# The Tower of the Hand - King's Landing
The morning sun painted the Tower of the Hand in shades of gold that spoke of imperial power and the weight of responsibility, but Jon Arryn—Lord of the Eyrie, Hand of the King, and the man whose wisdom had held Robert's reign together through seventeen years of drunken excess and political near-catastrophe—felt no warmth from the light spilling across his desk. The book before him lay open to a page that had just shattered seventeen years of careful assumption, and his weathered hands trembled as they gripped parchment that proved what he had begun to suspect but hoped desperately to disprove.
*The seed is strong.*
Four words that had echoed through his investigation like a death knell, repeated by every source he'd consulted about Baratheon bloodlines and their distinctive characteristics. Four words that made the evidence before him impossible to dismiss or rationalize away through wishful thinking.
The lineages were clear, documented across centuries with the sort of methodical precision that maesters brought to matters of inheritance and legitimate succession. Every Baratheon union—going back three generations, spanning multiple branches of both families—had produced children bearing the distinctive Baratheon coloring. Black hair without exception. The seed was strong, the maesters wrote, dominant over even the golden Lannister features that marked one of the most distinctive bloodlines in Westeros.
Yet Queen Cersei's three surviving children—Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—bore golden hair and green eyes that proclaimed Lannister heritage so purely it might as well have been written in their flesh. No trace of Robert's black hair. No hint of Baratheon features in face or form. Three children who resembled their mother so completely that only willful blindness could explain seventeen years of not questioning their legitimacy.
*But there had been one child,* he thought, the memory sharp despite the years that had dulled its edges. *One infant who bore Robert's coloring perfectly—the distinctive black Baratheon hair, and green eyes that blazed with the distinctive Lannister intensity even in infancy. The firstborn, taken from his cradle in a swirl of impossible light that defied every maester's explanation and every septon's theological framework.*
Jon remembered that terrible night with crystal clarity despite the years that had passed. The guards' testimony had been consistent across every interview—an explosion of light that seemed to tear reality itself, accompanied by sounds like thunder compressed into single heartbeats. The child vanishing without trace, without ransom demand, without any conventional explanation that made the slightest sense according to principles that governed mortal affairs.
The maesters had suggested natural phenomena they couldn't properly explain—though their theories grew increasingly desperate as they attempted to reconcile impossible observations with natural philosophy. The septons had whispered about divine intervention, though they remained divided about whether such intervention represented blessing or curse. Robert had raged and mourned, Cersei had wept convincingly, and eventually the realm had moved on because what else could they do when confronted with impossibilities that defied explanation?
*But what if the child lived?* The thought that had haunted him through years of investigation now blazed with new urgency. *What if whatever force claimed him didn't destroy but transported? What if Robert's only legitimate heir survived whatever cosmic accident claimed his infancy?*
The implications were staggering enough to reshape the Seven Kingdoms' entire political landscape. If Cersei's surviving children were bastards—and the evidence before him made that conclusion increasingly undeniable—then Robert's line would fail upon his death unless the missing firstborn could be found and restored to his rightful position. Civil war would follow as surely as winter followed autumn, with competing claimants tearing the realm apart in struggles that would make Robert's Rebellion look like a border skirmish.
*Unless...*
His attention turned to the unopened letter that had arrived three days ago, bearing Ned Stark's seal and marked with the sort of urgency that suggested information too sensitive for ravens and too important to delay. He'd meant to read it immediately, but the investigation into royal bastards had consumed every waking moment, leaving correspondence to pile up like snow in winter.
Now, with trembling fingers that spoke to both age and desperate hope, he broke the Stark seal and unfolded parchment that smelled faintly of northern pine and the sort of careful consideration that marked all of Ned's communications.
*Jon,*
*I write to you about a matter that defies conventional explanation and challenges every assumption I've made about the fundamental nature of reality. A stranger has arrived at Winterfell under circumstances that mirror—with unsettling precision—the disappearance of Robert's firstborn son seventeen years ago.*
Jon's breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs with sudden, desperate hope. The letter continued in Ned's characteristic precision, each word chosen with the sort of careful attention to detail that had made him Robert's most trusted counselor.
