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Sunlight streamed through the window, dancing across Jon's face and pulling him from dreams of violet eyes and spinning dances. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the memories of the previous night flooded back. The feast. Lady Alys in her emerald dress. Their dance that had silenced the hall. Lord Karstark's surprising approval.
And before all that, Lady Stark's fury. Her words still echoed: "whorehouse spawn" and "should have been left to die."
Jon sat up, running fingers through his unruly dark curls. His chamber felt different this morning, as if the very walls had absorbed some of last night's victory. Was it victory? Or merely a momentary reprieve from his usual position?
"Just how high can a bastard reach?" he murmured to himself, recalling his father's words from years ago. His mother had wanted him to reach high, to never accept the limitations others would place on him. But there were limits, weren't there? No castle of his own, no lands, no true name.
A knock interrupted his thoughts, followed immediately by Robb bursting through the door, already dressed and grinning like he'd just won a tourney.
"Seven hells, are you still abed? It's nearly midday, and you're missing all the gossip," Robb announced, throwing himself into the chair by the hearth.
"Midday? It can't be-" Jon glanced at the window, realizing the sun was indeed higher than it should be for morning.
"Well, perhaps not midday," Robb conceded with a laugh, "but late enough that you've become the primary topic of conversation over breakfast."
Jon groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Wonderful. Lady Stark must be thrilled."
"Wouldn't know. Mother took breakfast in her chambers," Robb said. "Father says she's feeling unwell."
"Unwell with rage, more like," Jon muttered, pulling on a simple tunic.
"Possibly," Robb agreed, his blue eyes twinkling. "But you should hear what everyone else is saying. Jon Umber told Father you've 'got the North in your blood, bastard or no.' Lady Mormont actually smiled at your name - smiled, Jon! I didn't think her face could do that."
Jon felt a smile growing at his lips. "You're exaggerating."
"I'm not! And the servants... gods, Jon, they're practically claiming you as their champion. Dorla the kitchen maid told Theon you were 'putting the south in its place,' right in front of Septa Mordane!"
Jon winced. "That won't help with Lady Stark."
"Nothing helps with Mother when she's in this mood," Robb said with a shrug. "But Father actually seemed proud, in his quiet way. Though he's summoned you to his solar after you break your fast."
Jon's stomach tightened. "To reprimand me?"
"To talk, he said. Though he didn't look angry." Robb leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And Lord Karstark was singing your praises over his porridge this morning. Something about 'finally a young man who understands northern commerce.' What in seven hells did you say to him after the dancing?"
"Just some ideas about White Harbor trade routes and timber exports," Jon said, splashing water on his face from the basin. "Things I learned from Maester Luwin's lessons."
"Well, it worked. And his daughter couldn't stop looking at the door, clearly hoping you'd appear." Robb's grin widened. "Pretty, isn't she? Those gray eyes? Though not as striking as yours, I'll admit."
Jon felt his cheeks warm. "Her eyes are like storm clouds," he said softly, then immediately regretted the poetic comparison when Robb hooted with laughter.
"Storm clouds! Listen to you, turning into a proper bard! Next you'll be composing songs about her hair."
"Shut up," Jon muttered, throwing a pillow that Robb easily dodged.
"Fine, fine. But you should know your admirers aren't limited to Lady Alys. Even Jeyne Poole was defending you to Sansa. And Beth Cassel told anyone who'd listen about how you once helped her catch her escaped rabbit."
Jon paused in pulling on his boots. "I'd forgotten about that."
"Well, Beth hasn't. Neither has Old Sara, or Mikken, or half the stable boys." Robb stood, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "You've built quite the following without even trying. Imagine what you could do if you actually made an effort."
"I've never tried to-"
"I know. That's what makes it so impressive." Robb's expression turned thoughtful. "You've always had a way with people, Jon. Not like Theon's false charm or Sansa's practiced courtesies. You see people - really see them."
