If It's True What They Say

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit, has it?” Rhaenys asked him, not bothering to look up from her desk, which was buried under a small mountain of notes and ingredients. She liked being back in the cottage- she loved the smell of the sea and the white and red paint they had compromised on, even if Remus had made candy-cane jokes while they worked on it. It was home, a cozy little place they filled with warmth and laughter. (She wasn’t sure that was possible on Dragonstone, even if she invited all of their respective friends and recognized family.)

Sirius looked at her, hand on his heart. “I have no need for subtlety, I live a blameless life,” he told her, which was possibly one of the boldest lies she had ever heard in her life.

“You are so lucky I’m willing to cover for your atrocious lies,” Rhaenys told him, standing up so as to better face him.

Which would work much better if she didn’t come up to his chin and he attached any meaning to the concept of personal space.

“I’m not bad at lying,” Sirius grinned. “Remember the incident with the carrots?”

“Shh, never mention that when Arianne could drop in unexpectedly,” Rhaenys laughed at that. “Now, you were visiting James and Lily, because that is a container of Lily’s busy-day soup on the counter.”

“I was,” Sirius tilted up her face. His face was tired and drawn, but the slightly distant, amused expression was too familiar. “So how is that not subtle?”

Rhaenys’ expression was as close a mimicry of her mother’s skeptical look as she could manage. “You are planning something, which I know because I’ve known you since I was five. If I can’t tell when you are planning something, then I would deserve any pranks you throw my way.”

“You pushed me into a duck pond,” Sirius was smirking at that. “And you completely ruined the prissy look that my mother tried to force on me, which meant of course that you were the only woman I would ever love.”

Rhaenys snickered. “Sirius, you didn’t ask me out until sixth year.”

He shrugged. “I did kiss you in fifth. Also, both of your Uncles were there, and Bellatrix had been trying to scare me with stories about the Red Viper.”

“You only did it to make me shut up, if I remember correctly,” Rhaenys said dryly. They had been working on a History of Magic essay, and Sirius had startled needling her about some of her more colorful dead relatives. She’d fired back with a few of his, which tended less towards amusing insanity and walking through a field of snakes and more towards serial killers with political clout.

Though his family had never had half-siblings solve inheritance squabbles by feeding the legal heir to a dragon.

“And you were discussing something to do with them going into hiding,” Rhaenys added, making a production of her deduction. “Because they seem to think staying in Dragonstone is a bad idea.”

“People know they’re there,” Sirius pointed out. “The old houses- Dragonstone, Highgarden, Winterfell, Riverrun, the Eyrie- they have enough protections to make Hogwarts look unguarded. But there is no reason to provoke the Death Eaters into trying to prove they can take them. We keep them in reserve, we can use them when we need them.”

“Dumbledore’s argument, I’m guessing?” Rhaenys sighed. “It’s not helping, really. It’s making Voldemort out to be more of a monster than he is…” she frowned. “Well, more capable a monster. Trickery and the ability to use wizarding fears against the political system is an old trick, and it isn’t as if he created the wights.”

“Merely hiding them and oh, he struck a bargain with them,” Sirius agreed with a grin. “Which is new and creepy.”

“No, no, the Night’s King did it, a little after the Battle for the Dawn,” she pointed out. “He’s not doing anything new, just trying to emulate those who have gone before him. And Lily decided to go with the charm she was talking about, with the Secret-Keeper?”

Sirius nodded, looking guilty and smug at once. It wasn’t a very good combination on him. “Yeah, and they decided not to go with Dumbledore as the Secret-Keeper. He has enough on his plate, and all.”

Rhaenys felt herself sway as if from a great height, like she was leaning out of one of the towers on one of Viserys’ crazy bets again. “And you would be a perfect choice for Secret Keeper, wouldn’t you?”

Well, she couldn’t tell him now, could she?

“Everyone knows I wouldn’t betray James and Lily,” Sirius said, and Rhaenys wanted to deal with the peculiarity of that phrasing, she really did, but first she should go vomit.

“Are you still sick?” Sirius asked, steadying her. How the hell someone managed to be an arrogant, devil-may-care… well, devil, and still be prone to worrying like Sirius did was a mystery to her, but one she appreciated.