*His name is Hadrian Potter, though I suspect that name is as borrowed as the circumstances that brought him to our gates. He appeared in the Wolfswood in a swirl of light that witnesses describe as identical to the phenomenon that claimed the infant prince—an explosion of brilliance that seemed to tear the fabric of reality itself, accompanied by sounds that defied natural explanation.*
*More significantly, he bears physical characteristics that would be unremarkable in most men but take on profound meaning when considered alongside Robert's distinctive features. Black hair, worn in a style that speaks of foreign courts but carrying that particular wild quality that marks our king's own locks. Eyes of such brilliant green that they seem to capture light itself—the same shade that marked the lost prince, according to the few who saw him before his disappearance.*
*But Jon, it's more than mere coloring that makes me suspect impossible connections. His face... I've known Robert since we were boys fostered together in your household, trained beside him through years of shared adventure and growing partnership. I know his features as well as my own, and I tell you with complete certainty that this Hadrian Peverell bears such striking resemblance to Robert in his youth that had I encountered him without context, I might have mistaken him for some unacknowledged bastard born of the Rebellion's chaos.*
Jon set the letter down with trembling hands, his legal mind already working through implications that seemed too large and too strange to process rationally. Ned Stark was not a man given to flights of fancy or supernatural speculation—his reputation for practical honesty had been earned through decades of refusing to indulge in the sort of wishful thinking that made other men see patterns where none existed.
If Ned believed the resemblance was significant, then it was significant.
He forced himself to continue reading, though each word felt like stepping closer to a precipice whose depths remained hidden by morning mist.
*The stranger possesses wealth beyond anything I've encountered outside the Iron Bank's deepest vaults—gold in quantities that would make Tywin Lannister reconsider his family's financial superiority, artifacts of such obvious value and foreign craftsmanship that they speak of resources beyond any kingdom I can name. More troubling, he demonstrates knowledge that should not exist in any man of his apparent age—comprehensive understanding of governance, warfare, infrastructure development, and political theory that suggests education far beyond what our finest maesters could provide.*
*Most significantly, he is accompanied by a creature from legend itself—a phoenix, Jon. Not a trained bird wearing phoenix colors, but an actual phoenix whose presence makes even the most skeptical observers question their understanding of what magic might be possible in our world. It burns with its own inner fire, demonstrates intelligence that transcends any natural creature, and responds to him with loyalty that speaks of bonds forged through shared trials rather than mere training.*
*I have spent the past week observing him carefully, noting behaviors and capabilities that defy easy explanation. He moves through complex social situations with the ease of someone born to command, yet shows none of the arrogance that typically marks young nobles aware of their own significance. He treats my children with genuine warmth while simultaneously demonstrating combat prowess that makes Ser Rodrik—who has trained warriors for forty years—shake his head in bewildered respect.*
*More troubling still, he has offered assistance with infrastructure projects that would transform the North's strategic position while requiring financial investment beyond anything our house could manage alone. Canal construction connecting eastern and western waters. Complete restoration of Moat Cailin's defensive capabilities. Maritime forces sufficient to challenge the Ironborn's dominance of our western approaches. Resource development throughout the Gift that could fund such projects while strengthening the Night's Watch.*
*Such comprehensive planning speaks of someone who thinks in terms of kingdoms rather than individual territories, who approaches problems with the sort of systematic competence that transcends normal human limitations. Combined with the physical resemblance, the impossible appearance, the unexplained wealth, and capabilities that defy conventional explanation...*
*Jon, I believe we may have found Robert's lost son.*
The letter continued with Ned's characteristic caution about jumping to conclusions without adequate evidence, his concerns about approaching Robert with information that might prove false hope, his practical suggestions for verification through methods that wouldn't expose the boy to danger if enemies learned of his potential identity before protection could be established.
But Jon's mind had already leaped ahead to implications that made his hands shake and his heart race with possibilities that could either save the realm or plunge it into chaos depending on how carefully they were managed.
