[Kill The Boy] Chapter 78: The Tame and the Feral (Patreon)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM. I have no ownership.

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long, but I couldn't rush it as it went through multiple rewrites as there are a lot of characters involved in this chapter. I still feel as I am missing a few interactions. But I still hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Year 300 AC

Harrenhall, The Riverlands

Dusk fell over the God’s Eye in a heavy curtain that turned to black as Aemon flew through it. Harrenhal rose from the shoreline like a jagged monstrosity from where he caught the scent of thousands huddled in fear within the walls.

His arrival cast a shadow over the northern shore as he glided low, wings spread across the entire lake. Landing in a tilt, he draped himself over the lake-facing side of Harrenhal as if the fortress had been designed for his reception. His forelimbs gripped the curtain wall and a collapsed section of the outer ward cracked under the weight. Lowering his head into the gap where the Hall of a Hundred Hearths had lost its roof, he rested his jaw above the hall's empty mouth, the fires below him no larger than coins.

He saw Drogon first on the Tower of Dread and at his arrival, the black dragon looked... uncertain.

Not quite the Black Dread that we need. Aemon thought.

A newcomer drew his attention, felt in his chest before he saw. Rhaegal bounded from the far side of the castle and pressed his maw against Aemon's face with a whine — not a challenge but a greeting, and one Aemon returned. He balanced the barge in his right foreclaw and reached with his left, dragging a talon along the green dragon's head as the dragon purred.

Rhaegal was small enough to perch in Aemon’s foreclaw, and he rumbled at him fondly. “It seemed you missed me.”

The green dragon answered with a pleased crow, neck arched as his tail lashed the air.

A whisper reached him through the claw that held the barge, thin as spider-silk, and he knew it was Arya. “Wouldn’t Ghost get jealous?”

Sansa's hand was already on the white wolf's head. "Of course not," she murmured back. "No one can replace Ghost." Ghost pressed into her palm in response.

"The wolf is too busy being seen to for jealousy," Val said. She dug her fingers into the thick fur behind Ghost’s ears and the beast gave a rough snort of approval.

Aemon snorted and lowered the barge into the largest intact ward with a gentleness that was frightening for those who watched.

His family and the others disembarked with the help of a few stunned stewards who came forward to meet them. Guards on the walls let their spears go heavy and the grooms at the lines forgot the horses to find a worse terror in the sky.Aemon watched the men spill from the hall and turn to ice as the clink of falling cups echoed against the stone, then looked up like flowers following a light that offered no warmth. Their overwhelmed expressions were easy to read even with his dragon-sight.

I have no desire to say this twice

“Now that you have all gathered, I have an inquiry for those who follow the faith.”

His voice had a way of turning men to stone, and the lords of the south proved no exception.

“I am told some of you still think magic is a tale for wet nurses.”

Aemon lowered his great head until the fires bent away from his breath, turning the courtyard into a scramble of panicked lords and ladies fighting for an extra inch of space. Four men refused the stampede. Near the front, Jaime Lannister rested a golden hand on his sword hilt, opting for agonizing immolation over giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. Melisandre refused to budge and instead simply looked joyos at his return. A dozen paces away, Areo Hotah and Brynden Tully simply stood like as statues. Beside the Blackfish, Ser Bonifer Hasty ignored the smoke entirely. He stared straight into Aemon’s burning eyes with a terrible, starved ecstasy but his eyes were also searching, looking between Daenerys and him.

“Do you still say magic is a tale for children, or have you finally seen enough?”

No one found the courage to answer him.

"I asked a question. If any man here means to spend the coming days nursing a bruised faith, speak now and be done with it. I have no time to waste on arguments."

Someone, an old woman got the courage to answer. "N-No, it's real Your Gr-grace."

A lord bearing the symbol of Claw Isle near the Reach found his courage and lost half of it standing. “Your Grace, no man doubts the evidence of his eyes.”

The Craw Isle lord was already on his knees and the man beside him followed, pulled down by example. It was not bowing to a king but more like worship.

The lords of the Narrow Sea were not the only ones. The fever was spreading amongst those who would have called him bastard and abomination under different circumstances. Now they found reasons to be first at the knee and competed for the deepest angle of their bow. Aemon watched them with a rising sense of disgust.

"I am not your god." He said to the lord of Craw Isle in a cold command to break the fever. "Get up. I have use for your hands, not your knees."

The lord stayed down, his legs refusing to unfold while his mouth moved in a silent, frantic prayer. That joy looked pinned to his face, a mask that wouldn't slip until his companion caught his sleeve and hissed a warning into his ear. When he finally stood, he was trembling. The light in his eyes had broken into a jagged sort of confusion. Then they finally noticed the Children of the Forest.