“Mmm, ask me again in a couple of minutes,” she chose, the spots starting to recede from her vision. “And if everyone knows, aren’t you basically walking around with a massive target on your back? Should I be worried- more than usual, I mean?”

Something about that made him flinch. “Cheshire, love, you do have a way of dancing around the subject when you want to twist the knife in, don’t you?”

“I think it’s time to confess, Sirius,” she said, trying to sweep the cobwebs from her mind. “It’s meant to be good for the soul. What glorious bit of trickery are you trying for this time?”

“What makes you think I’m trying to trick someone?” Sirius asked.

“Mmm,” Rhaenys said, trying not to laugh, because that would not go well with her nausea. “Because you’re breathing?”

“Am I that predictable?” Sirius asked her.

“To be fair, I have known you how many years?” She looked at him through the hair that had fallen in front of her face.

“Didn’t we just go over that?” he said, looking over her shoulder. “Are you looking up stories about Azor Ahai?”

“Yeah, Sarella thinks if we look it over, we can find out what happened to Lightbringer,” Rhaenys held up a bloodstained scrap of parchment. “Fire spells have a limited effect on the draugr, or Others, or whatever silly name you want to call them. And that effect works differently not only depending on the wizard, which makes sense, but on the creatures- the same wizard can burn one with ease, but the second will take four or five spells to go down, which is highly impractical, especially if we have a mob made up of wights and draugr attacking a heavily populated area.”

“So we have to bring the battle to them,” Sirius said.

“Mmm, a group of Aurors dropped wildfire on Hardhome and Harrenhall,” Rhaenys admitted. “But it went astray and at least one of the Aurors was consumed by it.”

“So dropping it on the Isle of Faces would be a bad idea,” Sirius mused.

“I wouldn’t drop wildfire on a deeply magical island full of weirwood trees, no,” Rhaenys dropped the paper with a frown. “Formed from the heart of a star, quenched by a lover’s heartblood, freely offered… something about this is ringing all the bells…”

She froze, and turned to the mirror on the edge of her note constellation, ignoring the dull cramps and focusing on the fire in her veins. “Viserys, I need to talk to you.”

It seemed to take an age for her uncle to answer, Sirius trying to figure out what she was getting at.

“Rhaenys?” He looked more rumpled than usual, with his pale blonde hair sticking up in bits. “What’s wrong?”

“You remember those stories you used to tell me when you wanted to creep all of us out?” she asked curiously.

He nodded. “Most of them.”

“Do you remember what you told me about Valyrian steel and how it was forged?” Rhaenys said, choosing to sit down before she started swaying.

Sleep was a good thing, if done in moderation. She probably should go sleep after she told Sarella about this.

“Yes, yes, that it was forged with spells that were either stolen from or by the goblins, and that to cool the steel, they drenched it in the blood of Muggles,” Viserys answered, confusion clear. “Why?”

“How much of that was true?” Rhaenys asked.

“All of it, as far as I know,” Viserys scratched his chin in thought. “Except perhaps the bit about goblins- I think that might have been something one of the tutors your father insisted on had brought up, and I added it in for detail.”

“So Valaryian steel is made by using an unwilling blood sacrifice,” Rhaenys frowned. “And you end up with a smoky black metal that can slice through any enchantment and kill nearly anything.”

“Which is why no one makes it anymore,” Viserys said. “The spells died out with the old bard-smiths who fashioned them.”

“Thanks,” Rhaenys said as she cut the connection on a protesting Viserys, looking at Sirius. He almost figured it out, Rhaenys judged, but he hadn’t grown up with stories of the Sword of the Morning.

“So Valyrian steel is a bastardization of the process used to create Lightbringer?” Sirius attempted.

Rhaenys nodded, sweeping aside a pile of papers. “Bright magic- a sacrifice willingly made to save the world- turned to darkness and cruelty. The darkness of the blade is a reflection of that! Which means that Lightbringer wouldn’t be dark like obsidian, but…”

“Bright,” Sirius finished.

“It was right in front of our faces,” Rhaenys said, laughter threatening to bubble up. “Dawn, a sword that belongs to the most prestigious fighter that the Dayne family can offer, the witch or wizard known as the Sword of the Morning, a sword that is like Valaryian steel in all but color.”

