If It's True What They Say

"I was almost sorry to hear about your woman," Malfoy said, and Sirius almost said that she wasn't his woman, he was her... 

"Sorry?" Sirius choked.  He'd stopped eating when Malfoy walked over, wanting to put his silverware to a better use. (As Arya put it, he knew where to stick the pointy end and wasn't afraid to do it.)

"You nearly did well for yourself, considering your unfortunate views," Malfoy admitted as if it was a great concession.

Considering Rhaenys, "nearly did well" was missing the mark by a lot, Sirius judged. Though maybe he wasn't the best judge, being engaged to the woman in question. Though by Pureblood standards, he could point out the Targaryens were assumed to stretch back quite a bit, if you ignored the rumors of fey ancestry. The Martells were older still, if he remembered old lessons, and immigration didn’t seem to dim the claims of some families. (Nor the fact that most of those same families were occasionally out and out lies.)

Hell, Rhaenys had been on his mother's acceptable list, long ago. (Sirius had been nine. His thoughts on that were that Rhaenys was fun to play with, but girls were scary creatures. He blamed his cousins.)

"So why is this a bad thing?" he asked, warily. There was something he didn't know, obviously. 

Malfoy looked surprised. Sirius regretted the lack of good light in the pub, it made it hard to see any small details that would bite him later. "I suppose you didn't hear what happened, then?"

"Nothing happened," Sirius said. Rhaenys and Tyene were doing something in Southampton, setting up a supplier for the Potions Exchange. It was a brilliant idea, really. Rhaenys and her circle- and Lily- had organized a team of freelance potion makers who made discreet potions for the wealthy. The profits from those potions went to finance basic care for those harmed in the war. And those who couldn’t exactly go to Saint Mungo’s for treatment, without being targeted by Death Eaters or one of their sympathizers. Remus had sent a few of the contacts that Dumbledore had asked him to cultivate their way. (Even if Professor Martell had yet to finish the Wolfsbane potion, the teas that Elia used to manage her condition meant they could dodge a lot of the exhaustion and stiffness that full moon nights brought about. Remus has dryly commented that it was the most useful tool in his diplomatic arsenal.)

Rhaenys would be staying overnight at the Red Keep, since it was a full moon and she'd be making the pain-relievers for her mother and brother. It wouldn't take long, which was the only reason she agreed to take over the job from Sansa. Sansa had volunteered to start helping now, despite only being in her fifth year- she had a knack for the sort of people-details that made everyone else start looking for a parchment and quill. (Hell, she probably outdid Margaery in that respect, and everyone knew Marg was the Queen of Thorn’s heir in matters political.)

"Bellatrix heard another story," Malfoy said. "She'd been expecting the Stark girl- some of her friends were still quite annoyed over that incident with Clegane, you see. I heard that she never made it to Saint Mungo’s. I assumed you were drowning your sorrows. Quite understandable."

The worst bit of it was that to Malfoy, it probably was. Whatever else you could say about him, he did love Narcissa as much as he was able. Rhaenys was pureblood, and therefore human in his eyes. Between those two facts, he might be able to dredge some condescending sympathy.

No. No. Rhaenys was fine. Tyene was with her, and the two of them were terrifying. Terrifying and not prone to losing to Bella. Or whichever Death Eater they were facing.

If it was true... well, hopefully he'd get his revenge before anyone else managed to tear them to pieces. 

He hadn't mentioned Tyene, he told himself, waiting for Malfoy to leave before tossing coins on the scarred table and apparating to the Red Keep. Rhaeny's father would be there, and hopefully Rhaenys, not knowing the story Malfoy told him because none of it had happened. 

~

"What do you mean she's not here?" Sirius bit back a curse as Rhaegar Targaryen blinked. The older man had come out to investigate his apparition, and had apologized as he handed Sirius back his wand. Sirius hadn’t bothered getting in the door before asking about Rhaenys.