And the excpected revulsion came.

The sound broke from the eastern side near a septon in the grey of the Seven and a southern lord who followed his lead. The septon had been staring since the landing with a face that had moved past terror and landed on a deep religious hate. His gods hadn't prepared him for the sight of the woods walking on two legs. He stepped back and fumbled for the sign of the star while the lord mirrored him with the mindless grace of a man who didn't know what else to do.

The Septon was opening his mouth and got off one word "Hertics--" before Aemon let his head drop lower. The shadow fell across the septon and the lord, and the septon's prayer stopped in his throat.

"They are mine and under my protection." He kept the words low, but a dragon’s whisper can reach the furthest corners of the castle. "Lift a hand against them and you forfeit it. And your life."

The septon’s face drained of blood. The lord at his shoulder backed away and forgot the sign of the star while the prayer died in the air.

Even with their acquiescence, Aemon knew that this would be not the last of it. By naming the penalty aloud, Aemon had bound himself to it, and he knew the word to spread to every corner within the moon's turning.

The Children remained as they were. The tides of fear and worship from the southern lords meant nothing to them, for their world had burned and their history had already faded into the music of a dying race. To a people who had endured eight thousand years of silence, the trembling of men in a courtyard was less than a breeze in the leaves.

Giving one last death stare at the Septon, who cowered backwards, Aemon chose that moment to transform. The violet flames caused a new wave of panic to spread through the courtyard, and where a black monster had been mantling the castle one breath, he stood near the gates of Harrenhal the next.

Satin was there before the smoke had cleared, wrapping him in a heavy cloak while the lords and ladies in the courtyard were still struggling to find their senses. Val followed to finish the work. When her hands reached for the dragon-head brooch at his throat, she pulled the clasp tight to settle the weight of the wool against his skin.

He caught her wrist, his grip light.

"Well," Val murmured, and he heard the amusement she held only for him. "You have their attention now."

Aemon glanced at the lords backed against the courtyard walls, their faces pale with a fear that bordered on hysteria. "I might have done too much as terror is a poor tool for a council. If I cannot settle them, they will be useless."

Val laughed. "They're well-broken now. You'll hear no talk of resistance from this lot."

"I won't be too sure about that," he replied.

Aemon straightened as the Blackfish approached him.

The Blackfish held the salt and bread high, reasserting a law that had been made a mockery elsewhere. Aemon took his portion, acknowledging the obeisance it required before crossing the threshold.

"The rooms are poor, the roofs are worse, but we prepared as best we could," the Blackfish said. "Welcome to Harrenhal, Your Grace."

"Received, Lord Tully."

Brynden glanced at the Children, but spoke to Aemon. "I will get some guards to make sure your... guests aren't bothered."

"They are better able to defend themselves than any guard you could spare. But worry not, I mean to ferry them to the Isle soon enough. For now, your neices and nephews are waiting for you, and I will not keep you from them."

Aemon watched the Blackfish move toward Sansa and let the man depart. He walked towards his friend who looked as if lost some weight  and the lords parted before him like water.

"Sam."

"Jon." Sam's chin worked. "I don't think I'll ever get used to your other side talking. It's terrifying, Jon."

"It was meant to be."

"But... the Children of the Forest?"

"That story belongs to Bran. You have much to discuss since you saw him last. Where is Gilly?" Aemon followed Sam’s gesture and found her standing near Daenerys, who waited a short distance away with Ser Barristan at her shoulder.

His gaze found her and held. She was the only thing in the crowded ward with the power to pull at him, the same gravity he had felt at Sunspear before he was a married man. The dragon-clasp Val had just fastened felt cold against his throat. He forced himself to look away from Dany's awestruck face as she watched the Children to Maester Marwyn hovered over them with a scholar’s frantic greed as if the Archmaester had found new toys.

Aemon walked up to them and Daenerys finally looked up at him but her eyes drifted to Val. "Dany, we need to speak. Privately."

Daenerys paused at his directness. "The little... who are they? What... no apologizs, that was rude. We can talk in the solar for privacy," she said, then added more quietly to Barristan, "Make sure there are no audiences to overhear us." The old knight inclined his head and remained at his post.

Tyrion interjected. "I didn't know my kind was a race."

Aemon tried hard not to smile as Tyrion's comment. Tyrion noticed though but still continued. "I am guessing I am not welcome in this meeting as her Hand?"

"No, Lord Tyrion. This is a conversation amongst family only."

He turned back to Daenerys to find her smiling more brightly than he had ever seen. "Lead the way," he said once he got his voice back. "Gilly, you too. Fetch the baby and meet us in the solar. Sam, follow us."

