Lyanna Targaryen Stark (105 A.C. First Moon)
Seadragon Point
She rode beside her daughter, with Laenor on her other side as they entered the outskirts of Seadragon Point. Behind them followed her good-sister, her nephew, and her mother.
Lyanna had already noticed the changes when they first rode into her son's lands. Even in winter, there was activity, lumber camps and stonemasons at work, and a number of holdfasts showing signs of life. Another odd thing was the roads: some were cleared of snow entirely, while others bore strange scorch marks. She mused that her son had likely used Balerion to melt the snows away. A single blast from the Black Dread was likely enough to keep them free of frost. Until snows would fall again.
Then, as they passed through another tree line, Seadragon Point came into sight. Her mouth fell slightly open as she beheld the dark fortress upon the hill, Seadragon Holt, as her son had named it. She had seen the drawings he sketched and the stone projects of Viserys, yet seeing the fortress with her own eyes was breathtaking.
It looked like a mixture of Winterfell and Dragonstone: high-peaked roofs, a great drum tower in the center, and black walls that loomed with an imposing strength. Before the fortress stretched what Aemon called "the old city," already surrounded by a similar black wall, smoke curling from houses that reminded her both of Winterfell and White Harbor. She had known winters in King's Landing, but those were mild by comparison. There, the roofs were never buried under such thick piles of snow.
Closer to where they rode, she saw a dire moat and a small palisade enclosing the new city.
"It's amazing, isn't it?" Arya laughed, her grey eyes bright with excitement.
Lyanna smiled. "Indeed, it is."
At that moment, Seasmoke and Grey Ghost soared overhead, crying out in delight. The dragons, too, seemed to find the place inviting. Then came an answering roar. From behind the fort, Balerion appeared, his bulk so vast that he seemed nearly a fifth the size of the fortress itself. The Black Dread joined the smaller dragons in the sky, a joyful display, yet beside him, Seasmoke and Grey Ghost looked like playful pups.
"I know my family will be pleased when they see this, a worthy home for my sister," Laenor said, grinning. His clear blue eyes, a Baratheon trait from his mother, even if she had the purple of her father himself, contrasted with the silver curls he shared with his father and sister.
When she turned her gaze to the sea, Lyanna spied a Velaryon ship sailing southward, the proud seahorse displayed upon its sails. "Well, look there, Laenor." She pointed.
"Indeed," he replied. "Likely for the coal or gemstones. I saw some in Winterfell, in your father's solar, Rickon. He told me that he and my father had bought a lot from them, especially the gemstones. Though the coal is more precious now, with the winter here."
Lyanna smiled. Her nephew and Rickon had forged a strong friendship, and her brother seemed to enjoy teaching the boy. Laenor was an energetic child, always busy with swordplay, studies, or mischief with Rickon and Arya.
"Indeed, my sword even has one of the stones in the pommel," Rickon said proudly. Lyanna glanced back and saw her nephew pat his blade. It had been her brother's nameday gift for Rickon's two and ten nameday, and the boy carried it everywhere, proud as any young wolf. She had no doubt her son would one day gift him a Valyrian steel blade worthy of an heir to Winterfell.
Though she had yet to see them with her own eyes, Aemon had written of the weapons and armor he had forged. He had rediscovered, truly, the Valyrian art of stonesinging. Whether Corlys or her stepson knew of it, she could not say, though Viserys certainly did.
Her thoughts broke when the small palisade door opened. Riders in strange armor rode forth, bearing four banners: the Velaryon seahorse, the Stark direwolf, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, and a fourth she had never seen before. At its center was a laughing weirwood, its heart making hers ache with recognition. To the right was a black dragon with golden eyes on a field of white; to the left, a white direwolf with red eyes on a field of black. The banner's rim was traced in gold.
Soon enough, the riders reached them. Each wore lamellar armor over mail and a padded gambeson, with thick furs draped across their shoulders. Some helms were spangenhelms of the old North, others barbutes with hinged faceplates, not unlike those of the Kingsguard. As they came closer, she noted the etchings upon their steel: runes and glyphs, dragons and wolves twined together. Their legs were sheathed in plate, their boots capped with steel, and chains of mail guarded the joints.
"Princess Lyanna, Princess Arya, Lord Laenor, Lord Rickon, and your company," one of the riders declared. "I am Walton Snow, Oathguard to Prince Aemon. In his name, I welcome you to Seadragon Point. We are commanded to escort you to Seadragon Holt."