Of course she wasn’t here.

"I assumed whatever meeting she had ran over. She said it might, and knew I would be home to watch over everything," Rhaegar said, sitting on a stone and steepling his fingers. Since it was starting to get dark, Sirius had to admit it was kind of creepy. "Should I be worried?"

"Possibly?" Sirius admitted. There was another stone- stealth gardening, maybe- but he didn’t want to sit down right now. He wanted to scream, shout, and curse someone already. "Depends on how much you value Lucius Malfoy as a source. He may have hinted that Bella planned a raid on the meeting."

Rhaenys' father had learned patience, from finding himself as the sudden host to large gatherings of teenagers if nothing else. Hell, Sirius had even stayed at Dragonstone for two days, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. "I wouldn't value his word, I admit. Though wasn't Miss Stark supposed to go to this meeting?"

"She was," Sirius said, hoping this didn’t poison Targaryen against the younger girl. Sansa would feel guilty enough. "That was why it was planned. I’ve gotten the feeling that Rhaenys would make a good consolation prize either way, though."

Rhaegar picked up the meaning quickly. He’d probably known what had happened to Bran Stark before Sirius had. A silly little fourteen year old witch hitting Gregor Clegane in the eyes with her pretty little bluebell flames? That had damn near made Daily Prophet headlines, except something had interfered with the story.  (That something probably being Catelyn Stark, who was head of the Spell Damage ward at Saint Mungo’s and a force of nature, rivaled only by her not-sister-in-law Ashara Dayne, head of the semi-official major trauma team, and Cersei Baratheon.)

"Damn," he swore, looking out the window. "I can't... I failed my wife and son," he said, turning to face Sirius with regret in his eyes. "Rhaenys never forgave me for that, not really. She shouldn't have to suffer too."

Sirius was fairly certain that she'd forgiven her father for annoying someone to the point of hiring Gregor Clegane by sixth year, when Aegon got in to Hogwarts. (Mind you, she’d come close to hating him, at that point. But that was a different story.)

“We’ll find them,” Sirius shrugged. “The girls probably tied him up and decided to use him as a test subject for Tyene’s potion of the day.”

Rhaegar gave a flicker of a grin that reminded Sirius sharply of his Cheshire hellcat. “I can think of a few that she might enjoy working on, true.”

Both men pulled out their wands at the tell-tale crackle of the floo as the flames turned green, barely relaxing at Arianne’s familiar face.

“Something happened, and now Tyene and Rhaenys are at St. Mungos, please get there before the Aurors? They managed to kill someone, apparently.”

Even with the distortions caused by the floo, Arianne looked off-balance, with her words coming too quick and her eyes darting in the corners. She was sort of just sitting blankly in the fireplace.

Fuck, how badly had the girls been hurt?

“Arianne, seriously, princess priss, out of the floo,” Sirius said, tossing her a grin and ignoring her sputtered goodbyes. He’d be hiding behind Rhaenys’ robes forever after this, but he wanted to hurry, damn it, and Arianne had been too panicked to get her head out of the floo so they could get to the hospital.

~

The Spell Damage ward at Saint Mungos was quiet large, and usually overflowing in these troubled times. Ashara had found an empty room near the Nurse’s station, one that was meant to be a private room but had a second bed fitted in. Harshly lit and coldly impersonal, it was one of the new additions made in the past few years. Rhaenys was wearing a black cast on her arm, under the jacket she’d pulled over her like a shawl, and had a bruise on her face, but was otherwise unhurt. Tyene had what looked like a weal running down her throat, and a very satisfied smile.

Rhaegar watched the young man hover around his daughter, and her daughter’s amused fondness as he fired off questions and brushed her hair behind her ears. As he pulled out an apple and started to bully a too-thin Rhaenys into eating it, Rhaegar turned to a serene-looking Tyene.