*If this is truly Robert's son,* he thought with growing excitement that made him feel decades younger, *if the lost prince survived his disappearance and has returned bearing wealth, wisdom, and capabilities that could reshape the Seven Kingdoms' political landscape...*
The timing was impossibly perfect—or impossibly suspicious, depending on one's perspective regarding cosmic coincidence and divine intervention. Just as his investigation into royal bastards reached its devastating conclusion, just as he prepared to confront Robert with evidence that would destroy his marriage and potentially trigger civil war, here was Ned writing about a stranger who might represent salvation for legitimate succession.
*Too convenient,* his cautious mind whispered with the sort of skepticism that had kept him alive through decades of political intrigue where optimism often proved fatal. *Too perfectly timed. Either the gods themselves have decided to intervene in mortal affairs, or we're dealing with an elaborate deception orchestrated by enemies whose planning extends across seventeen years of careful preparation.*
But even as caution urged careful investigation before reaching conclusions, hope blazed through his aging heart with intensity that made rational skepticism seem like cowardice masquerading as wisdom.
*The seed is strong,* he thought again, this time with entirely different implications. *If this boy truly bears Robert's features with such precision that Ned—who knows Robert better than any man alive—sees unmistakable resemblance despite years of separation, then perhaps the blood doesn't lie even when circumstances seem impossible.*
He rose from his desk with movements that carried new purpose, new determination. There were arrangements to make, letters to write, subtle investigations to launch through channels that wouldn't alert potential enemies to renewed interest in Robert's missing firstborn. Most importantly, there was Robert himself to approach—carefully, diplomatically, with enough evidence to intrigue without triggering the sort of drunken rage that had marked his response to previous attempts at discussing the lost child.
*But first,* he thought as he began gathering materials for correspondence that would require every diplomatic skill he'd accumulated through decades of careful service, *I need to verify what Ned has discovered. I need to see this Hadrian Potter with my own eyes, assess whether the resemblance is as striking as Ned claims, determine whether we're dealing with Robert's lost heir or some elaborate pretender whose timing suggests either divine intervention or human conspiracy of unprecedented sophistication.*
His hand moved across parchment with the practiced precision of someone who had spent decades crafting letters that shaped the destiny of kingdoms, each word chosen to convey essential information without revealing too much to potential interceptors.
*To Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,*
*Your letter has reached me at a moment whose timing speaks of either cosmic design or coincidental fortune so remarkable as to defy rational probability. I have information regarding matters that intersect with your observations in ways that make immediate consultation essential for the realm's stability and the king's peace.*
*I will journey north, bringing with me both the king and sufficient retinue to ensure our arrival carries proper dignity without suggesting the true urgency of our mission. Let it be known that Robert wishes to hunt in the wolfswood and renew his friendship with the brother of his heart—conventional explanation that will satisfy casual curiosity while providing cover for investigations that cannot be conducted through ravens or even trusted messengers.*
*Prepare your household for royal visit, but more importantly, prepare this Hadrian Potter for the sort of careful observation that will determine whether he represents salvation for legitimate succession or the most sophisticated deception ever perpetrated against the Iron Throne. The matters I must discuss with you cannot be entrusted to parchment, but know that they make your observations about this stranger's identity infinitely more significant than you could possibly imagine.*
*Guard him well, Ned. If he is who we both suspect, then his life becomes the most valuable resource in the Seven Kingdoms the moment his potential identity becomes widely known. And if he is not... then we need to understand who would orchestrate such an elaborate deception and what they hope to gain through timing that seems calculated to exploit exactly the sort of succession crisis that my investigations have revealed.*
*I will explain all when we arrive. Until then, trust that your loyalty and honesty have provided exactly the sort of hope that this kingdom desperately needs, even if that hope comes wrapped in complexities that will require all our combined wisdom to navigate successfully.*
*In friendship and service,*
*Jon Arryn, Hand of the King*
He sealed the letter with wax bearing his personal sigil, adding additional magical protections through methods he'd learned from maesters who understood that some correspondence required security beyond conventional seals. When it was finished, he summoned his most trusted messenger—a man who had served House Arryn for decades and understood that discretion often mattered more than speed.