Jon finished dressing, oddly unsettled by Robb's observation. Had he been doing that? Seeing people when others looked past them? It hadn't been a conscious strategy, just... the way he'd always been.
"Come on," Robb said, heading for the door. "I've convinced the cooks to save you some breakfast, but Arya's been asking about you non-stop. If we don't appear soon, she's threatened to lead an expedition to your room."
As if summoned by her name, a small storm of dark hair and boundless energy burst through the doorway, nearly colliding with Robb.
"Jon! You're alive! Sansa said Lady Mother probably murdered you in your sleep, but I said you were too clever to be murdered!" Arya announced, flinging herself at Jon with such force he nearly toppled backward.
"Sansa said what?" Jon couldn't help laughing as he steadied himself.
"She didn't mean it," Arya assured him, her gray eyes serious beneath her messy fringe. "She was just being dramatic. But she did say you danced with Lady Alys Karstark and made Mother angry, and that you looked very handsome in your black doublet. Even Jeyne said so, and she never says nice things about you."
Jon exchanged an amused glance with Robb over Arya's head. "Did she now?"
"Yes! And Bran wants to know if you'll teach him to dance like that so he can spin girls around when he's older. And Theon said something about you finally becoming a man, but Father made him stop talking." Arya tugged impatiently at his hand. "Come on, you have to tell me everything. Did you really tell Lady Mother that the North remembers?"
"Not exactly," Jon hedged, allowing himself to be pulled toward the door.
"But you did stand up to her, didn't you?" Arya persisted. "For the Karstarks?"
Jon hesitated, aware of Robb's suddenly careful expression. He knelt to Arya's level, meeting her eager gaze.
"I spoke out of turn," he said gently. "Which isn't something you should imitate, little wolf. Lady Stark is the Lady of Winterfell, and deserves our respect."
Arya's face fell. "So you didn't defend the North?"
Jon sighed, caught between honesty and propriety. "I suggested that northern traditions be respected in Winterfell. That's all."
"That's not what the stable boys said," Arya muttered. "They said you were magnificent."
"The stable boys," Jon said with a smile, "have very active imaginations."
As they made their way to the Great Hall, Jon noticed something. Servants who normally worked quietly in the background now paused to offer smiles or small nods of acknowledgment. A pair of visiting ladies from House Cerwyn actually curtseyed, their eyes lingering on his face with unexpected interest.
"Told you," Robb murmured beside him. "Hero of the North."
"Don't be ridiculous," Jon replied, though he couldn't quite suppress the warm feeling spreading through his chest.
They passed Lady Beth Cassel in the corridor, a girl of eleven with auburn hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. To Jon's surprise, she blushed furiously when he greeted her, managing only a stammered "g-good morning" before hurrying away.
"Another conquest," Robb teased. "Your dance with Lady Alys seems to have awakened half the young ladies of Winterfell to your existence. Must be those pretty purple eyes."
Jon rolled said eyes. "Now who's being ridiculous?"
.
.
Jon paused outside his father's solar, straightening his tunic and running a hand through his dark curls in a futile attempt to tame them. The heavy oak door loomed before him, a barrier between the boy who had danced too boldly at the feast and the Lord of Winterfell who now awaited him.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked.
"Enter," came his father's voice.
Jon pushed open the door to find Lord Stark standing by the window.
"You wanted to see me, Father?" Jon kept his voice neutral, prepared for a reprimand but unwilling to appear cowed before it came.
Ned Stark turned, his gray eyes studying Jon with an expression that revealed little. "I did. Close the door."
Jon obeyed, then stood straighter as his father moved to sit behind his desk, gesturing for Jon to take the chair opposite. The desk between them was covered with letters and ledgers, the business of the North that never seemed to end.
"You caused quite a stir last night," Ned said finally.
"I spoke out of turn to Lady Stark," Jon acknowledged, meeting his father's gaze directly. "I apologize for any embarrassment I caused you."
"The confrontation with Lady Stark was... unfortunate. But I was referring to what came after. Your dance with Lady Alys. Your conversation with Lord Karstark."
