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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
The Shivering Sea
Daenerys steadied herself against the cabin wall as the ship rolled beneath her feet. Three days out from Braavos, and still her body refused to find its rhythm with the sea. The small room Lord Manderly had given her felt more like a cage than sanctuary, though she knew she should be grateful for the privacy. Most of the crew slept in hammocks below, packed together like salted fish.
"Viserion, no." She lunged forward, catching the pale dragon before he could sink his needle teeth into Rhaegal's wing. The cream-colored hatchling squawked in protest, smoke curling from his nostrils. No larger than a cat, yet already he thought himself fierce. "You cannot eat your brother."
Rhaegal, green as summer grass with bronze markings along his spine, scrambled up her arm to perch on her shoulder. His claws pricked through her borrowed tunic, drawing pinpricks of blood she barely noticed anymore. The third dragon, Morghaes, watched from his nest of blankets with eyes like smoldering red pits. Black as midnight save for the scarlet membranes of his wings, he was the largest of the three, though only by a finger's width.
She set Viserion beside a bowl of chopped fish, watching him tear into the pale meat with savage delight. The cabin reeked of fish oil and dragon droppings despite her best efforts with the chamber pot. Dragons, she was learning, produced an impressive amount of waste for creatures so small.
Her mind drifted as she watched them feed, returning to that moment three nights past when Lord Stark had gathered them all in the ship's wardroom. She could still see the grim set of his jaw, the way his grey eyes had swept over each of them—herself, Ser Jorah standing stiff and uncomfortable in the corner, Asher lounging against the wall with studied casualness, Beskha sharpening her blade, young Andar Royce trying so hard to appear worldly, and Lord Manderly taking up half the room with his enormous bulk.
"The dead walk beyond the Wall," Lord Stark had said without preamble. His voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "I've seen it with my own eyes."
The memory sent sent shivers through her even now. She'd watched Jorah's face drain of color when Lord Stark described the attack on Castle Black, how Ser Waymar Royce's corpse had risen with eyes like frozen stars and tried to murder Lord Commander Mormont. Her heart had clenched for him then, seeing the fear bloom in his eyes. His father stood at the edge of the world, facing horrors out of legend, while Jorah lived in exile for his crimes.
Andar Royce hadn't seemed shocked when Lord Stark spoke of his brother's fate. His jaw had tightened, his hand moving to his sword hilt, but there was no surprise in his eyes. Only a terrible confirmation of something already suspected. Lord Manderly, too, had merely nodded his multiple chins, as if the walking dead were simply another entry in his ledger of Northern concerns.
"The Long Night comes again," Lord Stark had finished, his words hanging in the salt-thick air. "And we are not ready."
A knock at her door pulled her from the memory. Beskha's voice came through the wood, gruff but not unkind. "Lord Stark to see you, Princess. Says it's important."
Daenerys almost corrected her—to call her Dany but held her tongue. "Enter."
Lord Stark ducked through the doorway, his height requiring him to stoop in the low-ceilinged cabin. His eyes moved immediately to the dragons, wariness mixed with something that might have been wonder. Morghaes lifted his head, studying the Northern lord with an intelligence that seemed impossible in a creature only three days hatched.
"Lord Stark." She inclined her head, noting how he stayed by the entrance. A small courtesy, but she appreciated it.
"Princess Daenerys." He remained near the door, giving her space. Another courtesy. "How are you holding up?"
The question surprised her with its gentleness. "Well enough, my lord. Though I confess uncertainty about what awaits me." She gestured at the dragons, who had all stopped eating to watch their visitor. "I doubt King Robert will welcome dragons in his realm."
Lord Stark sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of mountains. "No, he won't. Your return to Westeros will be... difficult. Many still curse the name Targaryen for what your father did. For what happened during Robert's Rebellion." His grey eyes met hers, steady and honest. "But I'll help you as I can. You're under my protection now."
The silence that followed felt oddly comfortable. She'd expected awkwardness, perhaps hostility, given their families' history. Instead, Lord Stark watched her dragons with the careful attention of a man studying something precious and dangerous in equal measure.
"Have you named them?" His voice carried genuine curiosity.