"To Winterfell," he instructed, pressing the letter into weathered hands with careful emphasis. "Directly to Lord Stark himself, bypassing all intermediaries regardless of their rank or apparent authority. No one else is to read this correspondence—not maesters, not stewards, not even members of the Stark household unless Lord Stark specifically authorizes their involvement."
"My lord," the messenger confirmed with the sort of calm competence that decades of sensitive service had perfected. "Should I wait for reply, or return immediately after delivery?"
"Wait," Jon decided after moment's consideration. "Lord Stark may have additional information that shouldn't be entrusted to ravens, and your presence at Winterfell will provide one more set of loyal eyes to observe this stranger without drawing attention to the nature of your interest."
As the messenger departed with orders that would set in motion the most significant royal journey since Robert's coronation, Jon returned to his desk and the evidence that had driven him to this moment of desperate hope and calculated risk.
*The seed is strong,* he thought one final time, studying the lineages that proved royal bastardy while simultaneously opening the door to legitimate succession if only they could verify what Ned's letter suggested. *And if the seed truly remains strong in Robert's lost son, then perhaps the realm has one final chance to avoid the civil war that bastard succession would inevitably trigger.*
*But first, we need to determine whether we're dealing with a miracle or a masterfully crafted deception. And either way, we need to move carefully enough to protect both the boy and the realm from the sort of chaos that premature revelation would unleash.*
The morning sun continued painting the Tower of the Hand in shades of gold that spoke of power and responsibility, but now Jon Arryn felt warmth from that light—the warmth of hope kindled after years of watching Robert's reign slowly deteriorate through excess and the growing certainty that legitimate succession had been stolen by cuckoldry so brazen it defied belief.
*Perhaps,* he thought as he began drafting the carefully worded suggestions that would convince Robert a northern hunting trip served his interests better than remaining in King's Landing, *perhaps some stories really do have happy endings. Even the impossible ones.*
*Especially the impossible ones.*
The realm's fate hung in the balance between miracle and deception, and within the fortnight, Jon Arryn would journey north to discover which category their circumstances fell into.
Some questions, after all, could only be answered through direct observation rather than correspondence conducted through ravens and trusted messengers.
The game was about to change in ways that none of the players could yet imagine.
—
# The Winter's Rest Inn - Final Arrangements
The fire had burned to embers by the time Fawkes returned through the window in another cascade of golden light, three new letters clutched delicately in his beak. The phoenix settled onto Hadrian's extended arm with obvious satisfaction, his ancient eyes bright with the successful completion of a mission that had spanned continental distances in mere hours.
"Well done, old friend," Hadrian murmured, accepting the correspondence with reverent care. "I don't suppose you happened to stop for a rest anywhere along the way? That's rather a lot of flying even for someone with your particular advantages."
Fawkes trilled a response that somehow managed to convey both dismissal of such concerns and smug satisfaction at his own capabilities, then proceeded to preen his magnificent feathers with the sort of casual dignity that suggested intercontinental travel was merely a pleasant evening's exercise.
Hadrian broke the first seal—Daphne's reply, written in script that managed to be both elegant and slightly aggressive in its precision, as though the very letters were designed to remind readers of her formidable intelligence and absolute determination to achieve whatever objectives she set for herself.
His expression shifted as he read, eyebrows climbing steadily higher until they threatened to disappear into his hairline entirely. When he finished, he set the letter down with movements that suggested someone processing information too large and too strange to categorize properly.
"Well," he said with that particular tone of someone whose day had just become infinitely more complicated, "I suppose we should have anticipated this, really. When has anything involving any of us ever proceeded according to reasonable expectations about complexity and potential for dramatic escalation?"
"What does it say?" Susan asked with growing concern at his expression, which had shifted from surprised to something approaching resigned amusement at fate's sense of humor.
"Daphne has been reborn as Daenerys Targaryen," Hadrian replied with characteristic understatement that made cosmic impossibilities sound like minor inconveniences. "She's currently positioned in Pentos as the unwilling guest of a merchant prince who intends to sell her to a Dothraki warlord in exchange for military support. She has declined this arrangement with extreme prejudice and liberated his treasury to fund her departure."