Jon blinked, not expecting his father to talk about this. "Lord Karstark seemed interested in my observations about White Harbor trade."
"He was. So interested that he spoke to me at length this morning about your 'remarkable understanding of northern commerce' and your 'keen insights into Karstark timber prospects.'" Ned leaned forward slightly. "Lord Karstark has five sons and rarely compliments any of them. Yet he spoke of you as if you were some kind of prodigy."
Heat crept up Jon's neck. "I only repeated what Maester Luwin taught us."
"Robb received the same lessons," Ned pointed out. "Yet Lord Karstark didn't seek him out."
Jon shifted in his chair, unsure if he was being praised or interrogated. "Robb is heir to Winterfell. He doesn't need to impress northern lords."
"And you do?" Ned's voice sharpened slightly.
"I didn't set out to impress anyone," Jon said carefully. "Lord Karstark's men were discussing shipping difficulties. I simply mentioned some potential solutions I'd read about in Maester Luwin's books."
Ned studied him, his expression unreadable. "You've changed, Jon. Since your illness. Your skills in the practice yard have improved beyond what simple growth would explain. Your understanding of matters far beyond your years raises eyebrows. And now, it seems, you've developed a talent for politics."
Jon swallowed. "I wouldn't call it politics—"
"Then what would you call earning the approval of one of our principal bannermen, winning the admiration of his daughter, and turning half the servants of Winterfell into your champions? All within the span of one evening?" Ned's tone wasn't accusatory, but there was something in it that made Jon sit straighter.
"I didn't plan any of that," Jon insisted. "I only wanted to..." He paused, trying to articulate feelings he barely understood himself. "To be seen," he finished quietly. "To not shrink myself smaller every time someone looks at me."
Something in Ned's expression softened. "Your mother was like that," he said, his voice dropping lower. "She could enter a room and immediately command attention without saying a word. Just by being herself, without artifice or calculation. She had your eyes. The exact same shade of violet. People would stare, but she never seemed to notice or care." He paused, lost in memory for a moment. "But she wasn't born a bastard, Jon. She had the protection of her name and her house."
"And I don't," Jon said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
"Yes you do, son. You will always have the protection of this house, but that does not mean you are allowed to be reckless." Ned leaned forward. "Lord Cerwyn commented on your eyes last night. Lord Umber remarked on your skill with a sword. Lady Mormont observed that you speak like someone twice your age."
Jon frowned. "Are these complaints?"
"Observations," Ned corrected. "They wonder why a bastard displays such unusual qualities. Why he suddenly shows such confidence and ability. Why northern lords find themselves impressed by a boy of twelve."
"Because I'm your son," Jon said, lifting his chin. "Because I study harder than anyone. Because I practice with a sword when others are playing. Because I've earned it."
A flash of pride crossed Ned's features. "Yes. But the world is rarely fair to bastards, Jon. The more you stand out, the more questions will be asked. The more enemies you will make."
"Like Lady Stark," Jon said before he could stop himself.
Ned's expression tightened. "Lady Stark is not your enemy. She is my wife and the mother of your siblings."
"Half-siblings," Jon corrected, then regretted it when he saw the brief flash of hurt in his father's eyes.
"Family," Ned said firmly. "Your confrontation with her was... ill-considered."
Jon bit back his initial response, knowing it would only make matters worse. Instead, he modulated his tone to something more reasonable. "Lord Karstark fought beside you in two wars, Father. He deserved better than being seated among merchants and lesser houses. It wasn't right."
"You are right. But there are ways to address such concerns that don't involve publicly challenging the Lady of Winterfell."
"I tried speaking to her privately," Jon pointed out. "She wouldn't listen."
"And so you decided to force the issue?" Ned's eyebrow rose. "That was a political move, Jon, whether you recognize it as such or not. You aligned yourself with northern traditions against southern influence. You positioned yourself as a defender of our bannermen's honor. You made yourself visible in a way bastards rarely dare."