Gilly’s eyes widened at the command, but she started back into the castle. "Right away, m'lord."

At Aemon’s nod, Mance brought the boy forward to join them. Daenerys led the way into the solar while Val and Sam followed in Aemon's wake. When Sam pulled the door shut, the noise of the castle was cut short.

Sam was the first one to speak. "Jon, is that..?"

"Yes, Sam. Mance, give him the boy."

Mance looked reluctant to hand over the boy, but he did.

"He's... grown. Gilly will be over the moon!"

A knock came at the door, followed by Ser Barristan’s voice. "Your Graces, the Lady Gilly is here as requested."

At Daenerys's word, Gilly entered the solar with Mance's son in her arms.

When she saw Sam holding her son, Gilly crossed to Mance and held the boy out as if handing over a heavy burden she had carried a long way. "He was a good boy through everything. Gave me no trouble." she said.

The man who had managed to gather and keep peace between the most brutal of people was suddenly silent. Mance took the child and held him with a clumsy uncertainty. In his arms, the boy fisted a hand into his collar and watched him with unblinking curiosity common to a child.

"He has her hair," Mance said, his voice carrying a hollow resonance of a man who had lost everything. "The pale shade of Dalla’s before the years darken it." He looked up then, the mask of the King-Beyond-the-Wall shattered to reveal the father beneath. "Gilly, I owe you a debt for this. And you too, Sam."

Val came to stand beside Mance, her hand finding the child's hair while they looked at the boy who carried Dalla's ghost between them. Neither of them spoke as there was a anchor to the silence that a speech would have only broken.

Gilly moved as a blur of desperation. Sam surrendered the child without preamble, and she clutched the boy as if she expected him to vanish. "My little one," she choked out, her voice breaking around the words. "Look at you, all grown and strong. I missed you so much it hurt."

Aemon listened to the girl's weeping and shame rising in his throat. Guilty, he thought, though he knew the choice was already made and he would make it again.

Daenerys brushed a tear away as she approached. "It warms me to see them together, but what you did to separate them was cruel, Jon." Aemon found no words to defend the choice. "Still, I have heard Sam’s account. I see the why you found it necessary. The red priests are a dangerous sort."

"I just wish I had the power at the time."

"Regardless, you have the power now. I am glad you were able to right the wrong. As for what you asked of me, Dragonstone, the mining of the dragonglass is well underway with more smiths and miners arriving daily. The Reach has come as well, bringing a city's worth of grain. It seems Lady Olenna is eager to win your favor."

"You have my thanks, Dany. I am glad of one less thing to triage myself. As for the Lady Olenna, she will need more than a city’s worth of grain to earn my favor."

"Why? The woman has brought you a harvest. What has she done to earn such a cold reception?"

"My family and hers have some history," Aemon said, and Daenerys must have seen the anger bleed from his expression because she chose not to push.

She asked instead, "Was this reunion the reason you called for a private meeting the moment you arrived, or does it have more to do with that woman?"

Val appeared as if the wind had carried the word to her, drawing close to look the Targaryen woman over. "The dragon queen," she proclaimed. "You are smaller than the singers claim. Prettier as well, with the sort of face that would make men lose their wits or their heads. Don't got a look of no warrior, yet I see the fighter in your eyes."

None of the khals or lords who had sought her life had put Daenerys on her back foot as easily as this woman looking her over like a mare at market. "You have the better of me," she said, the Queen’s mask settling back into her voice. "You know my name, yet I have yet to hear yours."

"This is Val," Aemon said. "And as to your question, she is the reason I wished to speak in private. I wanted to introduce you to my wife. We were wed at Winterfell."

Daenerys' eyes widening. "Your... wife? You have taken a wife since we last spoke?!"

Aemon suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Ah... yes, I did."

Daenerys stared at him. "A king with a Free Folk queen," she said. "It is my pleasure to welcome you to the family, Lady Val." She inclined her head to the exact degree the moment required. "My congratulations to you both. Now if you would excuse me, I have a few meeting to attend to."

With those last words, Daenerys exited the solar in a haste.

"I like her," said Val. "She's as proper as Sansa is, though I suppose I can forgive her that."

From the wall, Mance let out a low sound into his son's hair that was almost a laugh. He looked like a man enjoying a play, and heat climbed the back of Aemon's neck.

"I--" Aemon began, then stopped. "I need to get some rest before I leave."

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The God's Eye was a black mirror below the broken arch, the water so still it looked like something a man could fall through forever.

