Black Lion, Golden Stag

Catelyn I:

The entirety of the keep was tense, a sense of dread and fear hanging over them all.

Dark wings, dark words she thought sourly, seeing a raven flying overhead.

Winterfell had spent the past year inundated with ravens, each one bringing more terrible news than the ones before it. Wildlings on the move, attacks in the Gift, children taken at night; all this compounded with the men deserting the Watch, leading Ned to take her sons and guards to serve the King’s Justice.

Then the raven from King’s Landing had come, shattering all sense of hope. She was not overly superstitious, but Catelyn did not like the signs they saw. Her husband – sweet Ned who was always so grim and serious – did not believe in these things, believed only in the things his mind could reason and dismissed the rest as tales to keep unruly children in line.

Jon Arryn was dead. Dead for near two moons now, judging by when they had received that particular raven. Ned had been devastated, his foster father another being taken from him, though he had cheered at the thought of his old friend coming to Winterfell. They had been awaiting the eldest princes, the note the King had sent to Ned said as much before they expected to leave King’s Landing as soon as they returned. The thought of the royal court in Winterfell had thrown them into a flurry, and the bannermen were invited to air their grievances – especially now that the Wildlings had taken to arms.

“Arya!” the shriek came, distracting Catelyn from her dark thoughts as she saw her impish daughter running alongside her wolf. Nymeria was taller than her knee, the direwolf near as tall as Rickon with far too intelligent golden eyes.

“Arya Stark!” she called sharply, glowering at the girl as she ran about in a muddy dress.

Arya’s grey eyes widened, a sullen expression coming over her as she stopped and fidgeted in place. The servants rushed about, weaving around a furious Sansa who had a face streaked with dirt.

“Mother! She is being a complete wretch and ruined my dress!” Sansa shrieked, stomping over to them as she complained of her sister. Bits of mud were on her dress, as well as on the dresses of Sansa’s ladies.

“You deserved it,” Arya muttered, a scowl on her face as she glared at Jeyne Pool. The steward’s daughter stood behind Sansa, a fierce look on her face as she matched Arya’s glare.

Lips tightening, Catelyn stared down at her unruly child, pointing to the keep. “Inside, now. You’ll clean yourself and make your way to Septa Mordane and sit for your lessons until supper. Am I understood?”

Arya opened her mouth to protest before scowling, throwing a heated glare at Sansa as she trudged off to her rooms.

“To your rooms, Sansa. Clean yourself, I’ll come by later,” Catelyn sighed, seeing the scowl on her face as she followed her bidding.

Making her way to the Great Hall, she saw her youngest dashing across the courtyard with his wolf, the two as untameable as ever. The servants were bringing up the final barrels of wine from the cellars, several carrying them to the kitchens. They were expecting King Robert and his family within the week, and Catelyn would not have it said that Winterfell was found lacking.

It was as she ordered the chandelier cleaned that Luwin found her. He came to her, heavy chains clinking with his steps as he pulled a small scroll from his furs.

Will these messages never cease? She wondered in despair.

“A raven from The Eyrie, my lady,” he told her, handing it out for her perusal.

“My sister?” she questioned, walking to make her way to the closest brazier. Ned had told her she and her son had returned to the comfort of the Vale after Jon’s death and she worried for her; she had only her boy left to her, and the Lords of the Vale would be angling to earn some power during Robin’s regency.

She unfurled the scroll, sweeping her eyes over the familiar script and felt the blood drain from her face.

Oh Lysa, she thought, hands tightening on the small scroll.

“Have the men returned?”

“Not yet, my lady. Lord Stark should return within a few hours. The deserter was found near Tumbledown and brought closer to Winterfell,” Luwin informed her. “We’ve also received a raven from Castle Cerwyn. It seems the King’s party has made good time – their scouts estimate that they should be here within the next two days. Three, if the King stays a night in Cerwyn.”

“And bring them into our home,” she murmured, eyes staring blankly into the fire.

“My lady?” Luwin questioned, brow furrowed in curiosity.

She waved him off with a strained smile, certain she was not fooling him though he was too polite to say so. “The Cerwyns will join the King’s party most like. Have someone ensure the rooms are fully prepared for our guests, maester. I must check on the girls.”

She left him in the Great Hall as she wandered to the family wing. Arya was like to keep sulking, she knew, and nothing Catelyn said would get to the girl. Ten namedays and she already held such scorn for her station, and Catelyn veered off toward Sansa’s rooms instead.

Her eldest daughter was sitting at her vanity; a fresh gown of pale blue while her hair was loose and slightly damp, Lady seated near her. Of all the direwolves, it was Sansa’s that was the most behaved even if she was near as large as the others. Tully blue eyes locked onto hers, and Catelyn smiled as she took up the brush, running the bristles through Sansa’s red hair.

“And what was it, that caused you and your sister to fight again?”

Sansa scowled, eyes darkening in anger. “She is a monster, Mother. Arya will embarrass us!”

The Princes, she thought ruefully, remembering the arguments the children had over the two eldest sons of King Robert.

“You must not fight with your sister, sweetling,” Catelyn told her, smoothing a hand over Sansa’s shoulder. “The court will be here, and you would not like to shame yourselves, hmm?”

Sansa fidgeted slightly before stilling, gaze turned to her through the reflection. “Mother,” she said lightly. “Do you know what King Robert is coming North for?”

