Chapter Text
—Daenerys—Khaleesi—Daenerys—Khaleesi—Daenerys—Khaleesi—Daenerys—
Arranging her marriage was possibly the kindest thing Viserys had ever done for her—not that he did it out of the goodness of his heart. No, her brother had only wanted something for himself: an army to take back their home. That Dany was happy with her match meant nothing to him. It most likely angered him, in fact, since he always seemed happiest in the face of her suffering.
Her brother hadn’t been family to Daenerys for well over a decade now. She had mourned him—and what he could have been to her if he hadn’t sunk one foot into madness.
She had accepted, grudgingly and with little grace, that she had no true family left in this world. No blood family, at least, since for the past year, she had grown close to many of her new people—and her husband, Khal Drogo.
The Khal was a tall, broad man wrapped in thick muscle and lethal intent, gentle only for her, for children, and for his favorite horse: a black beast just as large and intimidating as its rider.
Before their marriage, they had only met once, outside the latest temporary home she and Viserys had taken shelter in. Drogo hadn’t spoken a word, and his eyes had never left her. He hadn’t looked her up and down like the other men had, had never viewed her as a piece of meat or an object to be possessed.
Daenerys had held her head high and refused to be intimidated, she looked him in the eyes and held his gaze throughout the entire exchange. She saw his first smile while being defiant in the face of a marriage she hadn't wanted until she found the warm amusement in the dark eyes of her soon to be husband.
The Dothraki were a nomadic people, often viewed as savages and cutthroats. Dany was ashamed to admit that when she first met them, after being fed horror stories of their exploits, she had believed the lies people so often spat.
She knew better now. She no longer feared their fearsome looks and wicked blades. The men and women of the khalasar would sooner gut themselves than harm their Khaleesi.
Daenerys rather thought the cities full of slave masters were the real monsters—far more savage than any Dothraki horde. Her people abhorred slavery and mercilessly put to death any man who took a person against their will.
Freedom was a core belief of the Dothraki people, and to take away that freedom was a sin deemed unforgivable by them and their gods.
Freedom was a thing the Dothraki stripped from criminals, traitors, and captured enemies alone. With no permanent home, they had little use for long imprisonment—days or weeks at most, before execution or death by combat followed.
Marriage vows were also sacred. To stray from one’s wife or husband was rare, and such betrayal often ended in blood—and in corpses left to be feasted upon by wild beasts. A terrible punishment, to be denied a funeral pyre. A harsh judgment only the Khal or Khaleesi could pass.
Leaning back on the furred lounge chair Drogo had gifted her many moons ago so she could sit in leisure and read, Dany let her thoughts wander to memories of her wedding—memories far fonder than she’d ever expected to have.
It had been a feast in every way. Exotic foods delighted her tongue, and the happiness in the air had been contagious. Everyone had smiled at her, offered congratulations, and welcomed her like one of their own.
The Dothraki had embraced her as no one else ever had. It was only fair that she returned the favor and learned all she could of their culture and traditions. She had been overjoyed to be accepted.
She had eaten and danced all day. By dawn, she was genuinely pleased to be wed to Drogo, who had stayed at her side through the entire celebration, proudly introducing her to his bloodriders and the elders like she was the most important woman in the world.
Viserys had sulked, unused to being ignored.
Their vows had been simple, but no less meaningful. They swore to be true to themselves and to one another, to keep faith and remain loyal, to treasure each other more than any coin or jewel.
Their wedding night had not gone how she expected. Once they were alone in their tent, Drogo had knelt before her and offered his steady hands to hold her shaking ones. Looking into his eyes, she saw only kindness and understanding.
He pulled her then, around his body until she was sitting in the chair with his back to her. He instructed to her untie his braids, and as she did he spoke. Drogo told her that they didn't need to consummate their marriage now, or ever, not unless she was ready and wanted to. He said they would wait, and that if she never wanted him intimately he would not push.
Dany hadn’t believed him at first. But when days turned to weeks, and then over two moons had passed, and his behavior only grew warmer and more affectionate… that, more than his handsome face, strong body, and kind eyes, made her want him.
She had all but ambushed him one night after he and the other warriors finished their training. He’d been shocked, pleased, and unbearably smug next morning.
Daenerys stroked a hand over her flat belly. She had always wanted a family. Perhaps she could have one now—now that she was almost free of her brother. With her and Drogo… it felt less like a dream, and more like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—
During the fortnight since Jon discovered the long-kept secrets of his parentage, Maester Luwin had been very busy indeed.
First, after a sleepless night of humming and hawing over what he was to do, Luwin had ambushed his favourite pupil after lessons and told him, quite bluntly, his thoughts on what Jon should do: leave Westeros and forge a better, happier life.
The poor boy had looked spooked when he mentioned that Jon should find his Targaryen uncle and aunt across the Narrow Sea, most likely because he hadn’t known of them. It was not as if Luwin had taught any lessons on the Targaryen dynasty besides Robert’s Rebellion.
Jon had then confessed, in hushed whispers, that just the night before his ‘friend’ had voiced the very same idea, going red-cheeked and flustered when Luwin asked who exactly this friend was.
At eight-and-ten namedays old, Jon had acted like a small child who had been caught doing something wrong by his parents, stumbling over his words as he explained that he had been courting a lady in secret for the past year.
A young Lady Lannister, who had fled her less-than-honourable house when her father had begun speaking of marriage and the possible candidates he had in mind for her hand.