"That sounds like Daphne," Susan observed with the sort of fond exasperation that came from years of friendship with someone whose solution to obstacles generally involved systematic demolition of anything standing between her and her objectives.
"That's not even the interesting part," Hadrian continued, his tone suggesting he was still processing implications that extended far beyond simple theft and justified escape. "She's also somehow acquired three dragon eggs—actual, viable, potentially hatchable dragon eggs—and intends to arrive here with enough portable wealth to fund continental conquest and sufficient firepower to ensure its success."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the crackling of dying embers and the soft whistle of wind against shuttered windows.
"Dragons," Tormund repeated slowly, his massive frame going very still in the way that marked warriors processing tactical information that would reshape everything they thought they understood about military capabilities. "She's bringing actual dragons. Not stories, not legends, not the sort of thing bards sing about while drunk—actual fire-breathing conquest engines that haven't existed in this world for three centuries."
"So she claims," Hadrian confirmed, moving to the second letter with movements that suggested he was bracing himself for whatever additional complications the evening might deliver. "Though knowing Daphne's talent for turning impossible situations into manageable projects, I'm inclined to believe her assessment of the situation."
Luna's reply was characteristically dreamy in its phrasing while delivering information that somehow managed to be even more dramatic than Daphne's dragon-related revelations. She wrote casually about having lived as Quaithe of the Shadow Lands for a century, about redistributing wealth from Qarth's most morally questionable citizens, and about acquiring two additional dragon eggs that brought their collective total to five potentially hatchable engines of systematic destruction.
"Five dragons," Val breathed, her French accent thickening with emotion as implications began penetrating her understanding of their strategic situation. "Mon Dieu, Harry. When you told me about your friends, you neglected to mention that they apparently possess the same pathological inability to approach problems with anything resembling restraint or conventional limitation."
"It's not pathological," Hadrian protested with wounded dignity. "It's efficient. Why solve problems incrementally when comprehensive solutions are available through adequate preparation and creative resource acquisition?"
"Creative resource acquisition," Ygritte repeated with the sort of flat skepticism that suggested her understanding of such euphemisms had grown considerably more sophisticated over the course of the evening. "That's what we're calling theft now? Very diplomatic phrasing for activities that most societies consider criminal."
"It's only theft when you're redistributing assets from people who acquired them legitimately," Hadrian replied with the sort of moral flexibility that had once made his professors simultaneously proud and deeply concerned about his ethical development. "When the original acquisition involved systematic exploitation of the powerless, removing such assets represents justice with accounting irregularities rather than criminal activity."
The third letter—Padma's reply—delivered the evening's final revelation with characteristic precision and the sort of careful detail that suggested she'd already worked through every tactical implication of what she was about to share.
Hadrian's expression shifted again as he read, this time moving through surprise, joy, disbelief, and something that might have been tears if he weren't so carefully maintaining composure for the benefit of people who needed to see him as steady rather than overwhelmed by cosmic impossibilities.
"Sirius is alive," he said quietly, and the words carried seventeen years of grief, guilt, and the sort of desperate hope that had sustained him through impossible circumstances. "He's been reborn as Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne. Padma found him, or he found her, and they're planning to reach us within the month traveling under diplomatic cover that positions their reunion as beneficial to regional political interests."
Susan's breath caught audibly, her own memories of Sirius Black flooding back with painful clarity—the man who had fought beside them, who had fallen through the Veil while Harry screamed his name, whose death had marked the beginning of losses that eventually claimed them all.
"Your godfather," she whispered, understanding immediately why this particular revelation had affected him so profoundly. "After all these years believing him lost, he's been here the entire time searching for traces of the people he loved."
"Two years," Hadrian confirmed, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't quite control. "Two years of believing I'd lost him to that cursed archway, of carrying guilt for not preventing his fall, of wondering whether things might have been different if I'd just been faster or smarter or more careful. And he's been here, alive, searching for me with the same desperate hope that sustained all of us through believing ourselves alone."
Val moved to his side with fluid grace, her hand finding his shoulder with the sort of natural comfort that spoke to deep familiarity and genuine affection. "This is good news, mon amour. Wonderful news. Your family returns to you piece by piece, and each reunion brings more strength for whatever challenges we face."