Oathguard. Her son had written of forming an army, and it seemed "Oathguard" was a rank within it.
"What of the dragons?" Arya asked.
Walton smiled. "The Prince's dragon will see them guided where they must go."
"If you say so, ser," she replied.
"I am no ser, Princess. I am one of five hundred Oathguards sworn to the Prince. If you must address me, call me Serjeant." Walton struck his fist to his chest, and the other riders, not bearing banners, did the same, a gesture of loyalty.
"If you say so, Serjeant Walton." Lyanna offered a small smile.
"Then please, follow us. The Prince awaits you in the courtyard."
She rode beside Walton, curiosity pressing her to ask about the Oathguard.
"It is the second rank," he explained. "We command groups of fifty men in battle. Those under us are either levies, drawn from the lands, or Oathmen, sworn to the Prince, and pay for their service as are all the men under the Prince his command. The Prince has the levies come in to drill every three moons, although those would be delayed if harvest season were upon them. During this winter, the drills are every six months. He has also distributed spears and bows to the levies and commanded them to practice with them daily, if possible. He means every man to have some skill."
They passed through the palisade and onto the road leading to the city's gatehouse. A river ran beside the black walls. Walton gestured toward the stonework. "Fused stone roads, like those in Essos. The Prince built three main roads thus. A few houses had to be cleared, which caused complaints, but now the people are glad of it."
"The more I see, the more amazed I become," Lyanna said.
"You are not the first. Merchants, lords, and travelers say the same, Princess," Walton answered with pride.
They reached the gatehouse, a formidable structure of double gates. Any lesser lord would have been content with such for a seat. The fused stone matched the castle walls, which were carved with gargoyles in the shapes of direwolves and dragons.
Inside the streets, more guards flanked them, cloaks striped in red, black, and white. Some bore mail, others gambesons, with nasal or kettle helms. They kept the people pressed aside as the party rode up.
The streets bustled with life. Lyanna noticed something else: a warmth, as though the very stones gave off heat.
"The city grows each moon," Walton said. "Some are invited north and given tools and homes, which they pay off with craft and labor. Others come from the South seeking work and bread. The old city is not yet filled; much of the northwest remains uninhabited, though houses rise there as we speak."
"I saw the same in Winterfell," Lyanna replied. "Fewer stop at Wintertown now, and more press on to Seadragon Point. And with the winter, food wagons arrive from the west instead of the east."
At the town center, she saw market stalls, and beyond them the outline of a weirwood.
"The old keep and its godswood," she noted.
"Indeed, Princess. The keep now serves as barracks for the Oathmen, with a training yard beside it—one of three in the city. As for the godswood, many pray there, though a small sept has been raised nearby for those who follow the Seven. Yet most, even Southerners, turn to the Old Gods. Within Seadragon Holt itself, the Prince has raised a temple to the Fourteen Flames of Valyria, and there too stands a godswood."
Lyanna nodded, her gaze catching on two statues in the square, one of a direwolf, the other of a dragon breathing flame.
"It is truly marvelous. In so short a time, Seadragon Point has become prosperous. Tell me, how many souls live here now? The last I heard was twenty thousand."
"Closer to thirty thousand, Princess, thirty-five, if you count those outside the walls."
"A large number indeed. And how many swords does my son command?"
"I cannot say, Princess, not even to his mother. That is a matter of Seadragon Point's security, and only the Prince may speak of it."
She heard the conviction in his voice and smiled faintly. "I understand, and I appreciate the loyalty you show my son."
The ride took another few minutes. As they neared Seadragon Holt, its towering bulk grew ever more imposing. To her left rose another structure, half-finished, perhaps the institution her son had spoken of, one to rival the maesters. She longed to ask Walton, but doubted he would answer.
The gatehouse loomed ahead, which let to a causeway that let up the hill. Towers shaped like dragons and wolves rose above the walls. Her heart swelled with pride. Her boy had done this, not alone, but his hand and vision had shaped it all.
"I knew Aemon would do something special with what he knew, but this place, I hadn't thought this was possible," Arya said, eyes wide with wonder.
"Indeed," Lyanna replied softly. "It will be the pride of both the Starks and the Targaryens."
Then they rode into the gatekeep of Seadragon Holt, even more imposing than she had imagined, and she understood what her son desired from this place, to reflect strength. Knowing her stepson, they would need it.