“What happened?” he asked, gesturing to one of the least-damaged chairs. Lyanna was still speaking to Ashara, over at the end of the hall. She had gotten over the awkwardness, he noticed with a touch of relief. Hopefully Ashara would distract her long enough for Rhaegar to cover for whatever stunt his niece had pulled. “Tell the truth, now.”

Tyene blinked her dark blue eyes, feigning innocence. “We were attacked, and one of them managed to hit Rhaenys with a bone breaker. When I went to move her, the other hit them with Fiendfyre. The first Death Eater,” and here Tyene’s smile grew a touch colder, “managed to fire off another curse that killed the second. Clegane was wounded badly and Lestrange fled.”

Rhaegar frowned. While not entirely impossible, it was a bit unlikely. And Tyene’s smile… there was a reason Tyene was the most dangerous of the Sand Snakes.

Tyene would not allow an escape, if nothing else.

“Truly,” Tyene smiled, “I do owe Sirius some thanks.”

Sirius? Rhaegar remembered Rhaenys breezily bringing Sirius to Dragonstone the summer before Aegon went to Hogwarts, saying that there had been a disagreement with his family, and Dorea Potter was trying to smooth it over, and that Sirius was going to stay out of sight for a day or two, and Dragonstone was suitably isolated, didn’t he think? Rhaegar, knowing his daughter, neglected to point out that Orkneys were very isolated from London, yes, and was the boy limping? Viserys had done it for him, anyway, among other comments. (Rhaenys had put chili pepper in his oatmeal the next morning, and Rhaegar had pointed out to his infuriated- and jealous- younger brother that he knew Rhaenys disliked people pointing out the cracks in her reassurances, and insulted her friends would only annoy her further.)

He also remembered the House Elves telling him of a Grim wandering the castle, and Danaerys pulling books on the Animagus transformation from the library afterwards. He brushed that aside for later.

“What form do you take?” His voice was quiet, despite the fact that Ashara was still speaking to Lyanna, safely out of hearing range. A catalogue of injuries, most likely. Rhaenys was still favoring one leg, and Sirius was scowling fiercely at anyone who came near her, wand tip just showing under his jacket sleeve.

“The Animagus transformation requires registration,” Tyene said airily, but her voice was just as soft. “A quick test, however, revealed that I could, however, do it if I so wished.”

“What form would you take?” Rhaegar asked again. Lyanna was starting to look impatient.

“I would be a saw-scaled viper,” Tyene smiled up at him. “Something that could fit under one of Rhaenys’ scarves, and serve as a deterrent to a suspected trap. If something happened or someone unsavory approached…” She gave a small shrug. “Hello, Auror Stark.”

Rhaegar wondered if he should let Doran know, if he didn’t already. Lyanna gave him a sympathetic smile. “Hello, Tyene. I just need your version of the story for our records. Director Baratheon doesn’t want to come under fire for allowing murderers walk free.” She bit her lip, a gesture she’d never quite grown out of. “Well, Seaworth pointed out that if we just walked around murdering Death Eaters that there would be legal problems. Cersei agreed, so…” She flopped on the chair, profoundly exhausted. “Personally, I want to give you both a medal. Merrett Frey was a horrible excuse of a man, and he needed to be stopped. But Old Walder Frey has more than enough gold to buy off anyone short of the Director.”

“Including the Aurors?” Tyene asked, poison well hidden. Rhaegar watched as Lyanna snorted. There was the beginning of frost at her temples … she was still young.  Jon was two years younger than Rhaenys. Thirty-five, then, to his forty.

“Depends on the Auror,” Lyanna shot back, half teasing. “Next time see if you can hit that Westerling bastard, he makes me twitchy. Not the best person to have at your back.” 

“I will remember that,” Tyene’s eyes were wide and innocent. Did Lyanna know that she had signed the man’s death warrant?

Well, at the very least made Tyene curious. But one would probably lead to the other.