A Hand and a bride, she thought in dismay. Sansa would make a lovely princess, was born to be a queen though the Northerners doubtless wished to wed their heirs to her. Her little girl had been a lady at just three namedays and at two and ten was like to flower into a beautiful woman.

“I do not,” she told her instead, braiding the red hair into a crown. “Doubtless the King wishes to see your father and renew his alliance with the North.”

Sansa beamed at her, eyes glazed in thought. “Prince Joffrey was knighted just two moons past,” she said, “and Prince Steffon is said to be his brother’s equal with a sword. The youngest knights of the realm for over a century!”

Smiling, Catelyn let Sansa’s words wash over her as she thought on what was coming to her House. Direwolves found with a broken antler near it, scheming Lannisters, and the possibility of Sansa as queen.

There was no other they could choose, that much she knew. Robert’s children were born of a Lannister, and there were no other maidens of age other than the Martell heiress and the Tyrell girl – two kingdoms he would never give his sons to.

“Sweetling,” Catelyn interrupted, hearing the horses and the shouts of the men. “It’s nearly time for supper.”

“Of course Mother,” Sansa replied, standing to bring her wolf to the kennels. Catelyn pressed a kiss to her forehead, the two making their way to the Great Hall. Already, the men were preparing to sit; Ned was present with their sons and his bannermen, Arya slinking in from the table that held the bastard.

Years she had had to suffer the presence of Jon Snow in her home, amongst her trueborn children. No matter that she had raised all manner of argument with Ned, her lord husband refused to see sense when it came to the boy.

He is now six and ten, she reminded herself. A man grown and like to head to the Wall as soon as he can, Ned’s approval or not.

She sat for dinner, ignoring the boy sat at the lower tables as Ned pressed lightly on her hand, the scroll burning through her dress.

“Are you well Cat?” he asked lowly, grey eyes soft with concern. She flicked her eyes once more to the bastard, before looking at her husband, his eyes turning to steel at what he saw. He turned to Jon Umber, the giant lord's booming voice keeping Ned occupied for most of the dinner.

She sat impatiently for the rest of supper, her courtesies on full display as she waited for the plates to clear. Robb and Daryn Hornwood were chattering lightly in their corner surrounded by the heirs of the North, Bran whispering with Arya over their journey. It was not his first time seeing a man executed for desertion, and Brandon had become accustomed to the sight, as frequent as they had been the past two years.

It felt like hours before they had finished, the guards standing to relieve the others as servants bustled about clearing the plates.

“There was a raven,” she murmured as they stood to leave. Ned’s eyes flashed with steel, an almost silent plea for good news that she was sad to have to break.

He steered her toward his solar, where Luwin awaited them. More scrolls were held in his hands, and Catelyn felt a flash of irritation at the sight of them.

“My lord,” Luwin began, an almost apologetic look in his eyes. “These just arrived from the Wall.”

Ned sat behind his desk, Catelyn falling into the seat across from him as Maester Luwin handed him the scrolls.

“Lord Commander Mormont reports increased sightings of Wildings for the past fortnight,” Ned told them, eyes scanning the scroll before he broke the seal of the other two. “Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower,” he murmured. “They report the same. Wildling activity has increased in the past sennight – closer to a fortnight.”

“More Wildlings on the move?” she questioned.

He leaned back in his seat, hand covering his beard as he stared at the fire. “Robert will want me to be his Hand, but I cannot leave the North at this time. Not with things progressing as they are.”

She shared a look with Luwin, though the maester looked as if he might agree with Ned.

“This is unsettling,” Luwin replied, “and certainly a matter to bring before the King.”

“Robert would probably want to hunt them himself,” Ned chuckled. His smile was a small thing, face more grim in light of the news they had received.

“Will you inform your bannermen?”

“I shall have to. Especially with Karhold and Last Hearth so close to the Wall,” Ned replied.

She closed her eyes, knowing her words would cause him to go south. She did not want Ned in the capital – nor anywhere near Lannisters – but she wanted him battling Wildings even less.

“There was a letter from The Eyrie,” Catelyn said, pulling their attention. “Lysa wrote that Jon Arryn…she says the Lannisters killed him.”

Silence filled the room at her statement, and Catelyn stared at Ned as he hid behind his mask of stoicism.

“My lady,” Luwin began nervously, a slight waver to his voice before he cleared his throat. “Are you certain o—”

“The letter was in my sister’s hand. Ned,” she said, turning to her husband. “Lysa would not lie, not with something such as this. It was written using the code we had made as girls.”

“My lady, to accuse the Lannisters – the Queen’s family at that – of treason is a grievous claim and one they are not like to take lightly,” Luwin responded.

The flames cast shadows on Ned’s face, and Catelyn saw his eyes harden. “Lannisters,” he said stiffly, face drained of colour. “Gods, Robert is surrounded by them…shares a bed and children with a Lannister. If they killed Jon…”

“Lord Stark,” Maester Luwin cut in.

“No, Luwin,” Ned said firmly. “Robert is my brother in all but blood. I cannot leave him at the mercy of the Lannisters. I’ve already seen what they consider mercy.”

His face had darkened at the thoughts racing through his head, and Catelyn bowed her head in fear and prayed for them all.

Mother have mercy, keep watch over my family.