Put that way, it sounded far more calculated than Jon had intended. "I only wanted things to be fair."
"Fair," Ned repeated, the word sounded strange coming from him. "An admirable goal, but one rarely achieved in this world." He sighed, some of the sternness leaving his expression. "You have a gift, Jon. People listen when you speak. They remember what you say. They want to be near you. It's a rare quality, and a dangerous one."
"Dangerous?" Jon frowned.
"Power always is. And make no mistake, the ability to win loyalty and admiration is a form of power." Ned's gray eyes held Jon's. "You gathered more of it last night than you realize. The question now is how you'll use it."
Jon hadn't thought of it as power. He'd simply spoken his mind, danced with a girl he admired, discussed trade with her father. Simple actions with unexpectedly complicated results.
"I don't want power," he said honestly. "I just want..."
"What?" Ned prompted when Jon fell silent.
"Respect," Jon finished. "A place that feels like mine. To not be invisible."
Ned was quiet for a long moment, studying Jon as if seeing him anew. "Your mother once told me that the gods play cruel jokes on bastards—giving them the blood of kings but none of the rights." He smiled faintly. "She said you would need to find your own path, different from any laid out for trueborn sons."
Jon leaned forward, hungry for these rare scraps of information about his mother. "What else did she say?"
"That you had her eyes and my stubbornness, a dangerous combination." Ned's smile faded. "She worried for you, Jon. For the life you would lead as a bastard in the North."
"But she wanted me to reach high," Jon said, remembering. "You told me that once."
"Yes. But she also knew the risks." Ned's expression grew serious again. "Which brings me to Lady Alys."
Jon felt heat rush to his face. "What about her?"
"Lord Karstark mentioned your... attention to his daughter."
"It was just a dance," Jon said quickly.
"And a private tour of the castle. And a lengthy conversation at breakfast." Ned's tone was mild, but his eyes were sharp. "Lord Karstark seemed more amused than concerned, but Jon, you must understand. You should not break her honor."
"I wasn't planning to ask for her hand," Jon protested, embarrassed. "We're twelve!"
"I'm not saying you can't be friends. But be careful, Jon. For her sake as much as yours. When you grow older, perhaps two more years, then we can talk more about this."
Jon nodded, though something rebellious in him wanted to argue. Why shouldn't he reach for what others had? Why should his birth determine every aspect of his future?
As if reading his thoughts, Ned added, "Jon, what is that you want?"
The question caught Jon off guard. He'd expected an argument, not an invitation to voice his ambitions. "I... I don't know yet," he admitted. "But something where my worth isn't determined by my birth. Something where I can prove myself by what I do, not who my parents were."
"A worthy goal," Ned said softly. "Though not an easy one." He studied Jon with an expression that mingled pride and worry. "You're more like your mother than you know. She never accepted limitations either."
The comparison warmed something in Jon's chest. "Tell me more about her," he asked, seizing the opportunity. "What was she like? Did she laugh easily? Was she good with a sword? Did she—"
"Another time," Ned said right away. "For now, I want your word that you'll be more careful. With Lady Stark. With the northern lords. With Lady Alys."
Jon wanted to press for more about his mother, but he recognized the shift in his father's tone. The moment for such questions had passed. "I'll be careful," he promised.
"Good." Ned rose from his chair, signaling the end of their conversation. "And Jon? That ability of yours—to make people listen, to win their regard? Use it wisely. It's a blade that cuts both ways."
Jon stood, feeling as though he'd been both praised and cautioned, approved of and warned against. "Yes, Father."
With that, Jon left his father alone in his solar.
Jon found Theon in the training yard, the older boy hacking at a practice dummy like he was trying to show off instead of training, especially when he did a full spin before hitting the dummy.
"Impressive," Jon called out, approaching with a practice sword in hand. "Though I doubt the dummy is suitably terrified by all the spinning."