The lord's chambers in the Kingspyre Tower were the best Harrenhal could offer, though the stone still looked melted by the dragonfire. Neither new rushes nor heavy tapestries could hide the way the walls had run like wax. Aemon ignored the bed and sat by the open balcony with his boots off and his head tipped back against the wood. Rest would not come while Drogon moved atop the Tower of Dread, a black shape against the night sky with a tail that twitched like a hunter waiting for the dawn.

The moment he let his eyes close, he heard footsteps from the corridor and then Satin’s low murmur.

"Your Grace, Lady Olenna Tyrell asks if she might have a word."

Aemon eyes remained closed. "Tell her—"

"Your Grace." Lady Olenna's voice cut past the steward. "With a grandmother's concern, I had hoped a few moments of fresh air might clear an old woman's head."

Aemon did not rise but he opened his eyes to find her in the doorway. She was wrapped in heavy wool with her cane planted before her like a claim while Satin hovered at her shoulder in a state of apologetic alarm. The hour was late enough that Aemon could have dismissed her with a single word and the steward would have seen it done. Instead, he nodded his head to Satin who then withdrew.

She took his silence as permission to enter. Moving with a measured gait that turned her frailty into a performance of purpose, she took the chair next to him.

"Forgive an old woman for taking a seat uninvited. My legs do not serve me as they once did and your grand entrance finished the work of tiring them out."

Aemon answered with a voice that sounded merely bored. "You may skip the preamble, my lady. Say what you came here to say."

"Straight to the point then, a man after my own heart. The Reach has provided four hundred wagons that are already being emptied at your gates and two hundred more are on the road," she said. "I had hoped such a gift might buy me something more than a scratch of ink in a ledger."

It was a predictable opening where she used grain for coin and distance for interest, wearing the grandmother’s mask to make a trade feel like a kindness.

"The Reach’s grain will be read into the record tomorrow," he said. "The council floor is the place for the count, not a private corner."

The slight tightening around her eyes betrayed her. She had come prepared to haggle with a man who needed her or to play upon the vanity of a boy who wanted her favor.

"Then let us speak of tomorrow," she said. "You will find the Reach behind you, Your Grace. That is no small thing in a hall full of men who still wonder whether you mean to eat them or save them."

"I know exactly what the Reach is worth to me."

"Do you?" Lady Olenna tilted her head. "I have buried one son this year and my granddaughter's face will carry those scars. But I am no fool. I know it's because I chose to support that idiotic family. I do not ask for pity. I ask for a place at the table where decisions are made, rather than a seat below the salt with the other repentant traitors so we may atone."

Aemon let the anger slip just enough to let it's effects show. The grandmother act quickly dissappeared as fear took hold of her face.

"As I said, I know exactly what the Reach is worth." he said. "But your family is worthless to me."

"And yet you let me stay," Olenna said.

"Because you have something I want, and I have something you do not yet know you need."

Her mouth thinned. "Speak plainly, then. You are the dragon and the crown. What more can an old woman offer?"

Aemon turned his gaze to the water beyond the arch, giving her his profile and the God's Eye with it. "I have watched your house play both sides of every war since before I knew my own name. The Reach bends toward the sun and the sun is wherever power happens to stand. That cleverness has kept House Tyrell alive, but it has also burned your allies and your children. A house of schemers in a world where action is needed is useless to me."

When Aemon turned back to her, he could see the Lady has already lost all her patience. "If you find us so detestable," she said with every word clipped, "then why not be done with us? Burn Highgarden to ash and let some more honest house tend the Reach."

Aemon met her anger with a voice as cold as the lake. "Because I cannot spare the time. After wiping your family, I would have to break your cousins and your bannermen and every house that has tied its fortune to yours. Then I would have to raise new men to replace them, men who do not know the Reach or do not trust me, costing me precious time I can spend on the actual threat. All this happens while the Wall dies and the dead march south."

Aemon stood and closed the distance between them. It was his first movement since she arrived and Olenna did not flinch even as he heard her heart thundering.

"It is cheaper to keep you," he said. "So I will keep you. Tomorrow and every day after, you will back what I put to the council with no flicker of dissent. You will make the Reach's voice indistinguishable from my own. That is the price of your survival."

Olenna recoiled as his voice changed. She had truly believed she could control this meeting.

"We--" Olenna said, her voice steadying as she forced the fear out. "The Reach will speak with your voice."

Aemon nodded. The boy Ned Stark raised would have flinched at what he had just done. Some part of him did flinch deep and quiet where Olenna could not see it, but he did it anyway.

"I have see more kings buried than you have years, Your Grace." She rose, leaning on her cane. "Each one more useless than the last. I pray you are better than your predecessors."

She offered a formal bow. "Your Grace."

Satin waited in the corridor, and came inside as Lady Olenna left.