Rhaegar added that to the never-ending list of things he should look into, then watched his daughter shoot him a rueful look before managing to get Sirius to walk over with her.

“I’m sorry I had you worried,” Rhaenys said, “we didn’t know what was going to happen, I promise.” She didn’t look like she’d planned it- she was still favoring one leg, and there was a salve across her nose. Her knuckles were also bruised and bleeding.

“You came home,” Rhaegar pointed out. “Frankly, that’s all I care about.”

Lyanna gave them both a glare that had no actual heat behind it. “Well, let’s care about making sure neither of you end up in Azkaban, alright? Frey will be calling for your heads. And I don’t trust most of his circle to not try and make it happen. Officially or otherwise.”

Rhaegar watched his daughter mouth Arianne’s name to Tyene, causing the fairer girl to raise an eyebrow. He would have to ask about that later.

“Well, we were talking to a supplier for the potions exchange,” Rhaenys started, smoothing her very muggle jacket, which was made of dark leather and suspiciously oversized, “Which went fairly well. We got the terms we expected, if not the ones we wanted, and that can change over time. We left at… seven thirty sound right?”

Tyene tilted her head. “Yes. Give or take a few minutes, of course.” She took up the thread. “We were to head to the nearest safe apparition point, a shed at the corner of the property- being an import business, they of course have to follow the guidelines on magical transportation.”

“Running a bit late for a business meeting,” Lyanna pointed out. She was using a standard diction quill, and pretending not to notice Sirius following the words it wrote.

“They didn’t want to openly show their support,” Rhaenys pulled a strand of hair that had gotten stuck in the salve off her face with a frown. “There are too many people who dislike the Exchange and what it stands for, even if we aren’t actively campaigning for or against any position.”

Rhaegar hid a smile at that answer. Technically accurate, but with the people involved, there was never a chance of the Potions Exchange not being a tool for change. And a lightening rod of controversy. “I expect the work Tyene and her father are doing on the Wolfsbane Potion has nothing to do with that,” was his only comment.

“Well, that’s more Sarella than me, at the moment,” Tyene admitted. “With her being in Hogwarts for another year.” She looked cheerful, then. “They estimate a working formula- a properly working one, not the rubbish the Ministry is trying- by May. Belby doesn’t really care who gets credit, as long as we get it done.”

“And once we’re sure it’s safe, we start distribution,” Rhaenys mused. “Perhaps that has something to do with the timing- I can’t imagine any of that gang enjoying the idea of their victims not having to turn to them for support, not when safer options exist.”

Sirius spoke up then, “Well, they thought you were Sansa.”

Rhaenys blinked. “How? I’m not, well, Dany, but Sansa is taller, and, well… ginger.” She gave a wave that took in her braid, which needed to be redone, and was decidedly not auburn.

“They thought Sansa would be handling the distribution,” Sirius answered. “She’s been doing a good bit of it, anyway, this summer, and it was the last chance they had before she went off to Hogwarts and relative safety.” He had started playing with Rhaenys’ braid, keeping a wary eye on the others in the waiting room.

“But it wasn’t sweet little Sansa they got,” Tyene smiled. “It was us.”

Sirius edged away from Tyene. Lyanna sighed. Ashara, who was supposedly out of hearing range at the Healer’s Station, gave Rhaegar a sympathetic look. 

“To be fair,” his daughter pointed out, “Jon would have gone with her. He’s not incredible about subtle, but he is a good duelist.”

“That sounds about accurate,” Lyanna said with amusement, not looking him in the eyes. Rhaenys realized she was talking to Jon’s mother, and winced.

“Sorry. Can we blame the concussion for that? Please?” she pleaded. Lyanna laughed.

“No need,” the auror reassured her.

“Anyway,” Rhaenys continued, looking wan under the hospital lights, “they were waiting for us at the Apparation Point. Edwyn Frey, Raff Sweetling, Bellatrix Lestrange, and the younger Clegane brother, who was beginning to change. I blasted him in the door of the shed, sealed the doors, and hit the windows with unbreakable charms. That took maybe fifteen seconds.”