"Family," Hadrian repeated softly, testing the word against the reality of their situation. "I'd almost forgotten what that felt like—not being alone, having people who understand where you come from and what you've survived. People who don't need explanations for references they shouldn't understand or capabilities that defy local expectations."
"You were never alone," Val reminded him gently, her accent softening with affection. "I've been here since the beginning, remember? But I understand what you mean—there's something different about being surrounded by people who share history rather than merely building new connections from nothing."
"Speaking of building connections," Susan interjected with practical efficiency that suggested her mind had moved past emotional processing to tactical implementation, "we should probably discuss coordination before Val needs to return for whatever reporting obligations she has to people whose cooperation we apparently need for reasons that remain somewhat opaque to me."
"Mance Rayder," Tormund supplied with obvious respect for leadership that had earned loyalty rather than demanding it through force. "King-Beyond-the-Wall, though he'd probably prefer you didn't use that title where kneelers might overhear and get nervous about northern sovereignty. He's coordinating the migration of about a hundred thousand Free Folk who are fleeing from threats that make your previous adventures sound like academic exercises."
"A hundred thousand refugees," Hadrian repeated, his tactical mind immediately shifting to calculations about logistics, resources, and political complications that such numbers would create. "That's not a migration—that's a demographic shift that will destabilize every kingdom north of the Neck if not managed with exceptional care and diplomatic sophistication."
"Exactly," Val confirmed with satisfaction at his immediate grasp of the scope. "Which is why Mance needs to meet with someone who understands both the practical challenges and the political opportunities such a situation creates. Someone with resources sufficient to make humanitarian crisis into strategic advantage."
"And someone," Ygritte added with characteristic bluntness, "who can convince southern lords that accepting refugees serves their interests better than watching them die beyond the Wall and then facing whatever killed them when it inevitably comes south looking for fresh victims."
"Because the threats driving this migration don't stop at convenient political boundaries," Tormund continued with grim certainty. "The Others don't care about your treaties or your kingdoms or your carefully negotiated peace settlements. They just keep coming, converting everything in their path into weapons that serve their purposes."
Hadrian's expression grew more serious as implications crystallized around their expanded situation. "Right then. I suppose we'd better arrange this meeting before circumstances force less optimal introductions. When and where would Mance prefer to conduct negotiations that require discretion but can't wait for perfect conditions?"
"Tomorrow night," Val decided with the sort of confident authority that suggested she was accustomed to making such decisions without extensive consultation. "After my performance at Winterfell's Great Hall, when people will attribute any unusual comings and goings to the sort of artistic temperament that traveling performers are expected to demonstrate."
"Performance?" Hadrian's eyebrows rose with obvious interest in activities he hadn't been aware were scheduled. "I wasn't informed that evening entertainment had been arranged. Should I prepare some sort of dramatic reading? Interpretive dance? Juggling demonstration?"
"Not you," Susan said with growing amusement at his expression. "Val. In light of tonight's performance, she's been asked to return and perform again, remember? This provides perfect cover for initial contact."
"Ah," Hadrian said with dawning comprehension. "Of course. Though that raises an interesting point about sustainable cover arrangements for someone whose continued proximity I find both personally desirable and tactically valuable."
"Actually," Susan continued with the sort of careful consideration that suggested she'd been thinking through exactly such complications, "I might have a solution that serves multiple objectives simultaneously. Val, what name do you use when performing? Because I think we should start using it consistently to avoid confusion about identity."
"Fleur," Val replied immediately, her expression suggesting she'd anticipated this exact question. "My performing name is Fleur—traveling songstress from distant lands whose exotic repertoire and mysterious background create interest without requiring detailed biographical verification."
"Perfect," Susan said with satisfaction. "Then from this point forward, you're Fleur when anyone outside our inner circle might overhear. Val becomes the name reserved for private moments and trusted companions, while Fleur serves as your public identity with all the protective distance such naming provides."
"Practical," Fleur acknowledged with approval for systematic approach to identity management. "And considerably easier to remember than trying to track which name applies in which context based on audience composition."