Jon had assured Luwin that his intended was trustworthy. He even admitted that it was she who, only the night before, had propositioned him for marriage and to run away together, to be free of the many burdens placed upon them.
The maester had been impressed, to say the least. Many a woman would likely have pushed Jon to war, to claim his rightful place upon the Iron Throne so that they might become a queen, and yet, this young lady did the opposite and insisted that they flee to safer lands.
It was this, more than anything, that made Luwin accept and even respect the young lady who had captured his honorary grandson’s heart. Two days later, under the cover of night, Jon had introduced him to his lady love in the Wolfswood, and together the three of them hatched a plan.
In a moon’s turn, they would leave these cold lands and travel in the guise of merchants by horse and cart to White Harbor, where they would sail across the Narrow Sea to Essos. Once there, they would search for word or sightings of Jon’s Targaryen family.
It was by no means the most well-thought-out or in-depth plan, but a plan of action nonetheless.
And now, standing here before the Weirwood in the godswood Maester Luwin could not find regret in his heart nor mind. With a fortnight gone and a fortnight yet to pass before their departure both Jon and Lady Alis insisted upon being wed beneath the great heart tree before the old gods and the new.
—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—
He stood beneath the red leaves of the weirwood, its carved face weeping blood-red sap, snow settling soft upon his shoulders. Clad in his finest, Jon could think of no greater beauty than the one before him.
Alis.
His lovely bride.
She came to him in white fur, a snowbear’s pelt draped about her shoulders, her golden hair braided in a crown upon her head. Her lips were red, her smile brighter still, and it stole the breath from his lungs.
Maester Luwin walked beside her, solemn as ever, to stand as witness for law and man, while the heart tree bore witness for the gods.
They would wed in the old way as neither of them kept the Seven that were One. Before a weirwood, only truth could be spoken, and the words said here would bind them for all their days that followed.
“When you are ready,” Luwin said, a touch dry—perhaps from waiting on two young fools lost in each other’s eyes.
Alis did not hesitate. Fierce as ever, she took Jon’s hands in hers, her grass-green gaze steady, searching, as if weighing his soul and finding it worthy. Something Jon still found hard to believe.
“What more is there to say?” she began. “My heart was yours from the second day we met. And it was not simply your handsome face that turned my head, but your kind heart of witch in my life few such hearts I have known.”
Her grip tightened, warm despite the cold.
“With each day wnet by and for every moons turn, with you, I found a new joy, a new passion, a new thirst for life for witch had long since been squashed by the family whom never truly cared for me nor my happiness. Whom would have traded me like cattle.”
Jon swallowed hard, knowing it was the truth and hating her father for it. He would never allow sutch a thing to happen to any daughter of his, should he have any daughters.
“So before the old gods, I give to you my heart, and ask for yours in return. To you I give you my loyalty, and pray you grant me yours. To you I give my life, if you would choose to share yours with me.”
Jon squeezed her hands, a silent vow of his own. She smiled, and he felt it like sunlight.
He could not lose that.
If he waited, he knew his voice would fail him. So he spoke.
“My life…” He faltered, then forced the words through. “If it can be called that… was a lonely thing.”
The wind stirred the branches above, red leaves whispering. A warning, that there is no room for anything baring honesty here. As though the old gods where listening, and demanding truth.
“I was raised among kin, yet set apart from them. Taught to honour a father who was not mine. Marked from birth as less. A bastard. A mistake made to carry a sin that was not mine own nor of my making.”
His jaw tightened.
“No matter what I did, it was never enough. Not for them. Never for them.”
He drew a breath, steadying. Calming. Then carried on. Some truths were difficult to say aloud, regardless of how long he has known them.
“Then you came. You were like the sun after a long winter, and though by your beauty I was blinded it was your kindness that stayed my heart. You made me believe… that I might be more than what they named me.”
Snow caught in her hair. He wanted to brush it away, but did not dare break the moment.
“So before the old gods, I give you my heart. I trust you not to do it harm. I give you my loyalty, so long as I draw breath. I give you my life… and ask only that you do not leave me to face it alone.”
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then he leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and kissed her.
Her lips were warm, and smiling.
When they parted, the world felt changed. Jon felt changed. His name felt tight, suffocating and no longer his own. Mayhaps, it was time to claim his true name, the one given to him by his mother. Besides, he was never truly Jon, anyway.
His vows had been dark, perhaps. Too raw.
But for the first time in his life, ‘Jon Snow’ had spoken nothing but truth with no worry for the consequences.
—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—
Leaving the young couple to their wedding night, the old maester made his way up the Library Tower, Ghost silently following at his heels, to his parchment and ink to write the official marriage document between Prince Aemon Targaryen, son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Targaryen, formerly of House Stark, and Alis Lannister, daughter of Kevan Lannister and Dorna Lannister, formerly of House Swyft.
Not a marriage one would expect, but a fine match nonetheless. Luwin wished them many happy a year together and, if the gods were good, a healthy heir to further secure their union and bloodlines.
He kept the original marriage document and sent, by raven, a copy to be filed away in the Citadel, feeling a tad giddy at the outcry that would follow should anyone read its contents.
He allowed himself a small chuckle before shuffling off to the cot in the corner of his study. Best to sleep early to wake early—there was still much to do before he, Jon, and Alis made their departure.
—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—
A flurry of action followed her and her husband’s wedding.
Her husband.
She felt a thrill every time she thought the word. She had a husband, and not one she dreaded wedding and bedding, but one of her own choosing; not a dignity she had dared hope she would be afforded.