Three charms, undoubtedly silent? Rhaegar smiled to himself for a moment, ignoring Sirius’ unhappy look at the mention of his cousin.

“Tyene hit Raff with a bone breaker in the leg, first,” she added, brow furrowed. “Then Bellatrix attempted a crucatious curse- she is rather obsessed with those, isn’t she?” She looked up at Sirius with concern.

“She goes between that and obscure or new curses,” Sirius admitted, tugging again at her hair. “Usually she sticks with crucatius if she has time, though. She likes making an art out of it.” There was something sour, and Rhaegar remembered a limping boy who had moved slowly, and Rhaenys rushing out of a party at Storm’s End as if hell itself was chasing her.

“Right. She missed, though, taking out a chunk of grass. Then she did hit me, with the bone breaker. She was about to try for the crucatius again when Sweetling lashed out with Fiendfyre, and it nearly hit her. It did hit Frey, who’d been trying to nail Tyene with various curses I was too distracted to hear.”

But he couldn’t because Tyene was a snake at the time, harder to hit.  Probably striking in the leg, something disguisable with a well-aimed bone-breaker and a quick jet of Fiendfyre with a dead man’s wand.

“Frey managed a spell I didn’t know, one that made Sweetling start to bleed out everywhere,” Rhaenys added, looking drawn. Another spell with a dead man’s wand, perhaps? “Bellatrix left, and we came here.” She looked at Lyanna, eyes wide. “Are the Westerlings alright?”

“Yeah,” Lyanna assured her with a hint of a grimace. “There was a silencing charm in place, as well as a few others to hide what they intended on doing, which means they had no intention of killing them as well. Sybell Westerling told me that the contract is no longer in place, though.”

Rhaenys nodded. “I kind of expected that. The Manderlys have been making their interests known, though, and that would probably be a better choice.”

“Better ethics, at least,” Tyene mused. “Most likely better hospitality as well.”

The sound of skidding feet made a series of wands aim behind them, and Rhaegar watched as his professional life intruded into personal business, this time in the form of Daeron Singer.

“Sir? I’m sorry, but Allister Thorne told me he needed you to come in right away,” the boy said. “’lo, oh belle dame sans merci,” he added, bowing. His French was atrocious, but Tyene accepted the greeting with a nod. “Wonderous flower of bookthrowing.”

“Once,” Rhaenys grumped. “Once, and no one lets me forget it.”

Sirius chuckled. “You threw the complete works of Sherlock Holmes at Avery’s head, love. It left a dent.”

“Well, nothing lighter would have,” Daeron grinned. The boy was only two years older than Rhaenys, charming and utterly feckless. He was clever with his stories, though, and a half-blood with no love for the Death Eaters. (And one day someone would notice that Rhaegar and the Old Bear made sure that the Unspeakables had a remarkably low rate of purebloods for a Ministry department. They put up with Rookwood because they knew his loyalties, and Thorne because he didn’t yet betray a Mystery.) “But there’s been a problem, sir, and you’re needed.”

“Go on,” Rhaenys said to him, eyes a bit mischievous. “Before it wanders loose and tries to attach itself to another Ministry big-wig.”

Rhaegar sighed- he had nothing to do with that project, but Walder Frey refused to believe that. (Though the tentacles did have fascinating properties.) “I’ll be home as soon as possible.”

Elia and Egg were safely locked away in Dragonstone tonight, at least, with Dany staying with her friend Doreah and Viserys… most likely getting drunk in a muggle pub again. (He’d have to have a talk with him one day. Again.)

~

Davos wanted to go get very, very drunk. Or, better yet, go home and sit in the kitchen, watching Marya at work, the children getting underfoot.

