelyn held her breath. "We offer the Lords their options. The Baratheons, the Lannisters,” and here he looked at Catelyn deliberately. “Or the Targaryens.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding, her lungs burning at the pressure. She’d expected this, but it still came as a shock.
"And the boys? You cannot declare war in the Targaryen's name without Jon."
He sighed and settled deep in his seat. "I'll send word to the ports. Orders for Robb and Jon to come home."
“Will they?” Catelyn asked wryly, not flinching at Jon’s name as she had in the past.
"It is an order," Ned replied, equally wry. His grown sons had run away from home. With a witch. By the Gods, he wished he could bury his head in the snow.
She nodded wearily. “Call upon the Lords, Ned.” Straightening her spine, she reminded him of her house’s words, “Winter is coming.”