Alis could not remember a time she had been more joyful—not even as a girl, when her mother had paid her more attention and she held some small semblance of her father’s affection, before she had been shoved aside to make way for her brothers’ more important accomplishments.
Not that she had been dwelling on such troubling thoughts in the past fortnight, too busy during the day and, well… quite busy most nights also.
Two horses—a lovely red mare and a white-and-brown stallion—were brought to pull the covered wagon they would be using to travel in, along with all their important worldly possessions; of which there were few for her and Jon—no, Aemon, she mentally reminded herself. He went by his true name now, in private at the moment, but freely once they left Westeros.
She was fiercely proud of her husband. It was not an easy thing, change.
For Alis, she had only her clothes and gifts from Aemon to bring with her, though as the better cook between the three of them, it was decided that she would prepare the rations for their travels, and she had been quite diligent in procuring longer-lasting foodstuffs such as salted meat, bread, and a variety of vegetables that were slow to rot.
Her lord husband had more possessions to add to the wagon, though far less than the son of a lord should have. His mother’s chest of treasures was the first thing he secured, along with his clothing and cloaks, a spare pair of boots, his armour, and weaponry. One of the few personal items he thought to bring was his book, in which he drew.
Alis had only caught a few glances at its contents, but from what she could see, her man was a fine illuminator.
The bulk of the wagon’s contents were the good maester’s books, scrolls, and various tools and instruments. He could not, he had told her, in good conscience take the ravens of Winterfell, as that would be theft in his eyes; however, many of the books at Winterfell were procured by him or brought with him when he had first arrived.
To appear as merchants, however, they also added some goods which were commonly sold. Aemon hunted and bundled the pelts of deer and other animals, Alis purchased casks of ale and some wine, and the good maester harvested wild herbs from the woods.
Maester Luwin also insisted upon collecting seeds and offshoots of northern plants to bring with them so that he could start a garden in Essos, along with seven weirwood saplings, to “bring a little of where we came from to where we will settle.”
Aemon had made a request to bring winter roses among the more useful plants, a favourite of his late mother.
They had prepared well. By tomorrow’s end, they would finally begin their journey—and leave everything they had ever known behind.
For the Alis, this would be fore the second time in as many years.
—Eddard—Ned—Lord—Stark—Eddard—Ned—Lord—Stark—Eddard—Ned—
Lord Eddard of House Stark was breaking his fast when he first noticed something was amiss, though it took him far longer to realise what was bothering him than he cared to admit.
Jon was nowhere to be found.
Eddard tried to recall the last time he had seen his pseudo-son, and could not remember seeing his face at mealtimes for the last two days.
He had been occupied, dealing with an argument between two of the Northern lords over land and hunting rights, and had little time for much else.
At first, he had not worried. Jon had tended to miss meals in the great hall more often as of late, seemingly preferring to eat by his lonesome in his room or in the Library Tower. It saddened Lord Stark to see his nephew feel so unwelcome, but there was little he could do to change the boy’s less-than-warm relationship with Cat.
He was stuck between keeping his promise to his sister and not angering his lady wife, and while Jon may not have had the easiest of lives, he was still alive… a thought that brought him less and less comfort as time went on.
As dark eyes became dull and listless.
Lord Stark had not worried himself over Jon’s whereabouts—he was a man grown and was to be allowed some privacy. It was not until Robb, Ned’s eldest son, asked him if he knew where Maester Luwin was, as he had not turned up for his lessons, that Eddard felt the first stirrings of unease.
With the maester and Jon both seemingly missing, Lord Stark went first to investigate by himself before causing a panic. He searched Jon’s room and inwardly cringed at the small, near-empty space.
It was dark, a third the size of his other children’s bedchambers, and held only a bed of rough furs and wood, a chest for clothes, and a small wooden desk.
He had never been in this room before, not since his lady wife had moved Jon here over five-and-ten years ago.
He imagened it would have looked even smailler if Jon had been occupying it.
Lord Stark scoured the courtyard next, searching for his wayward nephew and maester, and found nothing, barring his Robb and Theon sparring.
The godswood yielded no sign of Jon either, and it was only when he ascended to the top of the Library Tower and collapsed at the desk to think where else he and Maester Luwin might be that he discovered why two of his household were absent.
There were no words to describe the sheer amount of dread he felt as he spied the letter, sealed in red wax depicting a three-headed dragon, lying innocently on the maester’s writing table.
Slowly, warily, Lord Stark took the parchment and, with a tightened jaw, broke the seal.
It read:
To Lord Eddard Stark,
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,
It is with regret that I leave you this letter to find, though I know confronting you in person would not have ended well. I would have preferred to speak face to face, so that I might have known if there were anything left of the man I once believed you to be.
I have served faithfully for many years, and for many years have held my tongue in matters where I believed my opinion unwelcome. Yet no longer can I remain silent. I have watched Jon grow and have seen the lack of care shown to him—the hostility—and, if I may be blunt, Lord Stark, I believe his mother would be gravely disappointed in your actions. Furious, even.
Protecting one’s life requires more than merely keeping one alive, yet you thought nothing of Jon’s happiness, his future, or his dignity.
Perhaps it is wrong for me to act as judge in such matters, yet I find myself uncaring if I overstep.
As you no doubt have realised by my earlier writing, Jon’s parentage is a secret no longer, as he himself discovered your betrayals, which I was saddened to learn are many. I will not burden you with my own disappointment and will instead come to the matter at hand.