The Department of Mysteries was a miserable, confusing place at the best of times. The doors were a pain in the arse, not bearing labels or even permanence. And if you marked a door, you would have the Unspeakables breathing down your necks and giving you baleful looks for weeks. Not to mention some of the experiments, which seemed like they were pushing human understanding in ways it wasn’t meant to go.

The people were a mixed bag. Rhaegar Targaryen wasn’t a bad sort, once you got past the fact that he looked like something out of a book of fairy tales. (Muggle ones, of the sort he’d seen in primary school, and Wizarding- though that might have been a picture of an ancestor.)  Easily distracted, but he never looked down on Davos from coming from a nonmagical slum in Manchester, and didn’t mind explaining things in simple terms.

Melisandre… the Red Witch terrified him and infuriated him. The eerie red eyes he could explain with charms and the normal sort of daftness that came with professional seers. Her sense of conviction was also, Stannis said dryly, another thing that seers often had, usually when they were wrong. She had no idea of consequences, really, any more than Stannis’ brothers did.

“What happened? And this time don’t include magical theory,” Davos added, before Rhaegar started.

The man gave a flicker of a smile. “Well, then, there was an experiment being run in the Lake District. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, just a routine check after an incident a long time ago.”

“One that could return and spell our doom,” Melisandre interrupted. “The signs have been falling upon us like a tide of darkness…”

“Or the fall of night,” Rhaegar murmured, as if something in particular was on his mind. “There was evidence that alarmed us, so Waymar Royce was sent to ensure that one of the three sites were still safe. There is an island there, one that isn’t inhabited in the usual sense of the word, not far from Harrenhal.”

This, Davos knew, made the situation worse. Harrenhal was cursed, haunted, and every other miserable thing that a wizard could think of. The former Wizarding community had been burned out during the withdrawal from the muggle world, though small communities still lived there from time to time, determined to reclaim their home. The Whents were the last to try and claim it, with the widow the only one left, with some scattered folks too poor or too stubborn to move.

“They were consumed,” Melisandre continued, and if Davos wasn’t so used to the bloody seer and her attitude he would have thought it was an illegal breeding farm on the island.

“So Benjen Stark went on broomback, with a modified camera,” Rhaegar flicked at his cuffs before he spoke again. “This is what he found.” He turned to one of the cabinets in his office, tapping it with his wand and pulling out a bundle. The wood was vibrating from the spells on it as Rhaegar shut it again, and Davos pretended that he had not noticed how very deep the shadows in the cabinet were.

Silk, Davos thought, undyed but covered in runes. What on earth needs that much protection?

Then he saw the photos. Stark had gone closer than he probably should have, showing the blue tinge to the limbs. They weren’t moving, which meant that Stark had either developed them the muggle way or the wind had been still as he hovered over the forested island.

“Is this a pattern? A rune or something?” Runes had been languages once, little Shireen Baratheon had told him, used by muggles and wizards alike. Some people insisted that writing them made very strong spells, but Davos doubted it.

“It looks similar, yes, to some of the older languages, but it doesn’t quite match any we know of,” Rhaegar admitted. He looked exhausted. “I want to send it over to Yohn Royce, but I also don’t want him charging out there for revenge. He’s an expert on runes. Crouch might also do.” The last was said sourly, and Davos gave a grunt of agreement.

Crouch was a git and terrifying, without the least concept of mercy. All ambition and no common sense, and having too much power. Stannis was torn on his latest proposal, a private court with a judge, two aurors sworn as witnesses, and veritaserum. It would hopefully reduce the rate of bribery and other methods of twisting the justice system. It also had its own sins, considering how conviction-mad Crouch was. But it would go through, after the next big attack.

“Aemon Targaryen might know,” Rhaegar added, “as he has made a study of this sort of thing, but he’s also older than Dumbledore and cannot be woken up at five in the morning.”

“What did this?” The cuts were cleaner than most curses, with a blackened tinge to the edges of the flesh.