Theon turned, wiping sweat from his brow with a cocky grin. "Jealous, Snow? Some of us prefer to fight with style rather than just effectiveness."
"Is that what you call it? I thought perhaps you were trying to make yourself dizzy." Jon twirled his own practice sword, watching how Theon's eyes narrowed.
Instead of his usual scowl, however, Theon's mouth quirked into something almost resembling respect. "Not bad. Seems our little wolf pup is developing claws after all."
Jon stopped a few paces away, studying the older boy who had spent years alternating between ignoring him and mocking him. Now seemed as good a time as any.
"I wanted to thank you," Jon said, catching Theon off guard. "For your advice before the feast. About being charming instead of confrontational. It worked better than I expected."
Theon blinked, clearly taken aback by the sincere gratitude. He recovered quickly, mask of arrogance sliding back into place. "Of course it worked. I'm an expert in charm, as the tavern girls of Winter Town would happily attest."
"I'm sure they would," Jon replied with a smile that took any sting from his words. "Though I was aiming for Lord Karstark's approval rather than tavern conquests."
"An easier target," Theon snorted, resuming his stance. "Old northmen love nothing more than someone who listens to their tedious stories about timber."
Jon raised his practice sword in response, circling slowly. "Not just timber. Lord Karstark has ideas about eastward expansion. Did you know they're considering establishing a trading post near Skagos?"
"Riveting," Theon deadpanned, lunging forward with a quick thrust that Jon sidestepped easily. "Do tell me more about lumber shipping routes. I'm positively aquiver with excitement."
Jon laughed, parrying Theon's next attack. "Well, the good part isn't the timber itself, but how Lord Karstark plans to use it to forge new alliances with the mountain clans. Apparently his second son—"
"Gods preserve me," Theon groaned, though his attacks grew more focused, less theatrical. "Is this how you charmed the daughter too? Droning on about her father's business interests?"
"No," Jon replied, executing a neat counterattack that nearly caught Theon's shoulder. "With Lady Alys, I discussed Northern history and the architectural oddities of Winterfell."
"Marginally less dull," Theon conceded, breathing harder now as their sparring intensified. "Though I still don't see how that led to her looking at you like you hung the moon and stars."
Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks but kept his expression neutral. "I listened to her," he said simply. "Asked questions. Didn't assume I knew more than her just because I'm male."
Theon paused mid-strike, a strange expression crossing his face. "Huh," he said eloquently.
Their sparring resumed, wooden swords clacking in a rhythm that spoke of growing skill on Jon's part. Where once Theon would have easily dominated such exchanges, now he found himself working to maintain the upper hand.
"So," Theon said between strikes, "first the Karstark girl, now half the serving wenches. Even saw Beth Cassel mooning after you at breakfast. Planning to build yourself a harem, Snow?"
Jon rolled his eyes, though he felt oddly pleased at the confirmation of others' interest. "Hardly. I just treated them like people instead of decorations."
"Revolutionary concept," Theon said dryly. "Though I have to admit, you handled old Karstark masterfully. I was certain he'd gut you for dancing with his precious daughter like that."
"So was I," Jon admitted, ducking under a swing and coming up with a counter that Theon barely blocked. "But it turns out he's more interested in his house's future than in maintaining social hierarchies."
"Unlike some ladies we could mention," Theon muttered, and Jon knew exactly who he meant.
"Lady Stark has her reasons," Jon said diplomatically, aware of Ser Rodrik watching their exchange from the edge of the yard.
"Oh? Defending her now?" Theon's eyebrows shot up. "After she practically called for your head yesterday?"
Jon shrugged, maintaining his focus on their sparring. "Holding grudges requires too much effort. Besides," he added with a grin, "irritating her by being universally liked seems far more effective than open hostility."
Theon barked a surprised laugh. "There may be hope for you yet, Snow." He lunged forward, feinting left before striking right—a move that would have worked mere weeks ago.
Jon read the attack before it fully formed, sidestepping gracefully and tapping Theon's exposed side with his practice sword. "Yield?"