“It’s a white metal, then?” Sirius asked. Rhaenys nodded.

“It’s an old story- Aunt Ashara told it to me, when I was little. Supposedly it comes from the heart of a star, but the metal is totally different from meteoritic iron.”

“…Do we tell Sarella first or do we warn your godfather about the mess we are about to dump on his lap?” Sirius asked with perfect sincerity.

Rhaenys had to laugh at that point. “Sarella knows a multitude of nasty spells with extremely obscure countercurses. We tell her after you spill your big trick to me.”

Sirius looked cornered and vaguely like a puppy. “Ah, well…”

~

Arthur Dayne had dueled Voldemort himself, and he’d almost won. This shouldn’t be so complicated, really. Simple fighting with someone who couldn’t send spells back at him.

He would, however, feel a bit more confident if it hadn’t been Sarella telling him that he needed to wield Dawn. It wasn’t that he doubted her scholarship- well, Sarella and Rhaenys’ scholarship. It was just that Sarella was a bit hard to read, and he was worried that they were missing something.

Everyone said the Light was losing, bleeding fighters while turncloaks and cravens flocked to Voldemort’s banner. They needed another decisive victory, and soon.

Yes, they had won the battle in Diagon Alley, but there had been Dementors near Norwich, and Malfoy had been talking to Euron Crow’s Eye. The Aurors were down a third of their number since the war had begun in earnest, and from what he heard, the Order was just as bad, if not worse.

So he was part of the landing team sent to the Isle of Faces. Which many considered to be haunted, cursed, or some variation thereof. It was certainly as full of magic as Hogwarts, with the half-bare weirwood trees and their carved faces.

Ned Stark looked perfectly comfortable in the woods, if watchful. He met Arthur’s eyes and gave him a tired smile. “It feels like home.”

Ah, Ned and many of the men here- the Great and Small Jon Umbers, Maege Mormont and her two eldest daughters, Gregory Flint, with family on both sides of the war, and quiet Howland Reed from the Department of Mysteries- were from the families who had been around to sign the Pact between wizards and the children of the forest, and most were familiar with godswoods.

Others did not look quite so comfortable- Edmure Tully, for all he grew up less than two hours away, was one of them. (Actually, that explained quite a bit- his pregnant wife was helping Catelyn Stark set up the casualty station in Riverrun. If this went wrong, Riverrun was the next line of defense.) Robert Baratheon kept opening his mouth as if to let out one of his booming jokes- Arthur wondered with a wry grin if he knew why some of the rookies had nicknamed him “Zeus”. Oswell Whent, whose cousin had died in the initial wight attack, was looking around like he wanted to set something on fire. Garlan was looking at the group with something like skepticism.

The Order members, who had been brought in by a sheepish looking Robb Stark and a smug Alastor, were about as mixed- Sirius Black looked vaguely serene, though that might have more to do with finally getting something to hit. Humfrey Hightower and Myranda Royce where arguing quietly with Emmaline Vance, who looked as if she wanted desperately to be somewhere else. Rhaegar’s sister Danaerys was there as well, with her cropped silver-gold hair and a feral grin. Three of the Sand Snakes were there, as well as a bemused Oberyn, who was lurking at the edges of the group and tapping one of the trees with his wand.

Damn, he missed Rhaegar right now. Oberyn’s surprises were usually not enjoyable unless you were out of the blast radius.

Oberyn pulled a bag out of the tree, putting it in a leather case. “Why would they be stashing coins in trees along the coast,” he asked the group.

“Poisoning?” The redheaded Stark offered. Everyone shot him a look as he turned as bright as his hair. “No, seriously- Jeyne’s been tracing a bunch of people who got sick, and the first was a boy who found some galleons by the beach.”

“…Why?” Oberyn tapped the case with his foot. “Is it a smoke screen? A warning to the people opposing them?”

“A virus?” Garlan offered. “We don’t know where they came from. If it works like vampirism or lycanthropy…”

Arthur nearly snorted as Oberyn took a discreet step away from the case.