Jon has left Winterfell, and we will not be returning. I would ask that you do not search for him. You owe it to Jon, if nothing else, to allow him to leave the cold, loveless place from which he grew.
I have chosen to join Jon in leaving the North, as I find my respect for its lord and lady waning, and believe my time would be better spent elsewhere.
I pray that in the years to come you will understand just how deeply you have failed Jon and his mother, and that, despite your shortcomings, you may find forgiveness for yourself—for I fear Jon may never do so.
Luwin,
Former Maester of House Stark.
Devastated, and not knowing what to do, Lord Stark merely sat, guilt gnawing at his insides as ravens cawed from their cages.
Jon knew. Maester Luwin knew—and they had both left.
Silently, with bowed head, Eddard of House Stark prayed for his beloved sister’s forgiveness, knowing she had not been forgiving in life, and doubting that death had made her so.
—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—
Partway through their two-week journey to White Harbor, Alis woke late in the night. Beside her in their shared tent, her husband, Aemon, slept soundly. In his sleep, Alis thought her husband looked so much younger, and at peace in a way he never was while awake.
It made her heart ache to know of his mistreatment, though it calmed her some knowing that he would soon be far from the Starks’ influence and scorn.
Too far for them to follow.
Fondly, with a feather-light touch so as not to wake him, she brushed a lock of hair from his face and placed a chaste kiss to his cheek, before slowly creeping out of the tent, taking with her a wool blanket for warmth. She knew herself well enough to know she would not be sleeping any longer tonight, for she felt restless and far too awake.
At the entrance of their tent, Alis made sure not to trip over Ghost’s prone body, as she had done on their first night on the road to White Harbor, and made her way over toward their wagon, thinking to find a book to read to pass the time until Aemon and the good maester awoke.
She gave each horse a gentle pat and mayhaps spoiled them a little with half an apple each as a treat, then started to peruse Luwin’s book collection; he had already given permission to her and her husband to read them at their leisure should they wish, so long as they did so with clean hands.
Speaking of the good maester, he snored quite spectacularly in his sleep. At least she knew he was alive and well without having to check, though it had taken a night or two to get used to.
She stroked her hands down the spine of several books before deciding on a fairly recent one depicting the different wildlife and plant life of Essos. A useful read, if nothing else.
She had just settled down beside the wagon to start reading when, in the distance, she heard a snap of a branch underfoot.
Alis froze instantly, remaining still and silent as she strained to hear more, battling with herself on whether or not to wake the men or if she was worrying over nothing.
It could have been a deer, or a rabbit—some woodland creature searching for food in the early morning hours.
It could be a bear. A predator unafraid of humans and hungry.
Another sound, this time the rustling of something moving through shrubbery, getting closer.
It could be a man, or an entire group of bandits and thieves who had followed the tracks of the wagon and hoped for an easy robbery.
From where she sat, Alis could see clearly now: a pair of bright blue eyes watching her from the treeline—not the eyes of a man, yet just as intelligent.
As they watched one another in a kind of standoff, Ghost rose from his guarding post and padded on near-silent paws to greet their nighttime visitor.
To her immense relief, there was no attack, no fighting, not even a growl from either animal. They both seemed more curious than anything else, and as Alis gathered her courage to stand and inch closer toward them, she understood why.
Direwolves are rare beasts, and supposedly only inhabit the wilds beyond the Wall. Ghost had been a seemingly impossible occurrence, found in the Wolfswood beside his dead mother, skinny and too young to be weaned. He would have died if it had not been for Aemon.
And though her husband’s cousins had been quite jealous of “Jon’s” “pet,” the pup had refused to obey or be held by anyone else but Aemon, and he had been allowed to keep the wolf, despite Lord Stark’s wife insisting that the beast should be killed before it grew into a monster.
So now, seeing the black direwolf part from the shadows to sniff at Ghost’s neck, Alis could not help but stare in wonder and ponder if the wolves too were leaving the North.
Distracted by what was before her, Alis had to clasp a hand over her mouth to stop from screaming when she felt a great furry head press against her stomach.
One hand still covering her mouth and the other clutching over her heart where it tried to beat its way out of her chest, Alis turned her head and found herself faced with a giant, blonde direwolf huffing and poking its nose at her.
She had not even heard it sneaking up on her.
With one last sniff, the beast stepped back and plopped down on its backside to stare at her with pale green eyes, as if it were a common hound awaiting commands from its master.
She had to admit, it was a pretty thing, with blonde fur light like sunshine and a cream-coloured belly and muzzle.
Over her new four-legged friend’s massive head, Alis saw more eyes among the trees.
—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—Luwin—Maester—
In all the years Maester Luwin had lived on this earth, he had never before thought to question what he had seen with his own two eyes—and yet now, after waking to bird song and the smell of cooking meat, he could do no other thing.
After leaving his humble tent, a simple hide held up by wood, he found himself facing a quite impossible scene.
There, sitting beside the fire and tending to a roasting hare above the flames, sat Lady Alis, positively surrounded by the giant furred bodies of no less than seven direwolves. Ghost, the white, red-eyed wolf, stood out amongst the sea of darker fur.
There was a black wolf, darker than the deepest night, with eyes like a raging sea. A silver-grey wolf with eyes like river stones and castle walls. A wolf with a coat so red it could have been a giant fox, if not for its obvious wolfish features, with dark brown eyes. A beast the colour of gold with steel-like eyes was using a brown wolf with amber eyes as a pillow. And lastly, with its great head resting upon the lady’s lap, was a blonde wolf, its green eyes boring into him as if he were the animal encroaching on its campsite.