"Send word to Leaf," Aemon said. "I will fly the Children across the lake within the hour."

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Sansa felt the room settle into the familiar rhythm of acknowledgment of her arrival to the feast hall. Conversation ebbed and flowed as eyes found her then darted back to their plates. She kept her face still as she crossed the floor toward the high tables but Myranda Royce reached her before she could make it across.

Myranda Royce found her between trestles, where the Vale lords were still settling like hens after a fox had run through the yard.

"Alayne!" Myranda's voice was bright enough to make heads turn. "There you are. I wondered if the north had eaten you, or if becoming the King's cousin simply means you can't speak to old friends anymore."

Sansa turned with the smile she had learned to wear in the Vale, the warmth of it for the room with a edge underneath.

"Randa." She took Myranda’s hands in her own, a gesture from the days when they shared a bed and whispered secrets into the dark. "I would never let a little thing like a crown keep me from a friend."

"And as a friend, may I say you look gorgeous tonight." Myranda laughed lighly. "Shedding the bastard's cloak did wonders for you, Alayne. It is a pity your betrothed cannot see you now."

"Yes, poor Harry." Sansa inclined her head. "But you were the one who told me that a weak man only ever notices the least interesting thing about a woman."

"There she is," Myranda said, her eyes narrowing as she found the old spark. "I feared the North might have scraped the clever right off you." She steered Sansa into a walk, playing the part of a friend sharing a stroll. "You are right about Harry, of course but nonetheless, a poor way to go. But tell me, are the rumors true? Is Baelish really dead? Did your cousin truly burn him on fire?"

Sansa kept her pace even. "You know better than to believe rumors, Randa. No, my brother had nothing to do with Littlefinger's death."

"Good riddance to whoever ended him, for a man who would poison a child has no limits." Myranda lowered her voice to a sharp whisper, watching Sansa for a reaction. "Let's move on to more brighter conversations. Like your brother. Seeing as you call him brother, I belive you have no designs on him?"

Sansa’s snort was distinctly unladylike. "I have no designs on my brother, Randa. Why is your curiosity suddenly so pointed?"

"A King arriving as a dragon is a rare thing indeed. Not on a dragon's back, mind you, but as the creature itself! My heart nearly stopped. And in the company of a savage wildling woman too at that. It seems her beauty has quite a hold on your brother's attention."

"I have no doubt she has his attention. A wife usually does, or so I am told."

Myranda’s smile faltered for a moment then returned brighter and more dangerous.

"Oh my! The Dragon King wed to a savage wildling? I can only imagine what the Que—"

A hand closed around Myranda's elbow, appearing as if from nowhere.

Arya stepped to her shoulder, her smile thinning into something dangerous. "Call her a savage again. I dare you."

Myranda’s attempt to recoil found no success against a grip that remained as light as it was unmoving.

"I—" Myranda’s clever tongue failed her. "I meant no disrespect, I promise you."

"Arya," Sansa said, her voice mild. "Let her go. Lady Myranda was only renewing an old acquaintance. Weren't you, Randa?"

Sansa’s fingers were gentle as she reached out to peel Arya’s grip from Myranda’s arm.

"Forgive my sister, Randa. She has spent too much time among hard men and has forgotten our way of speaking." Sansa offered a smile, a kindness that cut deeper than any scolding. "You were the cleverest of us at the Eyrie, so I know you understood her perfectly. Come. Let us find our seats. I am sure you are quite famished yourself.."

With a quick nod, Myranda made her retreat, fleeing with a fear she could not quite hide.

Arya watched her go. "You should have let me break her arm."

"A broken arm heals easily enough," Sansa said, "but pride is a far slower mend."

Arya snorted and began the walk to the high tables with Sansa following a step behind, though she halted when an overheard word caught her. She turned towards the conversation to see a younger Vale lady, the one with a Waynwood look about her, leaning to her companion at a pitch built to carry.

"-- bring a savage with him? Did he take her as a concubine?" A delicate shudder followed. "I suppose he uses her to sate whatever wild lusts a dragon might have."

The retort was ready on Sansa’s tongue to end such talk, but she was not the only one who had overheard. Val stepped out from beside her with Ghost following like a predator and walked toward the ladies, her presence bringing their conversation to a sudden halt.

"Aye. A savage." Her voice stayed low. "I've gutted bears and put a spear through men who reached too far while you were combing your hair in a warm castle." She looked the Waynwood girl over as Ghost let his fangs show. "I'm many things, southron, and not the least of them a woman who can cut your throat at any moment."

The southron women remained in a state of appalled silence as Val turned her back on them. Sansa watched them and wondered if their terror was for the direwolf or for the woman who walked beside him.