They passed beneath the arch and into the keep, where she noticed that the Oathguard were more numerous here than in the city itself. At last, the final gate opened, and they entered the outer courtyard of Seadragon Holt, where a welcome party waited.
She saw her son, almost three and a half, standing tall; his hair had finally grown back to what it was before it had burned in the fire. His white-and-black cloak flapped in the wind. He wore an expensive embroidered gambeson, bearing both a white dragon-wolf and the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. His grey eyes looked upon them with happiness.
Behind him stood his two loyal guardsmen, Ser Harrold and Ser Jeffery. Her eyes lit with delight when she recognized Ser Wylard Manderly, standing to her son's right, a companion from her childhood and brother to the current Lord of White Harbor. She had been the one to recommend him as castellan. To Aemon's left stood her good-brother, Vaegon, clad in his grey maester's robes, his pale purple eyes filled with curiosity. Yet when she searched for a resemblance to her late husband, she found none. Vaegon and Baelon were like water and fire, so different that only their names and titles revealed their kinship. She also noticed the second son of the Lord of Harrenhal standing in the background, along with others she did not recall.
Stablehands came forward to take their mounts as she dismounted and walked to her son. He embraced her.
"Mother, I missed you."
After the brief embrace, he stepped back, his bearing shifting into that of a lord.
"Mother, little sister, cousin, future good-brother, aunt, grandmother, and the rest of your party. I, Prince Aemon Targaryen, Lord of Seadragon Point and Prince of the Realm, welcome you to my domain," Aemon proclaimed happily.
Arya rushed forward and embraced her brother. His deep chuckle rang out, and soon enough, everyone was welcomed in turn.
"Aemon, you've done wonderfully. Although I have read and heard your own words about what had been built, it doesn't do the real thing justice," she said after holding him once more.
"Indeed, Aemon. You are remarkable, what you have done here," her mother added with a smile. Yet Lyanna saw the weariness in her mother's eyes. Barbrey Dustin was still strong for her age, but riding through such weather on horseback had taken its toll.
"Thank you both," Aemon replied with a grin. "Although it was not all me. Balerion gave me the power to do it. Vaegon, Edward, has been a great help with the organization, and Wylard began the process of settling this place with people when I was still but a boy."
"Your uncle is proud of you as well. The plans for the port of Seadragon Point have increased trade in the North. He is petitioning the King to build a road from here to Winterfell. And if not, perhaps the North may build it themselves if the profits continue," Lysa said.
"Very well, I hope so. I have built hardened roads in my domain, but I lack the time and resources to build such a road myself. It would greatly aid trade. I suspect House Glover would be more than open to it. But we shall speak more on this later. First, let me show you my keep. I trust Walton has been a good escort?" He smiled at Walton, who returned the smile.
"Indeed, he has, and told me much. But I suspect we all require a tour from you through the city," she replied.
"I would not dream of denying you, Mother."
She laughed and kissed his brow once more.
Aemon led them toward another imposing building ahead, surrounded by a small dry moat. It was also black, built in the same style of architecture, and when she first glimpsed it upon entering the land where Seadragon Point was built. She noted the great drum tower that reminded her of Storm's End.
The drawbridge was already lowered, and more people waited within.
"This is where I mostly train," Aemon explained, "though I often go down into the city to train with the Oathmen as well." She noticed steam rising from the keep before them.
"Pipes, Mother. One of the things I brought from Winterfell. Hot water runs through them. Building walls with those in mind cost me much of my strength. I think I was in bed for four days."
"You were out for that long?" she asked in surprise.
"Longer, he could not walk for two days more after that. Your son has a habit of being overzealous in his pursuits," Vaegon said, shaking his head.
Aemon shot his uncle a look, then laughed it off. "I will be fine."
She sighed. In this, he was both his fathers, Baelon, fierce in all he did; Rhaegar, who once set his mind to something and never yielded; and even Eddard, stubborn in his convictions, which had led to his doom.
Soon enough, her son showed her around the castle. It was truly magnificent, vast, and layered with lower levels for storage, and a tunnel that led to the dragon caves where the beasts nested. When they arrived at the great hall, she found it a near copy of Dragonstone's, with great glass windows worked in dragon and wolf patterns. At its center was a throne, the seat of the Lord, or Prince, of the castle. Like Dragonstone's, but here one side bore wolves, the other dragons. The duality echoed throughout the keep: Aemon was Targaryen, but he was also Stark.