"Seven hells," Theon muttered, lowering his sword. "When did you get so fast?"
"Practice," Jon replied simply, though in truth, he wasn't entirely sure himself.
"Well played, lads," Ser Rodrik called, approaching them with a little smile. "Snow, that footwork was exceptional. Been practicing in secret, have you?"
"Whenever I can, Ser Rodrik," Jon replied respectfully. "Though Theon doesn't make it easy."
"Hah! Flattery won't save you next time," Theon said, but his voice sounded different than it used to.
As Theon moved off to get water, Ser Rodrik lingered, his assessing gaze making Jon stand a little straighter.
"You've changed, boy," the master-at-arms said without preamble. "Not just your fighting, though that's improved beyond what I would have expected. It's how you carry yourself. How you speak to others."
Jon shifted, uncertain how to respond. "Is that... good?"
"Depends," Ser Rodrik tugged at his great white whiskers. "Men will follow skill, but they'll die for someone who makes them feel valued. You've started doing both." His weathered face creased in what might almost be a smile. "Natural leadership, that. Reminds me of your father when he was young."
The comparison sent warmth spreading through Jon's chest. "Thank you, Ser Rodrik."
As the old knight moved away to correct a younger boy's stance, Jon caught sight of a woman crossing the far side of the yard, the new assistant to Winterfell's healer. She moved elegantly, her dark hair caught in a simple braid that swung as she walked. What caught Jon's attention, however, was the way she carried herself, with confidence.
When she looked up, meeting his gaze briefly across the yard, Jon felt an unexpected flutter in his chest. Her eyes were green like summer grass, set in a face that wasn't classically beautiful but had a warmth to it, a liveliness that made it difficult to look away.
She offered a small smile before continuing on her way, leaving Jon oddly breathless despite having just recovered from sparring.
"Close your mouth, Snow, you'll catch flies," Theon's amused voice broke through his distraction. "Though I can't fault your taste. Mariah's quite the beauty, if a bit too serious for my liking."
"Mariah?" Jon asked before he could stop himself.
"The healer's new assistant. From White Harbor originally." Theon grinned knowingly. "Nineteen, unmarried, and apparently immune to my considerable charms. Perhaps she prefers pretty boys with purple eyes."
Jon felt heat crawl up his neck. "I was just wondering who she was," he lied unconvincingly.
"Of course you were," Theon drawled. "Just like I merely admire the architectural marvels of the brothel in Winter Town."
Jon shoved him, surprising both of them with the casual camaraderie of the gesture. Even more surprising was Theon's response, a friendly cuff to Jon's shoulder rather than the cutting remark he might have expected just days ago.
As they resumed practice, Jon mulled over Ser Rodrik's words about leadership and making others feel valued.
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys watched Ser Arthur's back as he guided them through Lys, noting how he never followed a straight path. Three lefts instead of a right. Doubling back on narrow streets that smelled of spices and perfume. Pausing at corners to study reflections in copper pots before proceeding. These weren't the movements of someone merely familiar with a city, those were the moves of a paranoid man.
"You move like a shadowcat," she observed quietly, keeping her voice below the bustling market sounds. "Always watching for traps."
Ser Arthur glanced back, something like surprise flickering across his weathered face. "Most people wouldn't notice."
"Most people haven't spent their lives running," Dany replied simply.
Viserys walked slightly ahead of her, his spine rigid with the pride he wore like armor. The ruby-hilted dagger gleamed at his belt. Her brother's fingers kept straying to their mother's ring, as if to reassure himself it wasn't a dream.
They turned down an alley so narrow Dany could touch both walls by extending her arms. The sounds of the market faded, replaced by the distant calls of gulls and the faint smell of salt. The harbor was close.
"Why this route?" she asked, cataloging each turn in her memory. "The main street would be faster."
"The Spider has eyes everywhere," Arthur replied without slowing. "Particularly along obvious paths."