“We’re currently on the southernmost tip of the island,” Arthur said, making sure that Vance, Royce, and Hightower were listening. He should have felt a bit silly, with Dawn sheathed and ready for him to use, but something about it felt right. “We will be making a sweep, tail to tip of this island. It is estimated to be two miles long by one mile at its widest point, which seems manageable, but expect attacks…”

Clearly the wights and their masters had a sense of dramatic timing, because that was when they chose to come swarming through the woods, and the battle was on.

~

The wights fell easily, and Robert Baretheon didn’t think there was much sport in it. Ned said it was giving the poor bastards peace, that if the souls were still in there they were giving them a gift. It was good and saintly and very Ned, but half-frozen corpses were more a nuisance than an opportunity for grace.

He blasted a pile from Ned’s boy, who tossed him a quick grin as he returned the favor.

“This is too easy,” Moody grunted.

“Like target practice,” Ned agreed. “Keep an eye out for their masters.”

“How many can fit on this damn island, anyway?” the Royce girl asked, swatting one with a banisher that created a pile-up for Hightower to burn.

“Magic’s involved,” Reed pointed out. “Do you really want to know?”

The quiet from that statement was broken by a cry from one Flint- one of the ice monsters had sliced him neck to navel, and he fell.

Thirty of the damn things- fanning out to surround the huddled wizards, all silent and holding swords.

Dayne pulled out his snow-pale sword, and Robert would have stopped to admire the trail of smoke as he sliced through them if he wasn’t busy killing the damn things himself.

More were coming in, trying to swarm Dayne. Robert used a fire-whip to snap one’s sword at the base, causing a look of comical surprise on its face before Maege Mormont destroyed it. The Targaryen girl was quick as well, and quietly brutal in clearing piles off of the more endangered fighters.

When one got too close, Black banished one of the more intact bodies littering the ground at them, distracting them when he used a Firestorm to blacken and melt half a dozen and bringing out an unholy wail.

“Right, that worked well enough,” he said, a bit green around the edges. “Least he won’t rise, poor bastard.”

Robert grinned at that. “One less to stab us in the back.”

Ned gave them both a disapproving look and went back to fighting.

It wasn’t boring- they bled and were damned quick, and there was a vast difference in their skills and strength. It was cutting loose and fighting, and he ignored the beginnings of exhaustion as he kept on.

They fought and they died, both sides. Myranda Royce was guarding a half-collapsed Hightower, and two Order members had died.

Well, that was why untrained volunteers weren’t as good as…

There was a short gasp, and Robert turned to see what was behind him, just in time to see his best friend- his brother in all but blood, the one he had chosen- fall to the ground.

Ned Stark had died as he lived- quietly guarding Robert’s back.

Robert blasted the bastard who killed him as fast as he could, feeling the lightening hot rage fill him, leaving room for nothing else. He smashed at another, feeling satisfied at the smear of corrosive black blood and the torn bodies. Ned was dead, when he should have been Robert dying in battle. Ned was supposed to die old and grey and surrounded by great-grandchildren.

They fought and they died, until the woman monster came.

~

Arthur decided that he’d had enough of this insanity about the same time the felt a prickle on the back of his neck, and he was facing an unarmored creature, with winter-pale skin and black hair braided into a crown.

She gave him a sad smile before drawing her own sword.

It was the rhythm that he had learned as a child, ducking and weaving and the call of metal on ice. He was leaving notches on the ice/glass sword, deep and weakening the material.

He was also getting tired, and it showed. His movements were slower, and his attention kept straying towards the battle around him. Ned Stark had died, and Baratheon was fighting like a man who didn’t care if he lived or died. Danaerys was scowling as she destroyed the third wight to enter Baratheon’s blind spot in as many minutes, the man not even trying to keep an eye out. Reed was trying to do something, with Lyanna Stark’s son as assistant and Black acting as an aggrieved guard dog.

The trees trembled. There was no wind, but the trees trembled and the queen-like creature stumbled for a moment, and Dawn went into her chest.

~

“Come on,” Sirius said, getting a bit annoyed by the fact that he couldn’t actually move as much as he needed to if he wanted to survive. They needed this over now, while Humfrey was still salvageable and they didn’t lose more people.