After touring the inner parts of the keep, they came at last to the massive drum tower. Aemon halted and turned to them.
"I suspect you are all quite tired. I suggest we continue the tour on the morrow, and we travel into the city also."
"I think that is wise, my boy. I loved seeing your home, but I must admit, my old bones are weary," her mother said, patting Aemon's shoulder.
"I thought so, Grandmother. Please, all of you, freshen up in your chambers. My castellan, Wylard, and my steward Edward will see you to them." Aemon turned to the two men, and the two nodded.
"My lords, ladies, and Princess, it is an honor to have you here at last," Edward Poole said with a bow. "I am steward to Prince Aemon, and I trust the accommodations will be acceptable."
"As my friend says, I too hope your stay is most welcome," Wylard added.
"Wylard, how long has it been? I haven't seen you since the tourney at Harrenhal. You look well," she said with delight.
"I have been well, Princess. Serving as castellan to your son has been a great honor. Seeing this place rise, with its harbor, reminds me of White Harbor," Wylard replied with a smile as he kissed her hand.
"Please, tell me of the mischief my son has given you. He would never confess to me himself," she said teasingly.
Aemon shook his head at her, laughing.
"Oh, I could not, in good conscience, betray my lord. I swore an oath," Wylard said with a chuckle.
"Indeed, good ser," Aemon echoed with a smile. "Wylard, Edward, I trust my guests will be well in your care. I leave them to you. Larys, let us see the animals. I see you all during our evening meal." With that, Aemon departed, followed by Larys and Ser Harrold.
Soon enough, they were all given chambers, and she and Arya had been placed together. When they were alone, Arya looked contentedly out the window.
"I knew the gods had given him a gift to speak with Balerion and let him live. Yet none of this would have been possible without him."
"Indeed," Lyanna noted softly. "I sometimes forget that both of you are already adults, with lives lived, even if those lives were harsh."
Arya smiled, walked over to her, and took her hands in hers. "It has been a change. I love you as an aunt, but also as a mother. As Aemon did, as he did with father, even if he was his uncle. I loved my mother, but you are my mother too."
Lyanna sobbed a little and embraced the girl. Their bond had been built over time. She had loved Arya since the moment she stirred within her womb, since those first kicks beneath her ribs. Yet after the revelation, it had been a struggle, to act as mother while remembering that her little girl was in truth her brother's daughter.
"I love you too, Arya," Lyanna whispered. "I loved you from the moment you came into the world, and even before, when I knew you only as my niece. I will be whatever you want me to be. Just know that I love you."
She pressed a kiss to Arya's brow, then smiled through her tears. "Do you remember Winterfell, when we sparred in the yard three moons ago?"
Arya's lips curved into a grin. "You kept knocking the blade from my hand. You reminded me of Syrio. I got so frustrated, I scooped up snow instead and hurled it at you."
Lyanna laughed softly at the memory. "And I chased you across the yard, swearing vengeance, until you pelted me again. I remember thinking, you were exactly as I was when I was young."
Arya's eyes shone bright with remembrance. "I remember too. I thought then of what my father once told me in the Red Keep, that I looked like you, and acted like you. Knowing you now warms my heart with that memory. It was one of the few times he spoke of you. I wonder if he feared I might end up like you?"
Lyanna cupped her cheek, her voice thick. "That's likely that he did. Yet in the end, you made your own way, but you are as stubborn as I once was. Yet it cost me, and I learned my lessons as you did. Mayhaps if I had andled things differently, I would have fared better. Instead of running off and leaving only a letter, I should have spoken with my father and brothers."
"I know. I did the same," Arya admitted. "After the battle against the Others, I ran off, wanting to complete my list. I left without thinking, left the pack. Jon, Aemon told me he wasn't my brother, and I told him he always would be. Yet I still left. I doubt it helped. And my sister… she acted foolishly too, telling Tyrion a secret sworn she would never tell, and worse, it was a heartree. Perhaps if I had stopped her, Daenerys and Aemon could have ended the Night King."
"That is the price we pay for rash actions," Lyanna said quietly. "Sometimes we pay it ourselves, other times those we love suffer for it. When I was reborn, I knew I would see my son again, though I did not know how or when. Only that I would. So I waited, did my duty as a daughter of Winterfell, and then at another tourney at Harrenhal, my eyes fell upon Baelon Targaryen. Not long after, my little boy was born, and the great Black Dragon took to the skies once more." She gave a soft, wistful laugh.