"The Spider?" Viserys asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.
"Lord Varys. The eunuch who serves as Robert's Master of Whispers." Arthur's voice carried none of the revulsion Viserys typically used when speaking of the Usurper's councilors. "He has an uncommon fondness for employing children as his spies. They blend into crowds, go unnoticed in the shadows."
Dany immediately scanned the narrow street, eyeing a small boy playing with a wooden horse. Was he watching them too intently? She couldn't tell.
"Are we being followed?" she asked, keeping her voice calm though her heart had quickened.
"Not currently," Arthur said with quiet confidence. "But caution has kept me alive these past years."
They emerged onto a quieter section of the harbor, away from the main trading vessels and fishermen's boats. A modest ship with clean lines and newly-patched sails waited at the furthest dock. No banner flew from its mast, no identifying marks decorated its hull.
"The Morning Light," Arthur said with something like affection. "Not the largest vessel, but swift and steady in rough waters."
As they approached, seven men appeared from various positions along the dock. Dany assessed them instantly—all carried weapons, though discreetly. They all bowed deeply to Viserys.
"Your Grace," they murmured in unison.
Viserys straightened, his chin lifting as he absorbed the formal address like a man dying of thirst. "Rise," he commanded, his voice steadier than Dany had heard in months.
As the men straightened, Dany noticed what she had missed in her initial assessment—each wore an identical silver pin at their collar. A falling star.
"House Dayne," she murmured, remembering her lessons. Viserys had drilled the sigils and symbols of the great houses into her since before she could properly speak. The shooting star of Starfall.
Arthur nodded approvingly. "You have a keen eye, Princess Daenerys." He gestured to the men. "These are the Sworn Stars—men who served your brother Rhaegar and have maintained their oaths even after his fall."
The oldest of the group stepped forward, a tall man with iron-gray hair and a face marked by old scars. "Ser Willem Darrow, Your Grace. I served in your brother's personal guard at Dragonstone."
Viserys studied him with narrow eyes. "I don't remember you."
"You were very young, Your Grace," the knight replied without offense. "And I was often away on missions for Prince Rhaegar." His eyes shifted to Daenerys. "Though I was present the night of your birth, Princess. A terrible storm, but a miracle nonetheless."
Arthur introduced the others swiftly: Ser Myles Stone, Ser Corvin Blackwater, Ser Richard Lonmouth (whom Arthur noted had been particularly close to Rhaegar), and three younger men—brothers named Gareth, Gawan, and Galladon Wells.
"They have pledged their swords and their lives to House Targaryen," Arthur explained as they were escorted aboard. "They've waited many years for this moment."
The ship, though modest from the outside, revealed surprisingly comfortable accommodations within. The wood gleamed with regular polishing, brass fittings shone, and the air smelled of clean linen and cedar rather than the usual ship odors of rope and salt-damp.
"This way, Your Grace," Ser Myles directed Viserys toward what was clearly the captain's cabin, now prepared for the rightful king.
Dany followed, only to be gently redirected by Arthur's hand on her shoulder. "The Princess has her own quarters," he said, guiding her toward a smaller but equally well-appointed cabin.
As they approached, a woman emerged from within, and Dany felt her breath catch.
She was tall and slender, draped in the simple gray robes of a septa, but nothing about her suggested the stern, joyless women Dany had occasionally encountered in her limited exposure to the Faith. This woman was beautiful. But it was her eyes that seized Dany's attention, a violet so deep it bordered on indigo, set in a face of extraordinary beauty despite the sorrow that seemed etched into its lines.
Those eyes widened slightly when they fell on Daenerys.
"Princess Daenerys," Arthur said, his voice taking on a gentleness Dany hadn't heard before, "may I present Septa Alyss Heartlocker, who will attend to your education and comfort during our journey."
The septa cursed with perfect grace, her eyes never leaving Dany's face. "Princess," she said, her voice melodic with the hint of a Dornish accent. "It is my honor to serve House Targaryen."