(Shit, how was he going to tell the Stark girls about their father? Baratheon would cock it up and probably be half drunk, he’d be the same if it was James. At least James was safe under the charm.)

“We need to get this right the first time, Black,” Jon said. “Unless you want the island to catch on fire.”

“Huh, Moody said this would only probably be a suicide mission,” Sirius replied, aiming at two wights. “Seriously, every expansion charm has its limits, and this isn’t a big place.”

“They took advantage of the root system, I think,” Reed mused. “The Children of the Forest used them to make a cave system, not just here, of course, but I think the wights used it as a base and built from there.

Sirius tried not to wonder how deep the root system could go. “And wildfire would end badly, I know, so what are you doing?”

“Greenseer blood and will,” Jon said crankily. “Bran and Jojen are safely in Riverrun, with my sister and his mother watching over him.”

“So the Flame Princess doesn’t get any ideas?” Sirius asked. Melisandre and Sirius did not get along, for all that she liked Rhaenys well enough. (He had a feeling that had more to do with Mr. Targaryen than anything else. He didn’t know the full story, but apparently he’d brought her to England a few years back.)

“Pretty much,” Jon admitted. “She insisted that we burn down the island. Possibly using muggle bombs.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. Arya had mentioned a muggleborn friend of hers was curious about using muggle weapons against dementors, which seemed like a good idea. The older version of wildfire had supposedly worked on dementors, before they had been bound to Azkaban.

The Dragonstone library probably had the old recipes, Sirius thought as he tore apart another wight. He’d need to go bother Rhaenys about that. Once this was done, the dementors would probably be kept busy, so Voldemort didn’t look weak.

They just needed to hurry.

~

Bran and Jojen were both sleeping, having been drugged with a potion Sarella had found in the Hightower library. Supposedly it would induce a sort of trance state, with a hard-won branch of weirwood in each hand. (Lyanna and Benjen Stark had each stolen one from the Isle of Faces.)

Catelyn Stark was watching them both, one of the two assigned to it. “They’re so young,” she said for the third time in Rhaenys’ shift.

Rhaenys sent her a tired look. “They are, I agree, but we’re doing all we can.” And they aren’t so young that the wights won’t eat them, a crabby voice in the back of her head pointed out.  

She shook her head. She understood Mrs. Stark’s worry- Sirius and Aunt Arthur were there, as well as Mrs. Stark’s husband, brother, and eldest son. And her shift was almost done- then she would catnap before an emergency.

(There had been a raid in Dorset that morning, sixteen innocents dead and one of Arianne’s yearmates in the infirmary, an Order member who couldn’t trust Saint Mungo’s as a muggleborn. Olyvar Frey had been found beaten half to death in an alley, and Roslin had been honestly worried he wouldn’t make it.)

Another roiling wave of nausea, and she couldn’t hide her wince.

“How far along are you?” Mrs. Stark asked absently. “I noticed how worried Ashara looked when you came in yesterday, and you seem to have horrible mother’s stomach.” She gave Rhaenys a tired smile. “I have had a few of my own, as well. It isn’t hard to notice.”

“Eight weeks,” Rhaenys offered after a moment. “Aunt Ashara said she’ll be amazed if I make it to twelve, considering my family history and history of getting hit by nasty curses.”

The older witch nodded at that. It was true- Grandmother Targaryen had died giving birth to Dany, after all, and Mother had been in Saint Mungo’s for months after each of her births. It was apparently a quirk of the Targaryens- Lyanna Stark had nearly died when Jon was born, from the hasty rant Aunt Ashara had lectured her with, and Renly was ages younger than Stannis or Robert for a reason.

Most of these, a part of her that sounded a great deal like Father said, happened well after the fire at Summerhall that had killed off most branches of the Targaryen family. All of them, really, which is probably why you didn’t mess with rituals without proper precaution and careful selection of the participants.

The whole mess basically meant that she refused to tell Sirius until November ended, getting her safely over into the second trimester. It hadn’t been terribly hard- Sirius had been busy with planning this, overseeing his madcap plan to ensure no one knew about Peter being the Secret Keeper, and general Order duties, she’d hardly seen him at all in the past month.