“What will you do?” she asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

“I cannot state your sisters claims,” Ned told her, eyes locked on hers. “Not without evidence behind it. Not without understanding just why the Lannisters would wish Jon Arryn dead.”

“You will go to King’s Landing,” she stated.

“Aye, I will go. I’ll be Robert’s hand and do as I must to bring the Lannisters to justice,” he confirmed.

“And the princes, my lord?” Luwin questioned. Seeing the puzzled look they sent him he elaborated, “They are reportedly very close to their mother’s House, Ser Wendel has made mention of their rapport with their uncle Lord Tyrion.”

Lips tightening, Ned nodded slowly. “Yes, I recall. Lord Tyrion signed as witness for several of Prince Steffon’s declarations.”

“Surely you do not think them aware?” Catelyn asked aghast.

“They were not there when Lord Arryn passed, nor do I believe they might have been aware, my lady. It is simply something to consider; the heir to the throne is not like to appreciate the accusations of treason against his maternal House,” Luwin replied, a look of worry on his face.

“Treason aided is still treason,” Ned murmured, face pinched as he thought on Luwin’s words. “I will go south. You will both remain with Robb. He is six and ten – old enough to perform the duties of the lord with your guidance. Jon—”

Scowling fiercely she sharply stated, “He will not remain here.”

“Catelyn,” Ned said, a note of resignation in his voice.

“Your son he may be, my lord, but he is not of my blood and I will not be made to suffer his presence any longer,” she retorted, face flushed in fury at the thought of Jon Snow prancing around Winterfell, coveting what was not his to covet.

“He is of my blood, he is the blood of the Starks. Winterfell will always be open to him,” Ned countered. His eyes had remained the cold ice she was accustomed to seeing when he donned the mask of the Warden of the North.

“Young Jon is a man grown, Lord Stark,” Luwin interjected calmly. “It can do no harm to speak to the boy of it.”

“Aye, he is,” Ned responded. “He has made plain his wish to join the Watch, especially in the past year with the increased raids. I will speak with him on the morrow, and we will decide together. I’ll not hear more of it until I speak with the boy.”

Daenerys I:

They led her to Drogo’s tent, the sand of the Red Waste whipping viciously against them as if they had offended the gods. The khalasar had been uneasy at the stillness coming from Drogo, muttering curses at the Lhazareen maegi for her actions. Once, they had been thousands strong, and Daenerys was left with many of the women and children.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said lowly before she could enter, “mayhaps we should prepare to leave. The khalasar is not like to—”

“I’ll not leave my husband to suffer alone Ser,” she told him sharply, purple eyes glinting with determination as she gleaned his meaning. “Not when Drogo has been harmed by mine enemies.”

“Forgive me, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah rumbled, bowing in acceptance.

Striding past him, Daenerys entered the tent ignoring the woman sat in the corner, hands bound and mouth gagged to keep her from sprouting her foul hatred.

“Khaleesi,” Irri said, a slightly wary look on her face.

“Rakharo,” Daenerys called, staring down at the lifeless eyes of her husband. Drogo’s eyes had gleamed with fierceness, not this half-life the woman had consigned him to. The copper-skinned warrior entered the tent, a glare of loathing shot at the woman. “Prepare the funeral pyre.”

“Khaleesi,” he muttered, making his way outside to do as she required.

“Leave us,” she ordered Irri, a hand on Drogo’s head. Her sun-and-stars had never been so still in the time she had known him. Drogo’s copper-skin was paler than usual, black eyes staring blankly up at her. Daenerys took hold of a pillow, placing a soft kiss on his mouth.

“Ride through the night lands, my sun-and-stars, and conquer the stars with our son at your side. They shall pay for what they have done,” she murmured, before placing the pillow on his mouth for several long moments, holding it in place even after she felt the life leave him.

Placed next to Drogo was a small crib; Rhaego’s pale body lay unnaturally still within, skin pale as his fathers. Someone had closed his eyes; the blank purple orbs no longer haunting her as they had done in the days after his birth.

It had all been too soon; Viserys had proven himself a fool, her dear brother so convinced he was the dragon that would return their throne. All he had been given was a gold crown, a just reward for daring to lay a hand on her. She did not mourn him, the weak man he had become, but a part of Daenerys cried for the young boy who had once told her stories of Westeros.

“Khaleesi, it is ready,” Rakharo told her as he entered with her kos, an uneasy look on his face.

She turned then to the woman in the corner. “Take the witch, she should prove of use.”

Daenerys saw the maegi’s eyes widen and a smile came to her for the first time since she felt Rhaego die as he entered the world.

Only death can pay for life, she remembered the maegi telling her, nodding for Rakharo to do as she requested.

The woman was dragged outside, Jhogo and Aggo taking hold of Drogo’s body as they hefted him to the pyre. Daenerys walked to the crib, arms reaching for her son. Rhaego had the colour of his father, with silky black hair that curled at the ends as hers did, the features of Old Valyria stamped on his face alongside the streak of silver in his hair. He would have been the Stallion-That-Mounted-The-World; Rhaego, the greatest of the sons of Valyria, would have propelled them to new heights, would have made the world tremble in awe of her dragon.

She lifted the small babe, walking outside to see what remained of her khalasar waiting for her. Ser Jorah was stood closest, and Daenerys ignored the man as she ordered him to bring her trunk forward.