Val leaned close to whisper the question. "Was that too much?"

Sansa nearly smiled as she felt the hall’s eyes on them. "No, that was perfect," she said, her voice light with amusement, as she wrapped her hand in Val’s to lead her toward the high table.

Daenerys was already there, a fixed point at the center of the hall's attention.

An untouched cup of wine sat before her at the foot of the empty high seat, her gaze drifting over the room as if her true attention were on something far beyond the walls. Two seats away, Tyrion leaned over a fresh flagon with a weariness that didn't suit him.

Sansa took her seat next to Daenerys as Val claimed the place beside her, the wildling queen reaching for a horn cup with an indifference that made the rest of the room vanish. Beneath the table, Ghost lay as a pale sentry across Val’s feet to watch the movement of every hand. Rickon had already begun his meal, his fingers greasy with meat and Shaggydog sprawled like a dangerous shadow at his heels. A steward moved to place more food in the boy's plate but stopped short once he met the wolf’s yellow stare and hurried toward a different duty.

"Use the knife, Rickon," Sansa said with a pointed look.

Rickon looked up with wild eyes that had not dimmed since his return from Skagos. "The knife is slower."

"Slower or not, it's bad manners. Use the knife."

The boy gave a grunt of approval.

"Your Grace," Sansa said as finally gave her full attention to Daenerys.

"Lady Sansa. Lady Arya." Daenerys let her gaze brush over Val and Sansa recognized the look of a woman assessing a rival and giving a reluctant greeting to Val. "...Queen Val."

Val offered a smile. "Queen Daenerys. Why the gloomy face at such a grand feast, though I doubt Aemon has the patience for it."

The directness of the remark caught Daenerys off guard, a brief flash of surprise showing before her composure returned. "The courses are limited tonight, but the lords complain of the wine regardless." She shifted her focus to Sansa. "I hear your brother has already gone with the Children. He seems to have no interest in the feast."

"He has little patience for waiting when there is work to be done," Sansa said.

"A kingly quality," Daenerys said. "But even kings require rest."

Val scratched behind Ghost's ear and the great wolf's tail thumped once against the rushes. "Dragons are a restless sort," she said to Daenerys. "It is what makes them so good in the furs."

Daenerys paused with her cup halfway to her lips and studied Val with a raised eyebrow. "Have you had more than one dragon in your furs to speak with such authority?"

"No, but my bed is large enough for two dragons." Val answered with a wink that made even Sansa blush.

Before Sansa could stop this conversation, Tyrion leaned across the table to speak up seeing Sansa's discomfort.

"However interesting this talk has become, Lady Sansa, it is a relief to see you." He spoke the greeting as a shield for her. "You look well. The North is a better fit for you than King’s Landing ever was."

"Lord Tyrion." She kept her voice pleasant and relieved at the distraction. "Being surrounded by family has the affect to me."

"Family. Yes. It must be a rare experience to have a loving one. We were a family of sorts for a short time as well." He lifted his cup then lowered it without drinking. "I should tell you plainly that your brother nullified our marriage by decree. You are free of me, and I am sorry that such a burden was placed on you in the first place."

"I know," she said. "He told me at Winterfell, but I am grateful to hear it from you now. It was not your fault either, my lord."

"That may be the kindest lie either of us has told tonight," Tyrion said with a twist of his mouth. He turned his attention back to his flagon and the brief space between them vanished as if a door had clicked shut.

Sansa watched Arya freeze before she had even finished sitting. Her sister’s attention had snapped toward the lower tables and the press of common knights on the benches. Following that look, Sansa found the target among the crowd, a broad-shouldered boy who was laughing with a Riverlander.

"Arya--" Sansa began.

"I'll be back." Arya was already moving. "Don't start a war without me."

She walked away without another word and threaded through the crowd toward the lower tables while Sansa watched her go with the resigned patience of a sister who had learned not to ask.

Daenerys watched Arya go with a look of quiet amusement. "It seems Jon's accounts were accurate," she said. "Your sister is quite as restless as he described."

"No one can truly control her," Sansa said. "At times, not even Jon." She didn't miss the way the other woman using the name Jon instead of Aemon, an intimacy she had not expected.

"Not only Lady Arya," Daenerys said, turning her attention to where Sansa’s younger brothers stood. "Lord Bra—" Sansa immediately placed her hand over the other woman’s to stop her. When Daenerys met her eyes with a questioning look, Sansa only offered a small shake of her head, and surprisingly, the queen understood.

To Sansa’s left, the sound of a scraping chair announced Prince Doran Martell as two servants eased him into his seat. He looked grey and weary from the journey, yet his eyes were sharp. Princess Arianne sat beside him with the restless energy of the long-confined, and another beautiful woman waited at their backs, arms folded and wearing a dangerous smile.