"I have." She moved closer to the makeshift nest, grateful for the change of subject. "The cream and gold is Viserion, for my brother." She saw his eyebrow rise slightly but continued. "The green is Rhaegal, for the bother I never knew, Prince Rhaegar." A shadow crossed Lord Stark's face at that name. "And the black is Morghaes, for freedom."
Rhaegal, ever the boldest despite his smaller size, scampered across the floor toward Lord Stark. The Northern lord tensed as the dragon approached his boots, then climbed them with surprising agility.
"He won't harm you," Daenerys said quickly, though her heart raced. If Lord Stark reacted poorly...
But the Lord of Winterfell remained still as Rhaegal scaled his leg, then his sword belt, finally reaching his arm. The little dragon chirped, a sound almost like a question, and Lord Stark slowly, carefully, raised his hand to touch the bronze-touched scales.
"Why name one for your brother Viserys?" His voice was soft, attention split between the dragon and her. "You fled from him, did you not?"
The question cut deeper than any blade. Daenerys turned to the porthole, watching the grey sea roll past. "Viserys was all I had for so long. When we were children, begging in the Free Cities, he would give me his food when there wasn't enough. He would hold me when I woke from nightmares about the Usurper's dogs finding us." Her throat tightened. "But the years of running, of being mocked and called the Beggar King... it poisoned something in him. When he sold our mother's crown, the last thing we had of her, something broke that could never be mended. We are…were the last of our House."
She turned back to find Lord Stark watching her with those grey eyes that seemed to see through to her very bones. Rhaegal had climbed to his shoulder, small talons gripping the thick wool of his cloak.
"You're not the last Targaryen."
The words struck her like a physical blow. The cabin seemed to spin, and she gripped the edge of her small table. "What?"
"There are two other Targaryens in Westeros right now." Lord Stark's voice remained steady, factual, though she caught something beneath it. Sympathy, perhaps.
"How?" The word came out as barely a whisper. "Who?"
"Maester Aemon Targaryen serves at Castle Black. Your great-great-uncle, if I have the genealogy right. He's near a hundred years old, blind, but sharp as Valyrian steel still. I had the privilege of meeting him when I visited the Wall."
Daenerys sank onto her narrow bunk, legs suddenly unable to hold her. Family. True family, not just the brother who'd become a stranger wearing Viserys's face. "Aemon Targaryen." She tasted the name, rolling it on her tongue like wine. "I will meet him. I must meet him."
"I'll arrange it," Lord Stark said, his voice carrying the same certainty with which he'd once promised to protect Jon. "The journey to Castle Black is harsh, especially with winter coming, but when spring arrives..." He paused, considering. "Or perhaps I could convince him to travel to Winterfell. He's old, but the maesters say sea travel is easier on ancient bones than the Kingsroad."
Silence stretched between them, comfortable as before, while she absorbed this revelation. Rhaegal chirped from Lord Stark's shoulder, apparently content with his new perch. Then memory stirred.
"You said two." She looked up at him. "Two Targaryens in Westeros."
Lord Stark's face transformed, the steady composure cracking to reveal something raw beneath. Grief carved lines around his eyes, and his jaw worked as if words fought to escape. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of old pain, old secrets.
"Prince Rhaegar didn't kidnap my sister." Each word seemed dragged from some deep place. "They ran away together. Married, I believe, though Lyanna never told me for certain."
Daenerys's eyes widened, her breath catching. The rebellion, the war that destroyed her family, built on a lie?
"I found her in a tower in Dorne, in a bed of blood." Lord Stark's voice had gone rough. "She was dying. Childbirth fever. But she'd given birth to a son. She told me his name was Daemon. Daemon Sand, as I don't know if they'd truly wed."
The cabin spun again. She gripped the bunk's edge until her knuckles went white. "Daemon..."
"My second son, the dark haired boy in your dreams, is Jon Snow though that is not is true name." Lord Stark's grey eyes held hers. "Your nephew. My sister's son."
Jon Snow. The dark-haired boy from her dreams, the one with eyes that had seemed to see her across impossible distance. The one who'd fought his brother with that strange green light. Her nephew. Rhaegar's son.
"He did not know about his birth." It wasn't a question. She could see the truth in Lord Stark's face.
"I have told him recently and it... did not go well." He shifted, causing Rhaegal to squawk in protest. "But you should know you're not alone. You have family still."