Walking across the dusty field, Daenerys climbed the pyre and placed Rhaego on his father’s chest, lifting Drogo’s hand to hold the child.

Blinking furiously, Daenerys ignored the burning feel of her eyes as she stared at what had remained of her family.

And now I remain the last, she thought, a dragon alone to show the world her wrath.

They would pay – Baratheon, Lannister, and Stark. The Usurper and his dogs had killed her husband, had poisoned Drogo so he could not bring the wrath of the Targaryens to them. They had woken the dragon, and Daenerys vowed on her family’s remains that she would see them brought to heel for all they had done.

There was a pull, a sudden need in Daenerys and she made her way to the trunk Jorah had brought out. Dany lifted the lid, her eyes lingering on the three eggs.

Only death can pay for life, she thought, certain that her dream of dragons meant something more than simple wants.

She lifted the three eggs, each warm to the touch, and carried them to what remained of her. The black egg with red swirls she placed on Drogo’s heart, curling Rhaego’s body around the egg as she would have had he lived. The green and bronze egg went beside his head, the cream and gold one next to her son, surrounding her little dragon with the proof of his heritage.

“Bind her to the pyre,” she ordered, walking down to grip the torch. Mirri Maz Dur was flailing, twisting in an attempt to flee before Rakharo struck her across the face and tied her to the pyre.

She waited only until Rakharo had cleared the area before lighting the fire; the maegi’s squirms blocked by the rapidly growing flames.

The air was rent with the witch’s screams, the gag not proving enough to muffle the horrid sounds. The fire crackled, the fierce heat a soothing tickle for her.

Fire cannot kill a dragon, she thought.

It took the others a split second to realize her intentions, but they were too late to do more than scream in horror as Daenerys entered the pyre, the flames flaring brighter as she walked in.

Visions danced in the flame, and for a moment Daenerys feared she was in the grip of madness.

“Burn them all!” a man with stringy hair screeched, purple eyes wild with madness. “Burn them in their homes and their beds, burn the traitors as they come. Let them have a city of ashes!”

“A crown of gold for a king with no home,” Drogo said, upending the pot onto Viserys’s head.

“Dany!” her brother cried, falling to his knees as he clawed fruitlessly at the molten liquid.

“Will you write him a song?” a woman asked, abed with a small child held to her chest. Tufts of silvery-gold hair were visible, and Daenerys imagined the small child to have purple eyes. The woman had dark hair, black eyes staring at a tall man with pale silvery-gold hair stood by the window, dark purple eyes filled with melancholy. There was sadness clinging to his shoulders as if a cloak, long fingers lightly strumming a quiet tune on a beautiful harp.

“He has a song. He is the Prince Who Was Promised, and his is the Song of Ice and Fire,” the man replied as he looked straight at Daenerys. Rhaegar, she thought, violet eyes locked onto his eyes of dark indigo.

There was a sharp twist in the flame before it showed another babe, this one black of hair with glowing green eyes. The face grew in the flames until she saw a man, tall and muscular with a curved scar across his face, the same green eyes glowing with untold power as a crown of gold sat in his black curls. There was a sudden shriek, a flock of birds flying in panic as a large shadow fell over him.

Flames grew, a fire surrounding a black stag as roses clumped around a green-tinted stag.

“The Iron Throne is mine by rights,” a man screamed, a pair of lords knelt at his feet.

Daenerys suddenly found herself soaring, a giant wall of ice rising from the sky. Blood trickling down, as it seemed to weep, a blue flower growing from a chink in the wall.

There was a cloth dragon, the high walls of a red keep in the background as the dragon swayed on poles amongst the cheers of the crowd tangled in webs.

Black flames drew her attention, the fire battling with red streaks as a city burned bright beneath.

A white flag covered her vision, blood staining the field as an army watched on.

There was a wolf howling in pain, a lioness circling as a golden stag attacked.

The flames shifted, bells swaying in the wind overtop a graveyard.

There was a falcon choking, a mockingbird taking flight to soaring heights.

The flames shifted once more, and Daenerys felt a sudden chill in the flames as ice blue eyes stared malevolently at her, the creature’s horns forming a crown of ice as it headed a massive army.

Daenerys did not know how long she had stood in the pyre, the visions gripping her, until at last the flames had died down.

It was dawn, the hour of the nightingale finished as the sky was streaked with a sudden light. Standing carefully, Dany felt the creatures cling tightly to her, one nursing at her breast as the other two rested on her shoulders.

They were the exact colour of their eggs; green and bronze, cream and gold, and the last a deep black, striking patterns of red swirling throughout.

Daenerys walked out of the pyre, her khalasar in awe as they bent the knee as one.

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah murmured.

She stared at them all, hand idly stroking the dragon in her hand.

“Rise Ser Jorah,” she ordered. “Your queen has need of you.”

Jorah bowed as Daenerys stood, uncaring of her nakedness, the three dragons living proof of her destiny. Soon, Westeros would see the return of House Targaryen.

“How may I serve, Khaleesi?”

She turned her gaze westward, an endless desert as far as the eye could see. To their south and east lay the Red Waste, she remembered, and Daenerys had no wish to bring her people through that. She had dragons, and she needed meat to feed them so they may grow strong.

“Prepare the horses, Ser,” she told him, coming to a decision. “We head west.”

Overhead, a red comet streaked across, the sky covered in the image of blood.