"What I know, Arya, is that we make mistakes. But if the gods are kind, we are given the chance to learn from them."
"I know that too now," Arya said. "I've learned I cannot always be the wild wolf. I can be, but not always. Especially not now, with who I am. Looking back, I never thought of it before I knew what before I had to flee King's Landing, how good I had it as the daughter of a great house. Better than many others. My father gave me even more freedom than most lords would allow their daughters."
"Indeed," Lyanna said softly. "And so did my own. Thinking on it now, this Rickard perhaps even willing to give me freedom."
Arya tilted her head, curious. "Do you miss them?"
Lyanna was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the window where snowflakes still fell against the glass. "Every day," she admitted at last. "They were both hard men, each in their own way, but they loved their children fiercely. They gave me freedoms many highborn girls would never know, let me ride, let me wield a blade, let me speak my mind. This Rickard even let me choose my match, perhaps because he had once been allowed it himself. My other father was more stern, and sadly, Maester Walys spoke too much of binding the North to the South through matches. Likely, he also whispered of bringing down the Targaryens, as the maesters and the Faith schemed back then, likely even now feigning loyalty to the crown."
Arya smiled faintly. "That sounds much like Father. He never tried to make me into Sansa. He let me be me."
Lyanna chuckled, a wistful sound. "Stubborn, headstrong wolves, we all are, even if not the same in manner or act."
Arya's eyes softened, and she leaned her head against Lyanna's shoulder. "I'm glad. I think… I think Father would be glad too, if he could see us now."
Lyanna kissed the top of her dark hair, her arms tightening around her. "Aye. I think they all would, even if not the outcome some of them would have wished for. But so far, the pack endures."
At last, Lyanna drew back and cupped Arya's cheek. "Whatever comes, Arya, remember this: you are loved by many, in this time and the last. No secret, no lie, no past mistake can change that."
"I know. And so are you," Arya whispered back.
At that, Lyanna embraced her once more, tighter than before, holding on not only to the girl but to the memory of all who had come before, her father, her brothers, her son.
Aemon Targaryen (105 A.C. First Moon)
Evening Meal
Aemon sat at the head of the table. On his right sat his mother, and to his left his little sister. Arya almost had the same look she'd worn when she left Winterfell with his uncle. Yet he noticed a difference, too. Arya looked more like his mother now, her features, perhaps a Targaryen trait, more defined and strikingly pretty.
After everyone had taken their seats, he rose and held up his glass.
"I welcome you all here to my hall and hearth. I hope you find it not only as guests, but also as family. Let our pack stand strong, our fires burn bright, and the winds carry us home." He spoke with a smile.
"Well done, Aemon," his mother said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. After he had sat down, Laenor rose.
"I'm grateful to be here, cousin. This place," Laenor spread his arms wide, "has become something the world thought lost with the Doom. I'm looking forward to these six moons, to spend time with you, my future goodbrother, and to see all this place has to offer." The ten-year-old ended with a smile. Aemon returned it. Laenor was trying, and for ten he did quite well.
"I hope so too, cousin. Our time together at Winterfell was sadly short. Let's make the most of what is to come." He replied, smiling.
"Tell me something, Aunt, how is my youngest niece and little Bennard? Is he still growing like wheat?"
At that, his aunt smiled. "It was hard leaving my little ones. Bennard wanted to come, but Benjen wanted him to stay, so he could take him under his wing for a time. As for Lyarra, she just turned one, and she has been a joy for sure, already crawling and trying to walk."
"I hope to see them soon again. The last time was after we returned from King's Landing. As for Bennard, perhaps when he turns ten, I could take him under my wing as a ward. By then, I will be five-and-ten. It will also be close to my marriage to Laena, and I will likely be traveling between here and the South often. It would allow him to see the South and the wider world as well."
He voiced the thought, though it might change Bennard's original path of wanting to usurp, or at least hold onto, power past Cregan's adulthood, if he were even born. In the songs, they did not speak of Lyarra, so mayhaps no Cregan or Sara Snow either.
"I shall place the thought with Benjen. I think Bennard would be happy with the proposal," Lysa noted.
As Aemon took a bite of sausage, he looked thoughtfully at his cousin, wondering if Benjen was teaching Rickon about food and the logistics of running the North.