Words failed her. She sat there, dragons crawling over her lap, trying to reshape her understanding of the world. Not alone. Not the last. The boy in her dreams was her brother's son.
"Thank you." The words came out thick with emotion she couldn't quite name. "For protecting him. For keeping him safe all these years."
Lord Stark's smile was small but genuine. "He's a good lad. Stubborn as his mother, but good." He carefully lifted Rhaegal from his shoulder, the dragon protesting with tiny puffs of smoke, and set him on the bunk beside her. "You have other worries though. Robert... if he learns about the dragons, about you being here..."
"You'll protect me." It came out more certain than she felt. "We're kin now, aren't we? Through Jon. Through Daemon."
"Aye." Lord Stark moved toward the door. "We are."
He had his hand on the latch when memory struck again. "Lord Stark, wait." He turned back, patient. "In my dreams, I saw your sons. Daemon and Robb. They were training, fighting with... abilities. Things that shouldn't be possible. And there was a man with them, older, with a green blade of light."
Lord Stark's eyebrows rose. "You dreamed of them? Specifically?"
"The dragon eggs showed me visions. Your sons moved things without touching them, fought with powers I don't understand." She searched his face. "What are they?"
"My children have been blessed with abilities I cannot fully understand." His words came slowly, carefully chosen. "Their teacher, Luke Skywalker, he understands these gifts better than I."
"Luke Skywalker." She tasted this strange name. "Who is he?"
Lord Stark's expression grew complicated, layers of confusion and acceptance warring in his features. "That, Princess Daenerys, is complicated. More complicated than dragons, if you can believe it." He opened the door. "Perhaps when you meet him, you'll understand better than I do."
The door closed behind him with a soft click. Daenerys sat surrounded by her dragons, mind reeling with revelations. Not alone. Never alone again. She had an ancient uncle at the Wall, a nephew who'd been hidden in plain sight, and somehow her fate was tied to these Starks with their impossible abilities.
Morghaes crawled into her lap, his warm weight a comfort. She stroked his midnight scales, feeling the pulse of life beneath them. Whatever came next, whatever trials awaited in Westeros, she would not face them alone.
The ship rolled on through grey seas, carrying dragons and secrets toward a destiny none of them could yet see.
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Kingslanding, The Crownlands
Tyrion watched his father's wheelhouse lumber through the mud gate, surrounded by two hundred Lannister guardsmen in gleaming crimson cloaks. The morning sun caught their armor, turning them into a river of blood flowing south toward the Roseroad. From his perch atop the battlements, Tyrion could see the long train of supply wagons following—enough provisions for a month's journey to Highgarden and back.
"Off to preen with the roses," he muttered, taking a pull from his wineskin. The Arbor gold burned pleasantly down his throat, washing away the taste of last night's conversation with his father.
The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp as a dagger's edge.
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"You suspect Littlefinger?" Tywin had said, not looking up from the ledgers spread across his desk. The Tower of the Hand had smelled of leather and ink, the candles casting long shadows across his father's gaunt face.
"The man has a peculiar fascination with harming the Starks," Tyrion had replied, settling into the chair across from him, a chair he might add was deliberately built too tall, forcing him to climb into it like a child. "First this absurd tax, now I discover he's been consorting with Cersei to antagonize Eddard Stark."
Tywin's quill had scratched across parchment for several more moments before he finally raised those cold green eyes. "I know."
"You know?" Tyrion had blinked. "Then why—"
"Because Lord Baelish serves a purpose." His father had reached into his desk drawer, producing a newly minted gold dragon. The coin had spun through the air, and Tyrion caught it reflexively. "Tell me what you notice."
Tyrion had rolled the coin between his fingers, feeling its weight, its edges. Years of handling Lannister gold had given him an intimate knowledge of currency. "It's light. Smaller than it should be. The gold content has been reduced by... perhaps a tenth?"
"Closer to an eighth." Tywin had leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "The mines of Casterly Rock grow shallow, Tyrion. We've not been able to access Castamere's veins since your birth, and what remains requires deeper shafts, more men, more time for less yield."
The implications had settled over Tyrion like a shroud. The source of Lannister power, the endless gold that made them untouchable, was finite after all.