Steffon I:

They were camped along the Barrowlands when Steffon felt it.

He had taken his first step into the North at The Neck and felt a deep, underlying power. Different from Dragonstone, something ancient and wild that called to him. It reminded him a bit of Storm’s End, and Steffon recalled the tale of how Durran had raised his keep with the help of a Northman.

They were sleeping in the open, tents settled and a watch set as the queen muttered foul obscenities for having to suffer such a fate.

The North was a frigid place; the weather cool and Steffon had been amazed to see summer snows. Scotland, as cold as it had been in Harry’s memories of winter, did not see snow during such time. Though they also did not suffer such odd seasons.

It was as he slept – for once his dreams free of horrible possibilities – that he felt a slow stirring.

His magic had been more active since they entered the North, a sort of loosening of the chains that had held it at bay. He had slept with a slight tingle beneath his skin, the warm feel of his magic responding to an unknown call.

At once, the stirring had turned painful; Steffon had felt it increase at night until he was now thrashing in pain, a fierce pressure on his chest as he felt the build-up of untouched magic.

It was as if a chain had suddenly snapped, no more of the slow loosening he had become accustomed to. A sudden surge flowed through him, skin crackling as the candles in his tent flared brightly all at once. Spots of light danced behind his eyes, and he groaned in pleasure as the pressure suddenly receded, magic dancing along his skin.

Shouts cut through the air, the guards in terrified awe as he heard several break out into hushed prayers.

“What’s going o—Mother have mercy, what is that?”

Steffon stirred from his cot, the furs falling to the ground as he sluggishly stumbled to the desk within. His hand knocked over a candle, the wood catching fire, and Steffon was alarmed to find he felt pleasant warmth from the hot wax and the flames that were caressing his hand.

On the verge of hysteria, Steff blew hard on the flame, determined to ignore the last two candles as he struggled to shrug on his tunic. Vaguely, he noticed that the cold did not bother him as much anymore, inner warmth radiating and he ruthlessly shoved that thought aside.

That way leads madness, he thought uneasily.

He threw on a cloak, fingers fumbling sluggishly in his haste to tie a knot as he made his way outside to see what had the guards in a snit.

Fucking hell, he thought in fear. It looked like a comet, had all the hallmarks of those he had learned about as a boy in another life, but this one wasn’t the colour of light.

It was red, bright and eerie, a stark contrast to the lightening sky. It looked like fresh blood had split the sky, and Steffon could easily see why they were so awestruck.

It was beautiful. It looked deadly. Steffon had the sudden feeling that the comet meant nothing good for them.

Joff had woken at some point, staring oddly at the sky.

“They say comets are a sign of dragons,” Joff told him quietly, a queer tone in his voice.

“Where would you have heard that?” he asked lightly, ignoring the churning in his gut as his mind drifted to the flames from his tent.

Dragons, he thought darkly. He had known of the Targaryen dragons, had dreamed as a child of once more riding a dragon – though this time with hope to enjoy the flight instead of fear for their lives.

But there were two Targaryens in the world, and if the comet heralded dragons Steffon prayed that they did not survive the first year.

Let them stay as small as the Dragonbane’s creatures, lest they turn their gaze westward, he prayed.

“Uncle Tyrion heard it from a Tyroshi sellsword,” Joff told him, green eyes blazing beneath the light.

“Ah, yes. I did, didn’t I?”

Tyrion waddled over to them, mismatched eyes bright as he stared above. “I’ve always wanted to ride a dragon,” he murmured lowly.

“Don’t let the king hear you,” Joff told him, eyes darting across to see whether Robert had stirred from his sleep, warhammer in hand as if to smite any mention of dragons. “Like as not you’ll be short a head for such thoughts.

“Perish the thought should that happen,” Tyrion quipped. “I imagine a good many people would collapse at the sight.”

Steff felt his lips quirk up in a humourless smile.

Fear clawed at him. He should have been happy; his magic returned at a time when things were becoming more dangerous. Yet all he felt was dread at the portents.

“Get some rest,” he murmured to Joffrey, turning his gaze on his brother. Joff himself looked solemn, face serious as he realized the potential ramifications. “Father will want to ride out soon.”

Steffon lingered outside, eyes tracing the comet before he returned to his tent.

He made his way to the travel desk holding the two candles, blowing out the first. Hesitantly, Steffon held his hand out and pressed a finger into the flame, awe and terror warring within him as he saw it dance across his skin.

It felt warm, pleasant to the touch, as his skin remained smooth and unburnt. Bringing his hand to his eyes, Steffon did not see even the pinking of skin that preceded a burn, and he felt only terror at the thought of what it all meant.

A sudden breeze blew out the remaining candle, and Steffon threw himself on his cot, eyes staring blankly as he thought on his family.

Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, wife to Ormund, mother of Steffon, grandmother of Robert, Stannis and Renly.

Was it possible? Could the blood of his Valyrian ancestors have done this?

He knew the tales, the old stories his father did not want them to learn. Visenya Targaryen had been a mage. Aegon the Conqueror had flown a dragon from Valyria. Countless Targaryens touched with magic, with the fire and blood of Valyria.

Orys Baratheon had the blood of Valyria, he recalled, his many greats grandfather having been the natural son of Aerion Targaryen. Targaryens and Velaryons had intermarried with House Baratheon.

He fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams plagued with thoughts of fire and blood and the fury of his father should his heir show such Targaryen tendencies.

They saw Winterfell as they crested the final hill.

Father had forced them to set out early, Steffon barely sleeping before Tommen had come crashing into his bed with a shrill wake-up call, the younger boy laughing himself hoarse as Steffon fell to the floor in surprise. It seemed the further North they travelled, the more excited the king became at the prospect of seeing his oldest friend.

They had been met with an honour guard as they prepared to leave Castle Cerwyn, wolf banners flapping in the air as a company of twenty man sidled up beside them. Jory Cassel had led them, his guards falling in front of the Kingsguard knights and the retinue that had come north with the royal family.

Cella had agreed to remain in the wheelhouse with their mother after she saw the keep, and Steff and Joff chased Myrcella and Tommen across the field, horses galloping at full speed as Ser Arys and Ser Preston cursed and tried to keep up. They had kept their knights busy, the four of them riding along the vast lands of the North to keep warm.

“Come on Tom,” Joff called back. “You don’t want to miss your first look do you?”

Laughing, Myrcella came to a stop next to Steff, her brown mare eager to ride more. “It’s massive,” she said, green eyes wide as they had their first look at Winterfell.

It was a fortress, no doubt about that, and Steffon could see some similarities between Winterfell and Storm’s End.

“It’s bigger than the Red Keep,” Tommen said awed, the sight of the sprawling keep enthralling him.

Winterfell was a large complex of keeps, he had been told, and he could see the many turrets to show it. It wasn’t as tall as the Red Keep, built more wide to encompass a greater amount of land. It was a stout fortress, and Steff had no difficulty imagining how hard it would be to take this particular castle.

“Riders!” A guard shouted, Lord Stark’s men preparing to lead them down.

“Princess, you must make your way to the wheelhouse,” Ser Arys cut in.

The siblings turned as one, a slight narrowing of her eyes before Myrcella agreed. “Mother is going to have a fit when she sees my hair,” Cella said, and the boys smirked in agreement. She looked windswept, pristine but for the flyaway hairs.

“No doubt she’ll lay the blame with us,” Joff told her lightly, and Steffon was glad to see the glint of humour in his eyes. Joffrey had finally squashed any unease when around their mother, though Steffon knew the boy had not forgiven her.

“Alas, duty calls sister,” Steff exaggerated, a hand smacking her filly’s rump as Myrcella shot him a glare of annoyance, Ser Preston riding after her.

“Come on Tommen, we’ll have to get in position.”

They raced the short distance to the king; Ser Jaime was mounted on his horse in front as Ser Arys rode to his place.

“Make yourselves presentable,” the king ordered, looking around to see that everything was prepared. Steffon glared at Joff, the boy’s face a mask of innocence as he grinned at him. It would be another twenty minutes ride to Winterfell, thirty if the wheelhouse did not cooperate, and Steffon straightened Tommen’s doublet in preparation.

“Ready little brother?” he asked.

Tommen nodded anxiously, green eyes worried. It was his first time travelling so far, and to a place other than Casterly Rock, but he was determined to do his part.

“Just smile,” Joff told him, green eyes amused. “They’ll be more focused on Steff anyways.”

He tousled the boy’s golden hair, a slight smile on Tommen’s face before they lined up behind the king, Steffon directly behind his father with a brother on either side.

Shouts rang out across the line, the retinue falling into place as the Northerners led them to the gates.

They rode in silence, the wind whipping frigid air in their face. Steff saw Tommen shudder slightly and could just make out the slight curse that left Joffrey’s mouth.

“Open the gates for the king!” Jory Cassel called as they approached, the guards on the ramparts shouting down orders as the gears turned.

They rode through Wintertown, lines of smallfolk bowing at the sight of King Robert and his sons. There were guardsmen stood closer to the entrance to the keep, their heraldry showing the various houses of the North. The crowned stag flapped in the wind alongside the grey direwolf, the lion of Lannister nowhere to be seen in the king’s retinue.

The final gates had been opened, and as they rode through Steffon saw his first glimpse of House Stark and the North.

They were all kneeling in the courtyard, and his father positively leapt of his horse, crown crooked on his head in his haste to greet his friend. Turning, he saw that the monstrous wheelhouse his mother insisted on did not make it past the gates, a group of red cloaks hastening to bring the queen forward.

Smirking lightly, Steff saw the similar expression on Joff’s face as Myrcella trotted forward. She sent them a smile full of smug satisfaction, though she had rode side saddle for the nonce.

A groom hurried forward as they saw Ned Stark rise, the rest of his household following. Lord Stark was tall and broad, every bit a Northerner with long brown hair and a long face, a beard present on his face. His wife looked every inch a Southroner; tall and lithe with red hair and blue eyes, her children all favoured her look but for a single child with the Stark colouring and features.

Unbidden, Steffon felt a twinge of relief at the sight of Tully-looking Stark children; Ned Stark would be Hand of the King, and Steffon meant to give him no cause to look too closely at his family.

The king and his friend stared at each other for a long moment before Robert said, “You’ve got fat.”

Steffon felt Tommen shift at the comment, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing as Ned Stark raised an eyebrow, eyes glancing at the king’s own belly.