"Rickon, with the port here at Seadragon Point, how are the food reserves?"
Rickon looked up, wide-eyed. "I know some of it. Due to the two ports, the cost of food imports appears lower, although the volume is higher. Father thinks it's because White Harbor and Seadragon Point are splitting the burden. There are more options for transport, especially for those on the west coast, which was what both our grandfathers hoped for."
He smiled at that. Rickon was a smart boy, if sometimes too eager to please, which caused him to act rashly. Yet his answer was well composed.
"Good, I hoped so. And, as Mother said earlier, I hope the proposal of a road from Winterfell to Seadragon Point goes through. It will ease the transport of goods even further."
If everything went well once winter ended, he hoped to gain new lands, for wood, pelts, and other Northern goods. It was the project he wished to start: to have a base in the Far North. But to support that, he wanted roads, so goods could more easily be exported into the wider North. Sadly, the shores around the Bay of Ice were dangerous and clogged with ice. The only small port he knew was New Deepport, a poor shadow of the harbor that had once stood before Brandon the Burner set Old Deepport aflame. Now it was used only as a ferry point for the folk of Bear Island to reach the mainland.
He had not yet told his mother of the plan, he would, in time, but for now it was only a thought for the future.
"Have your ships yet encountered Ironborn reavers?" Rickon asked.
"No. My ships, and those of the Velaryons, have yet to encounter attacks. But I have received reports and spoken with lords, merchants, and guilds whose ships have not returned. The numbers are small, but there has been an increase since winter began."
Rickon nodded.
"I hope to start more patrols one day. Yet for now, I lack men and ships, even if the shipyards and imports are still ongoing." Aemon then looked toward Laenor. "The help your father sent has been a blessing. Yet I plan to write messages to King's Landing, Oldtown, the Arbor, Driftmark, and White Harbor, asking that if they have too many unemployed, they might be sent here."
"I think my father would agree to that. Driftmark has its fair share of folk looking for work," Laenor said.
"I hoped so. Even folk who tend the land are welcome. Many now working the fields are from Flea Bottom or from regions burdened with overpopulation. Most of that integration, though, I owe to Wylard and Edward." He raised his cup to the two men.
"You honor us, Your Grace," Wylard and Edward replied, smiling. He smiled back at them.
"I have been a loyal servant to the crown and North. The Prince has given me much, and I am glad to be part of building this place. I never expected it to become what it is now. I built the harbor, installed the shipyards, and saw to other small matters. But this hall in which we sit, that is the Prince's doing." Wylard's voice held pride. He had been the backbone, with knowledge of the land, and his naval and trade experience proved invaluable. His skill at haggling, his keen sense of profit, had brought forth new ventures. It had been his idea to sell the gemstone-like stones unearthed during the excavation of Balerion's lair.
"Thank you, Wylard," Aemon said, smiling at the man.
The rest of the evening passed in warmth and easy talk. They reminisced on the past, exchanged tales of journeys and battles, of children born and loved ones lost. The hall rang with laughter more than once, even as the wind and snow howled against the walls.
Next morning the Valyrian Forge.
He had awoken early and prepared his presents for his sister and mother. Rickon's and Laenor's gifts, however, he would wait to give until the boys' nameday came around. After setting the smithy in order, he returned, broke his fast with his family, and the invited his mother and Arya to join him.
"Here we are, the Valyrian Smithy, where I work most when I can," he said, knocking on the door where two Watchers of the Truth stood guard.
"Who are those men, Aemon?" his mother asked.
"They are Watchers of the Truth, similar to the Kingsguard, but loyal to me and to what we do here. They guard this place so that no one can discover our secret. They will also serve as the future guardians of the new Citadel." His tone was serious as they walked inside, where Maester Dussard greeted them.
"My Prince, welcome back. Princess Lyanna, Princess Arya, it is an honor to meet you at last. I am Maester Dussard," the man said, bowing low as they entered.
Aemon had grown fond of Dussard after the man had gained his trust. The maester had become a valuable asset in helping to form the new Citadel, as well as recording his works. Yet he was surprised when his mother stepped forward, Arya beside her, both of them fixing the man with sharp, almost murderous stares.
"You have earned my son's trust, so you shall have mine. But betray us, and you will wish you had never been born," Lyanna said coldly. Dussard swallowed hard.