"More importantly," Susan continued as her plan took fuller shape, "I think we should position you to remain at Winterfell rather than returning to Wintertown between performances. After tonight's demonstration of your musical talents—which I assume will be appropriately impressive—I'll suggest to my mother that she might benefit from retaining you as part of my household staff."
"Your household staff?" Fleur repeated with obvious amusement at the concept of being formal servant to someone whose previous role had been fellow student and friendly rival. "As what, precisely? Court musician? Decorative entertainment? Professional purveyor of exotic cultural experiences?"
"Lady's companion," Susan replied with the sort of precision that suggested she'd thought through both the formal arrangements and the practical implications. "Noblewomen of sufficient status traditionally maintain bards as part of their retinue—companions who provide entertainment, education, and sophisticated conversation during the endless tedium of courtly life. Your presence in my household would be entirely conventional while providing perfect justification for proximity to Hadrian."
"Who is a guest at Winterfell with entirely proper diplomatic reasons that have nothing to do with personal relationships," Hadrian added with growing appreciation for the elegant simplicity of what Susan was proposing. "Conducting meetings with Lord Stark to discuss infrastructure development, resource management, potential military cooperation against external threats. All perfectly legitimate reasons for extended residence that happen to position us in immediate proximity to each other."
"Exactly," Susan confirmed with satisfaction. "This way Fleur remains close without raising questions about the nature of your relationship, maintains freedom of movement within the castle rather than being confined to Wintertown's limited access, and gains the sort of social protection that formal position within a noble household provides."
"It's actually brilliant," Fleur admitted with genuine admiration for tactical thinking that solved multiple problems through single elegant solution. "Though I suspect your mother will have questions about why you're suddenly so interested in retaining foreign musicians when you've never previously demonstrated such cultural sophistication."
"I'll tell her the truth—that your performance demonstrated exceptional talent worthy of patronage, that your knowledge of distant lands provides educational value beyond mere entertainment, and that having sophisticated musical accompaniment enhances my own social position among peers who judge such things." Susan's smile suggested she was looking forward to the negotiation. "All of which happens to be accurate even if it's not the complete explanation."
"And when she inevitably investigates your background?" Ygritte asked with the practical skepticism of someone who'd learned that careful planning often failed to account for persistent curiosity from people with resources to conduct thorough research.
"We'll provide one that's as truthful as circumstances allow," Fleur replied with characteristic pragmatism about necessity of careful deception when complete honesty would create more problems than it solved. "French origins that explain accent and cultural references, extensive travel throughout Essos that accounts for exotic repertoire, tragic losses that justify arriving in Westeros seeking new opportunities. All technically accurate if slightly incomplete regarding specific details."
"French origins," Tormund repeated with obvious confusion about terminology that meant nothing to someone from his cultural background. "Is that somewhere near Braavos? Beyond the Narrow Sea?"
"Considerably beyond," Hadrian confirmed with diplomatic vagueness about geographic specifics that couldn't be accurately explained without revealing dimensional complications. "Think of it as very distant origins that explain unusual characteristics without requiring detailed cartographic verification."
"Right then," Val said with growing satisfaction as the evening's various revelations and arrangements crystallized into something approaching comprehensive coordination. "I should return to Mance and provide report on what we've learned before people start wondering why I've been absent for quite so long without reasonable explanation. Ygritte, Tormund—you're both coming with me because this conversation requires more ears than just mine to ensure accurate transmission of everything we've discussed."
"Including the parts about dragons?" Tormund asked with barely contained excitement about possibilities that involved flying weapons platforms and systematic solutions to problems that conventional military forces couldn't address.
"Especially the parts about dragons," Val confirmed with the sort of calm certainty that suggested she understood exactly how such information would be received by people whose survival depended on securing resources that individual houses couldn't provide. "Mance needs to understand the full scope of what's developing—not just romantic reunions between people from another world, but systematic transformation of strategic capabilities that could reshape the entire continent's power structures."