“There are stories,” Rhaegar said after a moment. “Of a race who no one ever named, afraid that naming them would call them. Rather like Voldemort.”

The Others. Davos had read it to his sons, the stories of the Longest Night that had been ended with fire and pain before the coming of the Romans.

“What are the odds of this spreading?” Davos asked. “Will they leave the island?”

“For certain,” Melisandre said with a bald graveness that had none of her usual theatrics. She looked small and a little shabby. “Harrenhal will be overtaken soon enough, and if the Heir of Slytherin forges an alliance with the darkness…”

Davos fought down a colorful fit of swearing at that. Also a strong urge to send his children and wife somewhere far away. Australia might do.”How likely is that?”

“We have no idea,” Rhaegar admitted. “But he has the dementors, last we heard, and everyone thought that was impossible, as well.”

“What are you doing next?” he asked.

“Working to identify the shape that Stark photographed is paramount,” Melisandre said. “To know the message of this enemy is to know their motives.”

“And knowing why means that you can know what next,” Davos frowned. “Would it be possible to evacuate Harrenhal?”

“We do that and people will wonder why,” Rhaegar frowned. “We’ll send three-person teams to survey the area every dusk and dawn, but we should try and prevent panic for as long as possible.”

Davos remembered the barely-leashed anger and fear when the dementors had defected, a sullen thing that still could be found after an attack. If the Others were known to be walking the land…

“What woke them up?” he asked. “It’s been nearly two thousand years, at least. Why now?”

Judging by the looks he was getting, neither Unspeakable knew.

~

“Long night, Auror Stark?” Jaime teased his partner. Lyanna gave him a glare undermined by the shadows under her eyes.

“I was up until two in the morning filling out paperwork, Lannister. How the hell do you never pull St. Mungo’s duty?” she asked with no heat. She’d caught on to his plan long ago, and for all of their griping, each thought they had the better end of the deal.

“I get called to extra Wizenmagot duty,” Jaime said. “Better hours.” Cersei had pleaded with him, and it was easy enough to deal with the paperwork he had to file.

Made it easier to keep track of a sizeable portion of the wizards and witches he wanted to arrest, too, though he wasn’t stupid enough to tell that to Cersei twice. “Are you ready to meet the fresh meat?”

“It’s not funny when Whent says it, it’s not funny when you say it,” Lyanna said, wand twitching. As her stinging hex seemed to be unduly attracted to his ass, he kept quiet.

They went through the wooden doors to where the six trainees were waiting.

Damn, Jaime thought as he saw Moody and Arthur Dayne talking to Garlan Tyrell. Tyrion said that he was good, and Tyrion had reason to know. The young man was quiet, tall, and practiced dueling against three wizards at once, his younger brother had said.

Edmure Tully was earnestly talking to Jason Mallister, who looked amused. Domeric Bolton was watching carefully, looking a bit confused.

“Tully scored horribly in stealth, but apparently he has the ability to throw off the Imperius,” Lyanna said in an undertone. “Cat was very proud of him.”

“Does he have a mind to control?” Jaime asked, edging into being almost loud enough for other people to hear.

It was a very strong stinging hex.

James Potter was talking to Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, who looked a bit too amused. No luck there.

Kinglsey Shaklebolt was already taken, as was Marlene McKinnon.

An ungainly looking blonde was all that was left, watching the crowd with shoulders hunched like it would make her take up less room.

Lyanna grinned. “Yes!” She punched the air and damn near skipped over. Jaime followed, wondering what he was missing.

“Renly told you to wait for us?” his clearly mad partner asked the wench, who nodded.

“Right. Perfect. Jaime Lannister, this is Brienne Tarth, whose combat scores set a record of… whenever you took your training,” Lyanna said, as if she wasn’t only three years younger than him. “Which means more actual response calls than statement taking.” Her look was still triumphant.