"Easy, Mother," Aemon soothed. "Dussard has been loyal ever since he was tested. He is a man of knowledge and learning, the very thing the maesters of the Citadel should strive for. He is also a true Northerner and has sworn the same oaths as all the rest." Aemon offered the man a reassuring smile. "Show them the mark."
Dussard pulled back his sleeve to reveal a brand below his elbow, a dragon's head with on the right old Norse runes and on the left side a Valyrian glyph. "I vowed to serve your son a long time ago, Princess," he said, his voice steady and full of conviction. "Your son has been something this world and the maesters needed for some time. Bravery in the pursuit of knowledge. We have been discussing how to decrease the Citadel's hold on the knowledge and ravenry of the realm. We have laid the foundations of the Citadel. Although the understanding of the Valyrian knowledge your son possesses, the city and the keep are our priorities," Dussard said with a smile.
Lyanna studied him, then inclined her head. "My apologies. When it comes to my children, I am wolf before all else. Yet I saw conviction in your eyes, and eyes do not lie." She smiled faintly. Arya, too, gave a nod, quietly employing her Faceless Men training to read him.
The tension eased. Dussard let out a breath and smiled. "I understand. I would protect him with my life if need be. But please, let me not keep you from seeing all this place has to offer."
They walked deeper into the smithy, where two apprentices kept the fire lit and hammered away at steel.
"The building itself is marvelous. The design looks both Valyrian and Westerosi, a wondrous combination," his mother observed, glancing up at the domed roof.
"I worked hard on it. It was one of my first designs, and it drained my strength, but it had to be strong, able to withstand Balerion's constant flames." He pointed to the great funnel above the forge. "It is part of how the steel is made."
"Though this is where I work, your presents are kept elsewhere," he said with a grin.
"Presents?" Arya asked, her smile widening. Her face reminded him of the day he had given her Needle, all those years ago.
"Indeed. Come, I'll show you what I've been working on this winter." He took Arya's hand and led them toward the armory. Two more guards stood before an ironwood door, its surface decorated with bronze inlays of a dragon and a wolf. They nodded as Aemon unlocked it with one of the two keys. The other was locked in a vault in his room.
"Aemon, you didn't say you already had all this," Arya whispered in awe as they stepped inside.
The room was filled with his works: castle-forged steel swords, axes, warhammers, and armor. He had mastered common steel first, but he had also begun experimenting with jewelry, dragonglass, Balerion's gemstones, and even Valyrian steel.
On one rack stood seven blades, meant for the Kingsguard. Ser Harrold's sword hung among them, as did the great axe he had forged for Corlys. In his private chambers, he kept a chest containing his first seax and three identical daggers, meant for himself, Viserys, and Daemon. He had planned armor for himself, but since he was not yet fully grown, it would have wasted precious resources. Still, he had already forged twenty Valyrian ingots, awaiting them to be worked in weapons, and a final quenching before they would be true Valyrian steel.
"Yes, I have been busy. Winter has given me time. It has slowed much of the construction, but I can still raise buildings with will alone. The materials, though, must still be brought in. Otherwise, you would be entering a city with two walls by now." He smiled proudly, moving to one of the pieces laid carefully on a stand.
Lifting it, he turned to his mother. "This was my fourth work. I modeled the blade after Dark Sister. Look closely at the guard and pommel, do you recognize them?"
She took the shortsword and marveled. "Amazing work, son. The blade glows red, and yes, I remember the wolf's head pommel and the runes upon the guard. You made these in Winterfell."
"Well, it is yours, Mother, if you would have it. It still needs a name. All the best swords have names." He smirked.
Arya laughed and gave him a knowing look.
"Snowfyre," Lyanna said, smiling as she embraced him. "I am wolf of winter, but also the bride of fire." She kissed his brow, and his heart swelled with her love.
When the embrace ended, he turned to Arya. "And as I said, I have something for you as well."
Arya's eyes shone as he returned to the stand and picked up a second blade.
"I hope you like it."
Arya eagerly took it. "Needle!" she squealed with joy. "Oh, it's a little longer, but lighter. The pommel and guard are different, too."
"Indeed. I shaped the guard like a dragon's wings, with a wolf's head for the pommel. You always loved the tales of Visenya when you were younger, and you are Stark, fierce wolf of the North." He mussed her hair with a grin.
"Stop that!" Arya laughed. "But thank you, truly." She embraced him, this time with care. He held her close, realizing how much the times had changed.
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