"Meanwhile," Tywin had continued, "our good king drinks and whores through fortunes, the queen demands jewels and silks, and Prince Joffrey requires new armor every moon's turn because he grows bored with the old. Lord Baelish, however, conjures gold from air."
"From the Iron Bank, you mean. And your own coffers. And half the lords in the Reach, if my sources are correct. Not to mention certain unsavory foreign interests."
A ghost of a smile had touched his father's lips. "You've been busy."
"I'm a very small man with very large ears."
"When those debts come due, when the crown cannot pay, someone must bear the blame." Tywin had risen, moving to the window that overlooked the city. "Lord Baelish believes himself clever, moving his pieces about the board. Let him. When the game ends, he'll discover he was never a player at all, merely another piece."
"And the Starks? This tax will destroy them."
"Lord Baelish showed me certain discrepancies in their reported income. Convenient discrepancies, likely of his own invention, but useful nonetheless. The North has paid reduced rates since Jon Arryn's time as Hand. That ends now." Tywin had turned back to him. "Though I expect Lord Stark will come to negotiate. I'll reduce it to double their previous rate. Fair, given their supposed hidden wealth."
"What of Robert?" Tyrion ventured, watching his father's reflection in the polished steel of a decorative breastplate. "When he discovers we're bleeding his beloved wolf dry?"
Tywin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The small council knows to hold their tongues. Pycelle wouldn't dare. Varys finds it amusing. And Baelish..." A pause, weighted with calculation. "Baelish profits from chaos, not revelation."
"Still. Robert's not entirely stupid. Drunk, whoring, and lazy, certainly, but—"
"Should His Grace somehow learn of it before Lord Stark arrives, which he won't, I need only express my shock at Lord Baelish's accounting errors." Tywin turned from the window, his shadow falling across Tyrion like a shroud. "A few heads on spikes, a public apology, the tax reversed. Robert loves simple solutions to complex problems. But it won't come to that. Stark will ride south within the moon's turn. His honor demands it. He'll negotiate, I'll concede to a set rate as planned, and Robert will toast our renewed friendship over wine and whores."
Tyrion traced a finger along the edge of his wine cup, the metal cool against his skin. "You're counting on Ned Stark's predictability."
"I'm counting on Ned Stark being Ned Stark." Tywin's lips curved into something that might have been satisfaction on a less austere face. "Honor is the most reliable chain ever forged."
Tyrion had studied his father's face, searching for the angle he was missing. "You're using Littlefinger's schemes for your own ends."
"I use everyone's schemes for my own ends. That is why I am Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, while you are..." Tywin's gaze had swept over him dismissively before softening fractionally. "While you are about to become acting Hand in my absence."
The words had taken a moment to register. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You will serve as Hand while I attend Lord Renly's wedding. Someone must keep the realm from burning while I'm gone, and you've proven marginally competent at untangling complex situations."
"Marginally competent. Father, you flatter me."
"Do not mistake this for approval. You are simply the least likely to make a catastrophic error in a moons time. Keep the peace. Keep the king from bankrupting us further. And keep watching Lord Baelish."
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Now, standing on the battlements as his father's procession disappeared into the distance, Tyrion felt the weight of the golden hand pin against his chest. Acting Hand of the King. The irony wasn't lost on him—the son Tywin despised most, trusted with his authority.
He descended the stairs carefully, his stunted legs protesting each step. The Red Keep seemed different already, servants eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. Power was a curious thing; even borrowed power changed how people looked at you.
His chambers were modest compared to the Tower of the Hand, but Tyrion preferred them. They were harder to find, tucked away in a corner of the keep that most people forgot existed. Privacy was worth more than grandeur.
He'd barely settled behind his desk when the door burst open without ceremony. Bronn strode in, mud still caking his boots, tracking filth across Tyrion's Myrish carpet.
"You know," Tyrion said mildly, "most people knock. It's a curious custom involving one's knuckles and the door. Quite revolutionary."
"Most people aren't bringing you news worth a fortune in gold." Bronn dropped into a chair, helping himself to Tyrion's wine without invitation. "Besides, you find the most juicy gossip when you don't knock."
"By all means, make yourself comfortable. Would you like me to summon a serving girl to rub your feet?"