Brienne looked between them curiously. “Should Renly have warned me you were mad?”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “No, just ordered to take a trainee, and driven mad by shifts that seem to be made to drive us to quit. We’re a bit of a scandal and a hissing.” Despite her smirk, she had the quietly furious look in her eyes that normally meant they got to plan a secretive revenge and embarrassing that was not allowed to be called a prank. (“We’re adults, Jaime. Parents. Parents do not prank.”)

“Which one of us is the scandal, and which the hissing?” Jaime asked curiously. Lyanna ignored him.

Clearly, she was the scandal. He was the hissing.

“So, you have all of your gear?” Lyanna asked.

“They said they had to make the robes,” Brienne said. “That they didn’t have any in my size.”

Jaime thought about that for half a moment before deciding it was a lie. Brienne was tall, yes, absurdly so. But bigger that anyone else here? That was doubtful. 

Lyanna agreed, from the set line of her lips and the way she tapped her wand on her hip. “Robert is larger than you, as is the Greatjon. Yohn Royce is taller, if I remember. They have no problems getting robes, and the damn things are unisex.”

Brienne sent a doubtful look over Lyanna’s excuse for robes, which were the armoured red of the Aurors, tailored to fit her form. Not that Lyanna was dainty- she was slightly tall for a woman, and had the light muscle of a semi-professional flyer. As such, the padded top was close, while the split skirts of the robes were cut to allow her to steer with her knees.

“I’ve been taking flyover assignments out of sheer boredom,” Lyanna explained. “I needed something more maneuverable to fly in.” She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ears, scowling. “The Department of Mysteries is taking advantage of what they consider trustworthy aurors.”

“I’m not trustworthy,” Jaime said with a hint of amusement. “Due to my father’s unfortunate political beliefs and my habit of cursing people in the back.”

“Stannis cleared you,” Lyanna pointed out. “I’m only trustworthy because I have blood ties to the Department.”

Jaime pretended he didn’t remember the smell of wet steel and wildfire. “He cleared me because he had no choice.” One of the conspirators had talked, and the Ministry had been buzzing over the plot to set London ablaze. It probably wouldn’t have even come to that if Jaime hadn’t cursed the man so he fell in front of a muggle train.

“Why wouldn’t they trust you, ma’am?” the wench asked with perfect innocence.

Lyanna scrunched up her nose. “Because far too many people have an interest in bloodlines.”

She still looked confused, so Lyanna added. “You know my son Jon?”

Brienne’s eyes lit at that, in understanding or because of the boy’s annoying knack for making friends Jaime really didn’t care. “Yes. He’s good at Defense, and worked on the amateur dueling circuit Renly set up.”

To prevent the tensions from breaking out into warfare, from what Jaime heard.  Duels were breaking out in the hallway, and Dumbledore was trying to prevent students from feeling alienated from the school and existing structure entirely. Renly Baratheon had Robert’s knack for setting people at ease, and had used it to create a dueling club, because he was vain about his skills.

Tywin Lannister could tell Dumbledore how well that sort of plan went.

“I have, over the past I do not wish to admit years…” Lyanna started.

“Sixteenish?” Jaime mused, managing to duck Lyanna’s hex. “He’s a few years younger than Tyrion.”

Lyanna gave him a Look, then continued, “I have refused to reveal the name of Jon’s father. He has plenty of good male role models who take an interest in his life, he doesn’t need another.”

Brandon Stark, a positive role model? He’d have to tell Cersei next time she needed a laugh.

“So we’ll go and yell at… Red Ronnet, isn’t it?” Jaime said after a moment. “Get him to give you your uniforms, and then go talk to Stannis about assignments.”

Brienne’s chin went up, strikingly blue eyes meeting his. “You don’t have to.”

“Jaime is good at cutting down bullshit,” Lyanna said absently. “I don’t always approve of his methods, but the quicker this is done, the quicker we can get to work.” Her grey eyes narrowed. “No trebuchets.”

Brienne looked confused as Jaime laughed.