Then there was that other… thing. He refused to call it a direwolf, no matter that it was clearly a part of the pack that had seemingly appeared in the night.
It was about a head smaller than the direwolves, and much skinnier, its fur less thick and more flat against its body. An unnatural creature, with legs too long, its front ones seemingly longer than its hind legs, and its pelt too wild—a swirl of colours in its coat like paint smeared on fur by a mad god.
The beast even cackled like a mad god—a harrowing, spine-chilling sound that grated on the ears and should not come from any animal’s mouth. A demented hybrid of fox and wolf, and something far worse than both.
What’s worse, both Aemon and Alis seemed quite taken with them all. They would not hear of trying to shoo them off, petting their heads like they were a lady’s well-bred lapdogs and naming them.
Luwin had already resigned himself to needing to bribe whatever captain of the ship they would take to Essos to allow passage for Ghost. He dreaded to think how they were going to bring an entire pack of the beasts with them.
One direwolf would have been challenge enough.
—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—Jon—Aemon—
The roads to White Harbor were mostly uneventful, the new wolves joining them being the only thing of note. The blonde female, aptly named Summer, seemed quite taken with Alis, following her everywhere and even trying to join them in their tent at night.
He hadn’t known what to think when he’d first woken up that morning to seven more direwolves in their camp. He had found Ghost as an orphaned pup and raised him, and while he in no way was domesticated, Ghost was less wild than wolves raised by their own kind.
And yet, the new wolves, not reared by man, still listened and obeyed, somehow understanding his tone or perhaps even the Common Tongue in which he spoke.
It could be that Old Nan’s stories held a grain of truth, and that the direwolves of the far North were more intelligent than their smaller cousins. Almost human-like in their understanding.
Aemon would watch them as they travelled, and when they made camp each evening, and found himself writing in a fresh journal everything he discovered about them. There was little known about their species after all, and while Aemon was no scholar or maester, he did enjoy learning—and this information could be useful one day.
Firstly, Shadow. The black-furred, blue-eyed female was very clearly “in charge” of the pack. She was watchful and often sat at a vantage point in camp to overlook them all, as if looking out for threats and making sure they weren’t getting into trouble. When playfighting got too rough, she would intervene, and the other wolves had yet to disobey her.
She had also taken a keen interest in Ghost, who was still seemingly establishing himself amongst their ranks.
Lady, the red she-wolf, was—polite, was the only way Aemon could describe her, almost dainty compared to the others. She walked with purposeful grace like a lady of the house, turned her nose up at playing in the dirt, and ate in small bites. Even her snapping bark, when more playful wolves annoyed her, sounded stern but calm.
Then there was Bracken, the brown wolf, who was almost the exact opposite of the red Lady. He was a bit smaller than the rest of the pack, and Aemon came to the conclusion that he must not yet be fully grown; the tripping over his too-large paws when he ran too fast also helped with his musings. Regardless, Bracken certainly acted like a pup. He was excitable and full of energy, always bounding around them as they walked during the day, wrestling with pack mates in the evening. He got told off quite a bit by sensible Lady and leader Shadow, mostly for pushing boundaries or trying to play with them while they were trying to sleep.
Aurion, the golden wolf, too seemed to be on the younger side of the pack, though not as young as Bracken. He seemed almost nervous around Aemon, Alis, and Maester Luwin, but also sought them out to sit with or walk beside. He stuck close to Summer, so was often found trailing behind Alis.
Speaking of Summer, besides being attached to Alis, she seemed to have the best hearing of the wolves, often flicking her ears back and looking in the direction of whatever she heard before the others noticed anything.
Greywind, the grey wolf, was the fastest in the pack, and more often than not walked out half a mile or so in front of the wagon, as if scouting ahead for danger. He was also the most reserved, possibly the oldest wolf in the pack with how little nonsense he got up to or put up with.
And lastly, Galegrinn, the… strange wolf who didn’t quite look like a wolf. He was… chaotic, and full of mischief, and for some reason took it all out on poor Maester Luwin.
The troublesome wolf would steal books the maester was reading right out of his hands and run off with them, sleep with the horses, and give the old man a fright when he went to feed them each morning. He would leave dead rabbits and birds in front of the maester’s tent and cackle like some deranged songbird in the small hours for seemingly no other reason than to startle them all awake so he could have some entertainment.
They were just able to see the city in the distance, a blurry mass of white stone walls reaching upwards to the sky, Luwin and Aemon sitting up front, watching the horses trot along the dirt road pulling the wagon behind them, wolves dashing between the trees at either side as Aemon sketched them, when the good Maester brought them to a stop.
Pulling back the reins, he said, “It would be best to have the beasts remain hidden before we enter the city, so as not to cause panic.”
It wasn’t wrong. Even back at Winterfell, the smallfolk would fear Ghost, even after two years of him living amongst them. That was one wolf, not an entire pack.
“Where do you suggest they stay?” he asked. “At the woods’ edge or by the water?”
It would be easier to keep them from being spotted the further they were from the city, though it would also mean having to trust them not to run wild without human supervision.
Maester Luwin seemed to ponder their options for a moment.
“We could lead them over to the woods closest to the docks. As long as they stay put, they should be fine.”
Yes, but how to get them to stay put was what he was worried about. Regardless of how clever they were, they were still wilful and did not take well to boredom.