"You have our eyes," Viserys said suddenly, appearing behind Dany. "Who are you really?"
"Merely a septa who remembers her true loyalties, Your Grace," the woman replied smoothly. "Many in Dorne share this coloring."
Viserys didn't look convinced, but the lure of his own luxurious cabin proved stronger than his suspicion. "Watch her," he muttered to Dany before returning to his exploration of his quarters.
Septa Alyss's smile held a trace of sadness as she gestured Dany into the cabin. "I've prepared fresh clothing for you, Princess. Nothing elaborate, but clean and properly sized. There's water for washing as well."
The cabin, though small, contained luxuries Dany had almost forgotten existed, a real bed with fresh linens, a polished looking glass, a small chest that, when opened, revealed several simple but well-made dresses.
"Are these mine?" she asked, touching the fabric reverently.
"Everything here is yours," Alyss confirmed, her voice gentle. "Including privacy, which I imagine has been scarce in recent years."
Dany looked up sharply, struck by the septa's perception. "How did you know?"
"I recognize the signs of one who has lived without boundaries," Alyss said, beginning to unpack the chest. "The way you stand always slightly alert, how your eyes check every entrance and exit. The caution with which you accept kindness."
As Alyss spoke, she moved behind Dany, gently beginning to untangle her travel-matted hair with a carved wooden comb. The sensation of someone caring for her personal comfort was so foreign that Dany nearly pulled away.
"When was the last time someone tended your hair properly?" Alyss asked, working through a particularly stubborn knot with patient fingers.
"Ser Willem sometimes helped," Dany admitted. "Before he fell ill. But he wasn't very good at it."
A small, choked sound escaped the septa. "Men rarely are," she said.
Dany watched their reflection in the small looking glass—her own silver-blonde hair framing a face still rounded with childhood, and behind her, the septa's elegant features. But those violet eyes betrayed her, brimming with emotions that seemed far too complex for a first meeting.
The door opened without warning, and Arthur entered. His gaze moved swiftly between them, lingering on Alyss's hands in Dany's hair.
"We sail with the evening tide," he announced.
Alyss nodded slightly, her hands steadying as she continued her ministrations. "Princess Daenerys will be presentable for dinner with her brother," she assured him.
As Arthur withdrew, Dany stored away this curious exchange like a precious coin—another piece in the puzzle these strangers represented. People with secrets weren't uncommon in her experience, but people with secrets who treated her with genuine respect were vanishingly rare.
Hours later, as the ship slipped from its moorings and the lights of Lys receded into the gathering dusk, Dany stood at the rail. Somewhere behind her, Viserys held court with their new protectors, his voice growing louder and more confident with each cup of wine. But here, with the wind tugging at her freshly washed and braided hair, Dany felt strangely suspended between worlds.
She wasn't mourning the loss of Lys, it had been merely another temporary shelter in a lifetime of temporary shelters. What caught in her chest was the realization that for the first time she could remember, they were moving toward something rather than simply running away.
A soft step announced Septa Alyss's presence beside her. For a long moment, they stood in silence, watching the shoreline dissolve into darkness.
"Are you afraid, Princess?" Alyss asked finally, her voice almost lost in the sound of waves against the hull.
Dany considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "No," she decided. "Not afraid. Just... wondering."
"What do you wonder about?"
"Whether this time will be different," Dany admitted. "Whether the promises will be kept. Whether I'll look back on this night and see it as the moment everything changed, or just another false hope."
Alyss let out a sharp breath, but then she spoke softly to her. "Some promises transcend death itself, Princess Daenerys. Some loyalties never waver." Her hand moved as if to touch Dany's shoulder, then withdrew. "You are not alone anymore. That I can promise you."
Dany wanted to believe her, but she knew better than to trust someone she had met today.
As Lys disappeared completely into the darkness, Dany turned toward the open sea, toward whatever future awaited.
Perhaps, one day, she could find the Red Door with Lemon Tree Outside.
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