A great laugh erupted from his father, the man rushing forward to hug his foster brother and greet the rest of the Starks. The Stark’s bannermen were arrayed around them, the lords and heirs of the Northern houses present in full force as Steff noticed Ser Wylis stood with what must be his father.

Steffon swung down from his horse, handing the reins of Twitch to a stablehand as he saw Tommen get down, his little brother moving closer to him.

“Time to greet the Starks,” Joffrey muttered, Myrcella on his arm as Mother strode forward.

Steffon held his arm out and felt her slide her arm in, a quick glance from her to make sure they were presentable – though she looked a bit miffed at Cella – before they faced the Starks as one.

“Your Graces,” Lord Stark said, bowing and placing a kiss on Mother’s knuckle as she held her hand out.

Cersei’s smile was entirely false, and the cool dislike from Eddard Stark palpable as the man looked at her. His wife stood stiffly next to her, and Steffon resisted the urge to glance at Joffrey.

Father stood next to his friend, a beaming smile on his face as he introduced them.

“My eldest sons, Steffon and Joffrey,” he said, a meaty hand landing on his shoulder as he felt Robert’s pride. “Joff has just been knighted, a moon before we made our way here.”

Joffrey was preening slightly, a smile of satisfaction on his face as Robert boasted of his young knight.

“This little beauty is Myrcella, and that young knight-to-be is Tommen,” Father said, the pride in his voice evident.

They were polite enough, Lord Stark seemingly genuine as he greeted Steff and his siblings, a rare smile for Myrcella and Tommen gracing his face, but he couldn’t help the sense of unease that swept through him.

Winterfell did not feel welcoming; Steff had felt the ancient magic in the North, felt it keenly in these walls, but the people held a frostiness to them. Perhaps it was the way of the North and their cold, but his instincts were screaming at him and he was not enough of a fool to ignore it.

“Come Ned, I would pay my respects,” Father ordered, turning to make his way to the Crypts of Winterfell as the entirety of the North and the members of Robert’s court watched on.

Steff felt his mother stiffen, her arm tightening slightly on his own as a smile graced her features. “My love, we have been riding for over a moon. Surely the dead can wait?”

Steff kept his face blank as Father ignored her words, certain that Joff and Cella were doing the same on his other side as several eyes flicked to them, searching for weakness.

Robb Stark looked uncomfortable, aware of whom the king wished to visit, but the boy was unwilling and smart enough not to say anything. His eldest sister had been staring prettily at Joffrey, and Steffon noted that, of them all, his brother might have the easiest time. The bloody prick, he thought.

Ned Stark looked apologetically at them before following after his father, and Lady Stark swiftly hurried them inside as the Northern Lords dispersed.

“Perhaps we shall settle your household, Your Graces,” she said, gesturing for them to follow her inside.

Steffon kept a tight hold on his mother’s arm, a glower from him keeping Joff silent, as they were lead into the halls of the keep.

The Lost Lord I:

The sky had been split for near a sennight.

Unbidden, his thoughts turned to the words his Silver Prince had told him all those years ago.

“It shall be him. The Promised Prince, the one to wake the dragons.”

His eyes closed briefly in grief, anger and sadness warring within him as it did for the past ten and six years. He shook off his melancholy, making his way to the deck so as to look for the boy.

They were in Chroyane, The Shy Maid anchored along the banks of the Rhoyne for some time. It was tedious business, leaving anchor wherever they desired so as to keep safe, and Griff did not like the thought of lingering here for so long. Two moons was long enough to be suspicious, and the last thing he wanted was suspicion.

There was laughter ringing on board as the elderly couple watched their boy spar with duck on the banks of Mother Rhoyne, the septa stood beside them, hair covered in her pale robes.

“Any word?” Lemore asked, her dark eyes flicking quickly to his face.

“Little birds have been flitting about,” he said, watching with blue eyes as a tall and lithe youth with blue hair beat back his instructor.

He has improved, he thought, watching his footwork as he danced around Duck. Griff waited for their spar to finish, eyes following the swing of the sword as the boy grew impatient and mistimed a strike, Duck punishing him with a rib rattling smack. He watched as the boy’s swings grew quicker, sword flashing as he parried a blow before forcing Duck on the back heel, a flashy riposte disarming the taller knight.

He fights like his father, he thought, wistfully remembering the last time he had seen his prince spar. It was like travelling to the past, watching over Aegon as he had; the boy shared in his father’s looks and fighting style, though he had none of the melancholy Rhaegar was known for.

Yandry and Ysilla cheered them on, the head of blue turning his way as he bowed to them.

Griff waited for the boy to come over a light sheen of swear coating his face as he greeted Lemore before turning to him.

“You are much improved,” he told him, watching as Aegon straightened in muted pride.

“Thank you, Father,” he murmured in response, eyes flicking to the scroll held in his hand.

Lips tightening at the thought of the scroll held in his hand, Griff turned sharply toward Haldon’s cabin, knowing the others would follow after him. Haldon was petering within, moving about tinctures and other remedies he had prepared in case of accident.

“Griff,” Haldon greeted, straightening at the sight of the other’s entering after him. “What word?”

“The Spider sent his little birds,” Griff stated bluntly, watching as their eyes widened in anticipation. “Jon Arryn died two moons past.”

“A cause for celebration,” Aegon stated, face brightening at the thought of one of the Usurper’s dogs dead.