"He's going to think we've lost our minds," Ygritte observed with resignation at inevitable skepticism from people who hadn't witnessed the evening's impossible revelations. "Dimensional travel, dragons, people who claim to have died and been reborn carrying memories from previous existences. It sounds like fever dreams or the sort of stories drunk bards invent when they've run out of conventional material."
"Then we'll have to be convincing," Val replied with characteristic determination. "Present evidence systematically, acknowledge skepticism while providing verification that can't be easily dismissed, and ultimately demonstrate that whether or not he believes the cosmic explanations, the practical resources and capabilities are real enough to serve our immediate needs."
She turned to Hadrian with expression that combined affection, anticipation, and the sort of practical focus that marked someone compartmentalizing emotion to address tactical requirements. "Tomorrow night, after the performance. Come alone or bring Susan if you prefer additional perspective, but keep the meeting small enough to avoid drawing attention that might complicate negotiations before they've properly begun."
"Understood," Hadrian confirmed with the sort of calm acceptance that suggested extensive experience with clandestine meetings in potentially hostile territory. "I'll inform Lord Stark that I'm taking evening air to clear my head after intensive discussions about infrastructure development—perfectly reasonable excuse that won't trigger investigations if anyone notices my absence."
"And I'll establish pattern of taking walks to process the day's events," Susan added with matching practicality. "Grieving daughters seeking solitude are rarely questioned about their movements, which provides excellent cover for activities that require discretion."
As the three Free Folk prepared for departure, gathering cloaks and weapons with efficient movements that spoke to people accustomed to rapid transitions between social situations and potential danger, Hadrian felt the evening's weight settling across his shoulders like a cloak woven from possibility and obligation in equal measure.
Five women who loved him enough to cross dimensional barriers were converging on his position bearing dragons and wealth and determination to help him build something worthy of the sacrifices that brought them here. His godfather lived, searching for him with desperate hope across seventeen years of exile. A hundred thousand refugees needed sanctuary that could only be provided through systematic cooperation between traditional enemies.
And somewhere in King's Landing, forces were stirring that would soon bring royal attention north toward the mysterious stranger whose arrival had coincided so precisely with the return of capabilities that this world had believed lost to legend and time.
"Tomorrow night then," he said as Val moved toward the window that would provide exit route toward whatever reporting obligations awaited. "We'll demonstrate that some problems really can be solved through adequate preparation, intelligent cooperation, and the sort of comprehensive resource application that individual efforts could never achieve."
"And dragons," Tormund added helpfully. "Don't forget the dragons. Problems are much easier to solve when you have flying artillery platforms supporting your diplomatic initiatives."
"Thank you, Tormund," Hadrian replied with fond exasperation. "I'll be sure to include that observation in my strategic planning documentation."
As the three departed into the pre-dawn darkness, leaving Hadrian and Susan alone with dying embers and the comfortable silence of people who'd shared enough history that words weren't always necessary, he felt something that might have been peace settling over the chaos of the evening's revelations.
"It's really happening," Susan said quietly, her voice warm with wonder despite the practical challenges that lay ahead. "After seventeen years believing ourselves scattered beyond recovery, we're finding each other again. Building something together that might actually be worthy of the love that brought us across impossible distances."
"Some stories," Hadrian agreed with matching wonder at cosmic improbabilities made manifest through determination that refused to accept defeat as permanent condition, "really do have happy endings."
"Eventually," Susan amended with characteristic honesty about the work required before such endings could be claimed. "After we solve the small matters of refugee crisis, succession complications, dragon management, and romantic arrangements involving multiple parties whose cooperation can't be assumed. But yes—eventually, we'll have earned our happy ending."
The fire collapsed into final embers as dawn painted the eastern sky in shades that promised new beginnings, and somewhere in the distance, dragons dreamed of waking to world that had forgotten what fire truly meant when wielded by love rather than mere conquest.
Tomorrow would bring performances, negotiations, and the beginning of systematic change that would reshape kingdoms according to principles of justice rather than mere power.
But for now, there was dawn and companionship and the quiet satisfaction of having survived another impossible evening with relationships intact and hope kindled brighter than any challenges that remained unresolved.
Some reunions, it seemed, really were worth transcending death itself to achieve.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there