"Lady Sansa," Prince Doran said, his voice a soft whisper that somehow carried more weight than a shout. "Your cousin makes an entrance that is difficult to follow."

"He has a gift for it, my prince."

"So I see." Doran’s gaze traveled from Val to Daenerys and back to Sansa. "And you are left to gather the pieces and make this feast mean something. A heavy burden for one so young."

"I am not so young as I was, Prince Doran."

"No." A flicker of something like approval touched his features. "You are young, yet you possess more experience than women twice your age. A good thing to have in these dark times."

He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped a register. "The small ones your brother brought with him. The Children of the Forest. What does he intend to do with them?"

Sansa kept her face blank. "That is a question for the King, my prince. I am in no position to answer that."

"Brighter topics would suit the evening better, Father. Perhaps our dragon queens?" Arianne’s voice had the warmth of Dornish wine. "Once I heard the rumor, I expected more fire than this."

"You will find enough fire when the dead come," Val said. "Until then, I suggest you do not test it."

"Good," Arianne said with a laugh. "You have teeth, then. You will need them to survive the vipers' pit."

"I have my spear," Val said, her eyes shifting to where Ghost laid. "The teeth belong to the wolf, and he is particular about who comes near me."

Like crows to a kill, the lords began to descend, approaching in solitary lines or patient pairs with cups held low and courtesies practiced. Samwell sat by the lower tables with Gilly and the children, his expression suggesting he would much prefer the company of scrolls. Near the western wall, Davos and the Blackfish spoke in low voices, bound by the shared history of serving kings they had cause to doubt. Lord Royce remained among the Vale lords, the firelight glinting off his bronze plate. When he looked at Sansa, she saw the same steady gaze of the man who had seen through the Alayne mask and decided to offer her his sword regardless and they both nodded at each other.

Lord Hunter led the line, followed by a Florent whose count of spears was as hollow as his oily complaints. Sansa met them with praise and the vague promise of a hearing, turning a Redwyne’s question of betrothal aside as easily as breathing. Petyr Baelish would have squeezed such men until they were dry, but Sansa let the Florent pass without bleeding him. Her father’s lessons guided her hand now and the lords departed with the satisfied air of men who believed they had outwitted a girl.

The Tarth banneret was still reciting a ledger of empty facts about grain when a ripple in the room's attention drew Sansa's eyes away. She saw the green and gold gown before she saw the woman, a relic of a dead court worn by a queen whose crown had been lost to the fire.

Margaery moved toward them with the grace of a queen and sat on the bench beside Bran, whose head remained bowed over an untouched meal. Lady Olenna followed closely behind and plopped next to her. Margaery's smile was a genuine thing, or a perfect imitation of it, and she did not hide the scarred skin of her jaw. She held the burns to the light as if they were as much a part of her finery as the green silk.

"I have been looking for you," Margaery said, her voice catching them all like a net. "Spending the day entertaining these lords must be exhausting for you, is it not?"

Sansa read the desperation in the girl’s grace. The marriage card was gone, burned away the moment Val sat at the high table in Aemon’s colors. Margaery was still beautiful and as warm as a summer's day, but she had nothing left to trade except that beauty. She was offering the only thing she had remaining, which was an old and one-sided friendship.

"Lady Margaery. Less than I thought it would be but--" Sansa's reply was cut short with Margaery making a light squeal.

"Is that a direwolf?! He is truly majestic. Willas would be quite overcome if he were here to see him."

Ghost raised his head as if he had heard his name, his blood-red eyes fixing on Margaery until she drew back in a sudden flinch.

"Yes, this is Ghost, the King's direwolf. Whether Lord Willas might have an opportunity to examine him is for the King to decide," Sansa replied, ending the conversation there.

Margaery felt the rejection and turned her attention toward the high tables. "Grandmother, it seems Ser Jaime has chosen not to attend this meal," she said.

Bran lifted his head at Jaime's name. "Ser Jaime is not here," he said.

The suddenness of Bran’s answer caused Margaery’s smile to slip and she asked, "Do you know where he is, Lord Bran?"

"He avoids me," Bran said. "He thinks if he stays away from the hall he will not have to see me, and if he does not see me he will not have to remember what he did." He spoke without emotion. "He is in the stables, pretending to check his horse's shoes for the last hour."

Tyrion let out a dry laugh and said, "My brother has always been skilled at avoiding his problems."

"Well," Daenerys said, as she moved to bridge the awkward gap. "At least we need not wonder where to find him."