It would break his heart if she miscarried, and he would probably place her under glass once Aunt Ashara started rounding on him about how high-risk this pregnancy was. (Arianne had started collecting topics for Rhaenys to research, and started trying to suggest research assistants. She had to be useful somehow.)

Melisandre came in, carrying a cup of tea. “Your daughter is bringing up your lunch. Ashara told me that Rhaenys should have this.”

Rhaenys looked at the murky tea, trying not to mutter implications on healer’s brews. It wasn’t one she was familiar with, but she hadn’t had much to do with most pregnancy brews as yet.

Meraxes let out a low growl as Rhaenys gulped it down as much as she could. She’d have to drink something to get the taste out of her mouth.

She missed the suspicious look that Catelyn Stark gave Melisandre and the cup she took with her when she swept past Jeyne.

“She worries me,” Jeyne muttered. “All that red…”

“Melisandre was trained as a priestess-prophetess,” Rhaenys rattled off. “She clings to the traditions of her order, which was destroyed horribly- I think Euron Greyjoy was one of the people responsible for that, which gives you a good idea of just how bad it was.”

Jeyne flushed. “It doesn’t mean she’s a good person, though.”

Rhaenys sighed. “I know. But she doesn’t want the wights and their masters to win, anymore than we do. And she’s been on the team investigating this since the beginning.”

Jeyne sighed. “Be that as it may…” She stopped. “Rhaenys, are you all right?”

She swayed, and felt Jeyne catch her as her world spiraled into darkness.

“Only death can pay for life,” something that sounded like the priestess whispered in her mind. “One day you’ll thank me, for this reward. You and your lover both struck a blow for the light.”

~

Bran followed the path the weirwood branch laid out, red where it wasn’t too dark to see.

“Root and branch,” Jojen murmured, following the path. “You know what we have to do?”

Fire would burn the weirwoods, leaving damage that would rot the roots and leave corruption and decay, Mr. Targaryen had speculated. You needed something else, that wouldn’t kill the weirwood trees. He’d said something about ravens and towers and the wizarding-muggle information barrier, as well, but Bran wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. He’d probably ask Gendry later if he knew, or Sam Tarly. Sam probably knew.

“We have to get rid of this, somehow,” Bran said, looking at the roots, covered in sickly blue-grey mold, like a bundle of loose fluff, or an evil cloud or something.

“Do you know how?” Jojen asked hopefully. The Department of Mysteries had no greenseers, only Melisandre with her fires and sacrifice. (“We kind of… catalogue, more than anything,” Jon had told him sheepishly, when Sarella had first suggested this.) This was flying blind, with no real hints as to where they should go.

Bran had rather hoped Jojen could figure something out.

“Knives will cut the roots and take too long,” Bran said, feeling something recoil inside him at the sight of the lacy rot.

“We shouldn’t use fire,” Jojen added thoughtfully. “At least not fire that burns.”

“Fire that doesn’t burn?” Bran sounded scornful even to his own ears, and he shot Jojen a look of apology. The other boy didn’t say a word. “A Flame-freezing charm won’t burn the mold.”

“There are spells to banish evil,” Jojen said solemnly. Bran felt his eyebrows go up to his hairline- Jon and Sansa had insisted that Bran get an equal say in the planning of this, when Sarella had called together her band of wizards, so he knew Aunt Lyanna and her team had used a patronus to drive off the Others.

But the thing was, Bran was only sixteen, and the Patronus charm was past NEWT levels. He couldn’t get a corporal one just yet, even though Dad had insisted he learn.

Bran focused anyway, thinking of Remus being unexpectedly kind that first September, right after Clegane. Seeing his friends attempt to steal the Maruader’s notes on the animagus transformation, even if it failed. (And an annotated book finding its way into Bran’s cauldron, with his Potion professor’s notes.) And Shireen curling up against him with a book that spilled over her lap, telling him some of the more ridiculous parts with that shy half smile. Tyene Sand bouncing about after the associates of the Potions Exchange beat Belby to a solution for the Wolfsbane Potion, and Sansa deciding to elope with Willas, dragging four of her wedding attendants and going to Gretna Green, even if “they weren’t living in a Regency Romance Novel.”

He doesn’t ask what Jojen thought about.

He cast the spell just as the world started to shake.