“You could send them hunting, to keep them entertained while we’re off securing passage onto a ship,” Alis spoke up from where she was reading behind them, seated between a wine cask and a stack of yet more books, all tied down so as not to slide about as the wagon moved.
Aemon frowned and twisted around in his seat to face and speak to his love properly. “Do the lands around here not have sole hunting rights belonging to its lord?”
She smiled, a small, secret thing. “You are, of course, correct. The only men lawfully able to hunt on these lands are the land’s lord and whomever else he grants permission.”
She brushed aside her long golden braid, her smile widening into a grin with teeth. “A good thing then, that it is the wolves who will be hunting, and not us.”
After ushering the wolves off to catch whatever prey they might find in the forests surrounding the North’s only true city, the three of them prepared themselves for the mummery they were to perform once they entered the city proper.
At least the wolves would feast before they must fast.
As part of their merchant look, the maester had to remove his chain from around his neck and rid himself of the grey robes all maesters favoured; otherwise, it would have been obvious he was no merchant. Alis too changed her appearance somewhat, using a wool headscarf to hide her hair from view. Aemon had no such problems, as a proclaimed bastard he had been kept away from any and all important guests that had visited Winterfell; few here would know his face, nor question his false name, not that he was planning on using it.
Nor would he be using his true name either—not until they were safely across the Narrow Sea, where such a thing would not get them all hanged, or worse.
They passed the village on the way to the main gates to enter the city. The buildings were clean and made of a similar white stone as the walls, which, while impressive from a distance, were truly breathtaking up close.
The walls did not gleam like fresh snow as the rumours claimed, but they were a thing of beauty, setting apart White Harbor from the dull grey of most castles. They formed a semicircle around two cliffs, with the sea acting as a wall, stopping any attacks from that front.
Along the tops of the walls, a small number of soldiers patrolled in leathers and chainmail, great towers overlooking the smallfolk as they went about their business.
They were not stopped nor questioned as they crossed under and through the open gates alongside other wagons, horses, and people on foot.
As the primary port for Northern goods, their presence was nothing of note, and with luck, no one would take any notice of them.
Making their way to the docks, the smell of salt and fish became ever more pungent, until it was all Aemon could smell as they entered the Fishfoot Yard, lined with stalls selling sealife of all kinds.
They had to go on foot from here, and go their separate ways. While Maester Luwin would go barter with some ship’s captain for safe travel across the waters, he and Alis would sell off the extra burdens they had brought with them, though the good maester would be bringing a cask or two of the wine and ale with him to sweeten the deal with any potential sailors.
They paid a few coppers to the dockmaster and set up their wares by the other men and women selling their stock, calling out their goods and prices.
“Fish! Big, fat fish for sale! Freshly caught this morning, only three coppers!” one old man shouted, as a girl from the stall opposite him tried to drown out his voice with her own.
“Clams! Fresh clams for sale, five coppers a bucket!”
Aemon stayed silent as people came and went, buying from them and their neighbours. Alis was far better at speaking with strangers and would get them a better price on their animal hides, wine, and ale besides.
He made sure to keep one hand on the pommel of his sword, however, just in case some drunkard or beggar tried anything with his lady wife, likely scaring off a few potential buyers, no doubt.
It did not take long to sell all their stock; much of it was illusion work, anyhow, to hide their true belongings. They tended the horses, giving them both a good brush down and a carrot, Alis taking stock of their remaining provisions as he drew a sketch or two of the marketplace, adding a few sentences describing the city in a journal he had started on his and Alis’s wedding night—or rather, the morning after.
He wanted to document their journey, where they came from to compare one day to where they would be. He thought it a good idea, to give him something to do in the evenings, if nothing else, and a chance to reflect.
They would have to sell the horses, sadly—and the wagon. They could not expect the captain of whatever ship they would be taking to carry them and eight wolves; besides, there would not be room.
And they would be pushing their luck.
Alis managed to secure a deal with the local stablemaster; for both horses and the wagon, he would give them five gold dragons and some silver. A fair deal, and an honest one too, since Alis had not bothered to bargain for more. They were to receive payment once they secured passage to Essos and had put away their belongings on whatever ship would take them, then bring the horses and wagon to the stables.
Huffing and puffing, shuffling along the cobbled road towards them, Maester Luwin—looking odd out of his grey robes—rejoined them only minutes after their deal with the stablemaster.
“The captain of the Water Maiden has agreed to take us,” he told them, taking a waterskin from Alis and drinking deep.
“And are they aware of our… large friends?” she asked, handing over a cold meat pie they had gotten as they restocked their provisions earlier.
The maester took a large bite, chewed, swallowed, then said, “Yes. Originally I said they were unusually large dogs, but he seemed the good sort—for a skipper, anyhow—and kept asking questions. He’s rather excited to see the ‘dogs,’ actually. Wants to paint them.”
“He does know that there are eight of them?” Aemon asked, because this shipmaster sounded a small bit touched in the head.
“Yes, he does. Strange fellow—eccentric, I believe the word to describe him is—but also accommodating. We’ll be sleeping in the part of the ship they normally use for keeping livestock when they’re selling them, along with the wolves. I cannot imagine it will smell very pleasant, but it will do the job.”
Luwin finished off the pie and brushed himself clean of rogue crumbs. “Right then. Have you managed to sell everything? And what are we to do with the horses? The captain already said there will likely be no more room for them.”
“Selling them to the stablemaster, along with the wagon, later tonight once we’ve used it to move our belongings onto the ship,” Aemon explained, a small bubble of anticipation forming inside of him.