Bronn grinned, showing too many teeth. "Maybe later. You'll want to hear this first."
Tyrion set aside the report he'd been reading, grain prices in the Reach, tedious but necessary. "I'm listening."
"Bronn," Tyrion said, reaching for the wine decanter, "you've been spending considerable time in Littlefinger's establishments of late. Purely for investigative purposes, I trust?"
"Man's got to be thorough." Bronn stretched his legs, mud flaking onto the carpet. "Funny thing about whores—they notice patterns. Especially when those patterns involve swollen bellies and black-haired babes."
"Oh?"
"Your sister's friend has himself quite the breeding program going. Every third whore in his brothels seems to be nursing a royal bastard." Bronn picked at something under his fingernail with his dagger. "Course, they don't call them that. But when you've got a dozen black-haired, blue-eyed brats all born within a few years of each other, all after visits from a certain fat king who likes his women buxom and willing..."
Tyrion's fingers stilled on his cup. "How many?"
"In Littlefinger's places alone? Eight that I've counted. Probably more, some of the girls have been moved to his establishments in Duskendale and Maidenpool." Bronn's eyes glinted with dark amusement. "Seems our Lord Baelish has been collecting Robert's leavings like vintage wine. Question is, why?"
"Insurance," Tyrion murmured. "Or ammunition. With Littlefinger, it's often the same thing. But what about them?"
"They're disappearing." Bronn's grin faded. "Seven confirmed missing so far. A serving girl at the Stumbling Stag that looks disgustingly like the King , vanished during her shift. Even took a babe from its mother's arms—whore named Bara, works at Chataya's."
The wine in Tyrion's cup suddenly tasted of ash. He set it down carefully, his mind racing through implications. "Someone's cleaning house."
"Aye. And doing it quiet-like. No bodies turning up, no blood. Just... gone."
"Littlefinger?"
Bronn shrugged. "His gold is behind it, near as I can tell. But the men doing the taking? They're not his usual sort. Too professional. Too clean."
Tyrion drummed his fingers against the desk, a habit he'd picked up from his father. Robert's bastards. Black hair, blue eyes, strong jaws—every one of them looking more like their father than Joffrey ever had. Someone was eliminating evidence, destroying proof of something that shouldn't need proving unless...
"Gods be good," he whispered.
"What?"
Tyrion's mind raced back to his conversation with Cersei, her fury about Ned Stark's questions regarding hair color and breeding. The strange defensiveness in Jaime's eyes when asked what troubles him. Littlefinger's sly insinuation that he should look closer to home.
No. Surely not. Even Cersei wouldn't be so monumentally stupid as to...
But the evidence was disappearing, one black-haired child at a time.
"Double your men," Tyrion said finally. "I want to know who's taking these children and where they're going."
"That'll cost extra."
"Everything costs extra with you."
"Man's got to eat." Bronn stood, apparently considering his duty done. "Oh, and that other matter you asked about—the Stark girl's would-be killer? Word is he was a catspaw from Oldtown, but the gold that hired him came through three different merchants, all of them in debt to guess who."
"Lord Baelish."
"Give the little lord a prize." Bronn headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Funny thing, though. There seemed to be a partner to the catspaw, who has simply disappeared."
Tyrion reached for his wine again, needing the warmth to chase away the chill settling in his bones. His father had given him the authority of the Hand, but authority meant nothing if the realm was built on foundations of lies and murdered children.
Keep the peace, father had said. Watch Littlefinger.
But what if the greatest threat wasn't Littlefinger at all? What if it was the woman who shared his blood, whose madness grew with each passing day, whose secrets were worth killing children to protect?
Tyrion stared at the reports scattered across his desk—grain prices, tax revenues, troop movements. The mundane machinery of governance, all of it meaningless if the throne itself was built on a lie.
Seven bastards missing. A Stark girl nearly murdered. The North crushed under impossible taxes. And somewhere in the shadows, Littlefinger spun his web while Cersei played with fire she couldn't control.
"Acting Hand," Tyrion muttered, reaching for parchment and quill. He had letters to write, orders to give, and a realm to keep from tearing itself apart.
A moon, his father had said. One moon to maintain order.
Tyrion had a sinking feeling that this moon would be his longest.