“Not quite,” Griff cut in, halting the boy’s exuberance. “Arryn may be dead, but the spider writes that Ned Stark is to be the next Hand.”

Griff scowled fiercely at the thought, recognizing the many issues that would present. Ned Stark was fiercely loyal to his friend, the most fervent of the Usurper’s supporters. Those damned Starks, he thought darkly.

It had all gone wrong when they decided to leave their backwoods lands and join the rest of society. Westeros had been relatively peaceful, had merely awaited the rise of the one who was sure to be the greatest of Dragon Kings. And it had all fallen apart when the Starks entered the game.

“Ned Stark is one man,” Aegon scowled in return.

“One man with a kingdom behind him and ties to two others,” Haldon rebuked, reminding Aegon of his lessons.

“Haldon is right,” Griff bitterly stated.

“What does the Spider want?” Lemore asked.

“Westeros is on the brink of war, one sure to come as soon as Stark enters the game,” Griff told them, recalling the words he had read. “We are to prepare ourselves.”

Aegon held a hand out for the scroll, and Griff handed it over with only the slightest bit of reluctance. The boy was seven and ten – eight and ten in a few moons – and would be old enough to rule on his own merit. It was for the best that they further prepare him for the role.

I’ll not fail the son as I have the father, he promised himself.

A dark look came across his face as Griff knew it would when he read the words written. “The Usurper’s son knighted at three and ten,” he said queerly. “The singers are sure to be clamouring to write of this feat.”

“A minor setback,” Duck murmured, glancing hesitantly at Aegon’s dark face.

“War will still come, whether the Usurper’s sons are prepared for it or not,” Griff reminded him.

“How does he suppose the war will begin?” Haldon asked, his mind most likely whirring over the many possibilities.

Lips curling in disgust he said, “War is what happens whenever these Starks come south. Mark my words, Ned Stark will start another war.”

“And Ned Stark holds the North and is married to the Riverlands,” Aegon said, eyes staring blankly at the scroll.

“A better chance for war,” Haldon interjected. “The North will follow the Starks wherever they lead, and the Riverlands will be beholden to their agreements.”

“The Lannisters?” Lemore asked, gaze fixed on Griff.

“There is no love between the Lannisters and the Starks,” Griff replied, sure that neither oath-breaking House would ever willingly ally with one another. Not after the Rebellion had been won.

“How do we know they won’t make common cause?” Aegon asked, eyes locked onto his.

“Stark is loyal to the Usurper,” Haldon agreed. “And his children are Lannisters as well.”

“That’s exactly why they will not make common cause,” Griff pressed. “I like it not, but if the Spider is to be believed, than the Usurper’s Lannister children will be the cause for contention.”

“Presume the war does break occur as we expect, what are we to do in the meantime?” Duck asked as he leaned nonchalantly against the wall.

“Myr. We have a company to meet,” Griff stated, grimacing at the thought of what awaited them.

Bad enough he had to fake his death and dishonour, but as he looked once more upon the boy, he reminded himself of why he was doing all of this.

For Rhaegar, he told himself. For Aegon, the Prince Who Was Promised.

The others trudged outside, going back to their duties though Lemore left them with a lingering look.

Griff waited for the boy to speak, pleased that his lessons on caution was seeping into his tempestuous charge.

“This will not be an easy war,” Aegon finally said, seating himself on the table as he gripped a coin tightly.

“No, I expect it will not, though we will of course wait until they have exhausted themselves.”

“An uneven war,” Aegon said, lips twisting in distaste.

“A necessary precaution,” Griff snapped, seeing the expression in his eyes. “Do not be a fool, boy. Steffon Baratheon and his brother may be skilled knights, but there is no need to throw yourself headlong into battle with them. Do no—”

“—not be my father?” Aegon questioned. “I’ve no intention of losing this war against the Usurper’s son.”

“I will not allow for another Trident,” he hissed at Aegon, wanting to shake the boy until some sense returned to him.

It was a madness in him; since the first scroll had arrived informing them of the feats of Steffon Baratheon, Aegon had been determined to best the boy at everything. The younger boy had all the benefits of a royal upbringing, but Griff was certain Aegon would be the better king.

He has to be, he thought desperately, recalling the countless hours they had poured into the boy.

“You did not mention my aunt to the others,” he said.

“There was no need,” Griff told him stiffly. “Daenerys is like to be dead by now.”

“I would have married her as we Targaryens do,” Aegon told him, eyes gazing blankly at the wall as his mind was faraway.

Griff feared he was still occupied with thoughts of besting Steffon Baratheon, and the look in the boy’s face only confirmed his fears.

“You cannot take on the might of the kingdoms until they have separated from the Usurper,” Griff reminded him, hoping that would stall him.

To his relief, Aegon seemed to stir from his thoughts as he nodded reluctantly. “Of course,” he said, before he stood and straightened, gaze piercing Griff with an intensity he had only known from Rhaegar.

“Send the Spider a message,” Aegon ordered, an aura of power surrounding him. If he closed his eyes, Griff could imagine that he was speaking instead to Rhaegar and not his son. “While he fans the flames of war, tell him Steffon Baratheon must not remain in the realm’s good will.”

Nodding, Griff murmured his assent as he watched Aegon take off, the aura of king falling away to be replaced with the mask of Young Griff.

I will not fail you again, he thought, the sound of bells ringing tauntingly in his ears.