They really were going to leave the North—escape Westeros—and… and hope that Viserys and Daenerys would accept him as their kin, otherwise a new plan would have to be made.
And he would not belong anywhere…
“Well then, off we go,” Maester Luwin said in that no-nonsense tone he often used during his lessons. “No need to keep the good captain waiting. Let us offload the wagon and sell it and the horses now—mayhaps start making our plans for when we reach Braavos.”
They did just that, passing beneath the Seal Gate down to the docks to the Water Maiden, meeting the finely dressed Braavosi captain, who enthusiastically showed them what was to be their quarters for the near future.
—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—Lannister—Alis—
The Water Maiden, named after the legends of otherworldly creatures that dwelled in the deep—lovely and fair, they took the appearance of women who sang to sailors, luring them closer only to drown the men in salty waters and eat their flesh.
The prow of the ship held an ornate carving of one such creature—a fair maiden from the waist up, with long wild hair and a smiling mouth, but from below, a serpentine, fishlike tail curled and wrapped around the bow, each scale carved individually to great effect. In one clawed hand, she held a real steel trident.
It was an intricate piece, made up of all different kinds of wood—dark for the hair, lighter for the body, and almost green for the tail—adorned with gold detailing and black pearls for eyes.
The rest of the ship was more practical, though it also held large, slender masts with three triangular sails dyed purple—“a rich man’s sails,” Aemon had called them.
She had never seen so much of the colour before, and against the blue sky, blowing in the wind, they looked handsome and proud.
Not that she could appreciate its beauty, as she was vomiting over the port side of the ship.
Aemon, her sweet husband, was holding back her hair as the ship’s hands passed them, tying knots and hauling barrels, going about their day as usual.
Maester Luwin was watching her with a peculiar look on his face as she drank, as if weighing options and possibilities. Likely worrying about whether or not she was truly ill or merely seasick.
You wouldn’t have thought that such a no-nonsense man would be prone to fretting, but here they were.
“Here you are, my dear—try this,” he said, handing her a metal cup after she wiped her mouth with a rag. “It’s a herbal brew meant to help with the nausea that often comes with the rocking of larger boats.”
She took a sip. It was hot, tasted like bitter greens and tree bark. She would drink it all anyway—if it worked, it would be worth the taste.
“Do you feel any better?” Aemon asked, taking one of her hands in his and giving it a gentle kiss.
“Partly,” she croaked, her raw throat somewhat soothed by the tea. She still felt nauseous, a bit dizzy, and tired. She had been feeling tired for days now, no matter how much rest she got at night.
Maester Luwin took the empty cup from her. “Well enough to attend lessons?” he queried, eyeing her as if she might swoon at any given moment.
The good maester had been giving her and Aemon lessons on Essos—its political climate, its lands and people, traditions, wildlife, and history, as well as Targaryen history. It was to help them adapt to their new lives, or so he said. Alis rather thought many of the lessons were because the maester was bored and missed his teaching.
There was not much to do for three weeks to over a moon’s turn upon a ship.
“I believe I can handle some reading and listening to your lectures, though I may need to bring a bucket with me,” she told him dryly.
He nodded, seemingly accepting her answer, before going off to fetch some of his books and scrolls, taking Aemon with him to haul it all up from their sleeping quarters.
The place the wolves were kept—and where they slept—was a large wooden room with bits of old straw scattered about the floor from the last time livestock had been onboard. The ceiling was low, and the room dim, and one could feel each rock and sway of the ship down there more than anywhere else. Large, rough-cut wooden planks divided the room into smaller sections, and gutters were carved into the sides for… animal waste.
The stench was eye-watering, the creaking and groaning of wood echoed loud and ominous—so much so that they had to stuff their noses and ears with cotton to be able to sleep at night.
Thankfully, they had been given hammocks to hang and sleep in. Alis was awfully grateful not to have to lie on the filthy floor, regardless of whatever covers might have separated her body from it.
Shipmaster Toro Praane had generously allowed them use of the chart room adjacent to the bridge to use for their tutoring. It was filled with shelves and scrolls, much like the library tower in Winterfell. In the centre of the room, a large round table dominated the space, a lantern swinging above it, casting shadows in a dramatic, dancing display of light.
Alis all but collapsed into one of the simple wooden chairs at the table as she waited for the other two to join her.
About seven minutes later, Maester Luwin came through the door, Aemon a step behind him and acting as a pack mule, carrying a stack of books obscuring his face from view. He practically dropped them on the table with a great huff.
“Do we need to bring so many with us each time?” he complained, taking his place by Alis’s side.
Luwin, already sorting through his teaching material, simply said, “Yes,” not even bothering to look up from his texts and tomes.
Rolling out a map in front of them and taking a book in hand, Luwin began his lecture.
“Right—Braavos. I think today’s learning will be about that, since we will be arriving there in a few weeks’ time.”
He pointed out a section of the map with a gnarled finger. “The Purple Harbor, exclusively used by local Braavosi, is where we will first be arriving—a more… polite dock compared to Ragman’s Harbor in the west.”
He shuffled some papers and produced a scroll with a sketch of a giant man staring them down, with fiery eyes and murder holes along its green-bronze skirt, each granite foot standing on land either side of a narrow channel.
“To reach the docks, we will pass beneath the Titan of Braavos, through the Chequy Water. Then, navigating northwards, we will anchor near the Sealord’s Palace—the ruler of the city.”
Luwin moved aside the scroll and replaced it with a book titled The Sealords of Braavos, a green leather-bound tome thick as a clenched fist.
“The current Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, has become ill as of late, and his failing health no doubt is causing a more tumultuous political climate for Braavos, no matter how many years he has remained in power and upheld his duties.”
As he spoke, Alis noticed one glaring piece of information.
“Maester, what do you mean when you say ‘current’ Sealord?”
With a pleased smile, as if he were all too happy to have a student ask questions, he replied,
“The Sealord of Braavos may be its ruler, but each lord is chosen by its people—the magisters, who are made up mostly of wealthy merchants and prominent families. The Sealord will serve for life, but his children will not inherit the title. Instead, an ‘election’ is held, where the new Sealord takes up the mantle. Supposedly, it is quite a cutthroat selection process.”
He cleared his throat with a cough.
“Ah—anyway, we should likely take a few days to clean up, wash, recuperate from our long journey, allow the wolves to feed, sleep in a proper bed…” he trailed off, likely imagining that bed he longed to lay in.
“There is little woodland in Braavos; the trees were cut long ago to build their fleet. The wolves will be seen, and we will most likely have to bargain for fishmongers’ scraps and old or sickly livestock to feed them. That will limit our time there, forcing us onward to lands with proper hunting grounds.”
A good thing then, that the wolves had gorged themselves bloated before their departure.
They carried on discussing Braavosi customs, how long they might stay, and how they might gain information on the whereabouts of Viserys and Daenerys, who seemed always to be on the move.
It was darkening outside when the maester sent Aemon below deck with the books. Then he turned to her.
“Please excuse my forwardness, Lady Alis, but I wish to ask if I may examine you. You have been unwell for several days now.”
She nodded, and was quickly subjected to being poked and prodded—the back of a cool hand pressed to her forehead, questions about her dizziness, her queasiness, checking the colour of her gums and eyes.
She had expected such treatment.
She had not expected his final question.
“Now… I understand this is a womanly subject, however I must ask—has your moon’s blood been unusual of late?”
—Tywin—Lannister—Tywin—Lannister—Tywin—Lannister—Tywin—Lannister—Tywin—Lannister—
In his solar, Lord Tywin Lannister nursed both a headache and a third cup of wine. Back straight and posture rigid, he stared with flat eyes out of the window, down upon the rocks below.
Kevan, his younger brother, had just that morning come to beg his help in finding his daughter, Alis, after she had disappeared in the night. The fool had waited an entire year before coming to Tywin for help, and by now the girl would likely be either dead in some muddy trench, naked and robbed of all her finery, or pregnant and held captive by some common barbarian in a little no-name village somewhere.
He would still keep and ear to the ground and send out word to his spies, of course, to find out what had become of the girl, as was his duty as lord of their great house—but he very much doubted that his brother would ever be reunited with his daughter again.
“Should have kept a closer watch on her,” he muttered to himself. The Lord of Casterly Rock would never have allowed his daughter to be kidnapped or run away like a wildling savage.
He would also like to think that Cersei was not so stupid as to flee her duties to their house, nor so weak as to allow herself to be snatched away.
Regardless, this information could not be made public, or House Lannister would seem… feeble. Vulnerable. And they must never appear to be anything less than in total control.
The Lannister name was not a thing to be mocked.
Though it would seem the king was determined to make a laughingstock of his son and daughter, whoring and drinking, shaming them both in different ways through the same actions. His son, who should have been heir to the Rock, was made a glorified watchman, guarding the door to the king’s bedchambers as he bedded a new woman each night.
He would waive aside half the crown’s debt to him if it would grant Jaime dismissal from the Kingsguard, but Jon Arryn turned away all his attempts as bargaining for his son’s return. The Kingsguard was for life, and the old man would not budge on the matter.
His second son, Tyrion, was useless. A drunkard, whoring dwarf with a smart mouth and sharp tongue. An embarrassment that had taken from him his lady wife. A jape from the gods, if he believed in such things.
An unfair, unwanted trade he had not known he was making.
Joanna.
He was not a man prone to melancholy nor sentimentality, and yet… he dearly missed his love. Longed for her warm hands and warmer smile. Remembered fondly the scent of her hair and time spent before a roaring fire.
He blamed the dwarf for her death, but knew he was equally as responsible.
He also knew the disgrace was his, as Tywin had been exceedingly thorough in keeping his wife far from the Rock when the Mad King had paid his visits, out of his lecherous reach.
He had failed his wife once, and made it his life’s mission not to do so again.
Of course, in the end he had his vengeance, when Aerys was slain by his son’s blade, and his queen died in her birthing bed, as Joanna had.
Two dragons yet lived, but they were of no consequence. An incompetent boy, as mad as his father by all reports, and a girl who could not take the throne, and whom no lord would follow.
Tywin’s legacy was secured through his royal grandchildren, and so he was content to bide his time.
The king was fat and fond of drinking, after all.
Mayhaps he would take his second grandson on as heir to the Rock. He was too young yet, but in a year or two he could be fostered.
With this in mind, he began planning possible future brides that would be beneficial and acceptable for Tommen to be betrothed to.
A western lordling, to secure their loyalty? Or a daughter from another region? The Highgarden girl would be too old for the boy by the time he came of age, and he would not consider the younger Stark girl to one day become the Lady of Casterly Rock.
A wild thing, by all accounts.
Speaking of the North, there had been some flurry of activity in Winterfell, and its lord had been rumored to have locked himself away in the crypts.