"Children say the strangest things," Margaery said, finding her footing first and smoothing Bran’s sleeve with a gentle hand. "I am certain Ser Jaime has his reasons."

"Just like your grandmother had her reasons, from Lys all the way to King’s Landing." Bran looked up to direct his gazy to Lady Olenna. "I should thank her. The black amethyst is very good at strangling."

To the lords of the Reach it was only a boy talking nonsense and a few seats away a man gave a short uncomfortable laugh but it died when no one joined him. Lady Olenna did not laugh.

"Bran." It came out sharper than she meant. "That's enough."

"No, it is quite alright," Lady Olenna said, her voice quiet. "If you have something to say, say it."

The high table had grown quiet, the lords watching for the confrontation to follow.

"My son is a puffed-up oaf who would marry his daughter to a rabid dog if it meant a crown on her head. But I am not my son, Lord Baelish. I hear whispers about this boy king. Tell me the truth of him, or the Tyrell host stays at Highgarden."

Lady Olenna’s eyes widened, and her voice went deathly quiet. "How? No one but I..."

Randyll Tarly rose so abruptly his chair, his frame looming large as he turned a his fury on the table. "Lady Olenna, I'll not sit here while a crippled child slanders Highgarden before the King. He should be removed before—"

Bran’s head turned with a slowly and when his eyes found Tarly, the blankness disappeared.

"A man who forced his own son to take the black has no voice here," Bran said.

Lord Tarly stopped mid-breath.

"In the woods at Horn Hill," Bran said. The sound of his voice made the hair stand up on Sansa's arms. "You told him if he refused you would butcher him yourself and call it a hunting accident." He canted his head sideways. "The trees heard you."

A total silence settled over the benches and the high table until it held the whole room. In the light of the hall, Bran had named a secret that a thousand miles away and years in the past, a thing a father had told a son in private.

How does the boy know that. Sansa felt the question ripple through the room and she closed her eyes to calculating the damage. She searched for a way to salvage the situation as Lord Tarly stared at Bran in open shock, and the boy stared back.

The voice from the high table ended the silence. "My lords. You have let your cups go dry."

Daenerys had risen but the attention of the hall swung toward her like a needle seeking its north. The Dragon Queen looked past Bran and Olenna and Randyll Tarly with his mouth open, past the seam the boy had torn through the center of the room. She looked only at the wine.

"A feast where the lords go thirsty is a poor accounting of its host," she said. "Steward. The cups."

The stewards moved before the command was even cold, and the sound of jugs and benches rose as the lords found their voices again. Daenerys permitted the noise to fill the hall before she tightened her grip on the room.

"I am told the wine has been watered," she said, and a few of the nearer lords laughed before they remembered to be uncertain. "But these are hard times and I know you are all resilient enough to weather them. We will tighten the belt again at dawn, when the king is here to hear you complain of it properly. Until then, feast."

"Sit, Lord Tarly," Daenerys continue, the warmth gone out of it, the flat strike of a hammer left in its place. "Or else your wine will go stale."

The laughter broke fully then, and even Randyll Tarly sat after a moment in which Sansa thought he might draw steel or walk out, his face a mask of furious compliance as he shoved his chair beneath him.

Sansa could not have bought this relief herself, for any attempt to mend the damage Bran left behind would have looked like a Stark shielding her own. Daenerys had made the insult small simply by stepping over it, a minor victory for a woman whose losses tonight were already so vast. Between the Jon's marriage to a wildling, denied both her war and her succession, she took the only scrap of authority left to her.

"Thank you," Sansa said, keeping her words soft so they stayed between them. "That was kindly done."

"Men are easily enough quieted with wine," Daenerys said. She turned, and a flicker of amusement touched the corner of her mouth. "Your family has a most unsettling effect on people, my lady."

The marble and the fire were what Sansa expected, or perhaps the sight of a subordinate struggling for her footing. She had not been prepared for the woman who lived beneath the performance.

"You have my gratitude regardless," Sansa said, and she allowed her voice a small measure of the sincerity she actually felt.

Sansa looked toward Bran where the boy had folded back into himself now that his teeth and his temper had run out of breath. She caught his eye with a sharp, sidelong glance, the same look she and Arya had shared whenever Robb had been witless before their father’s guests. It was a look stripped of tenderness for the sake of the hall, carrying nothing but the silent promise that she would deal with him once they were alone.

"He's ten," Sansa said, turning back, by way of the only apology she would offer. "And he is not — what he is, he wasn't before. We're all of us learning the people we came back as."

"Yes," the queen said, a nameless flicker of pain passing behind her eyes. "I know something of losing a part of oneself."

Sansa recalled a stray rumor about Daenerys then and spoke before she stop herself. "Your son—" Sansa stopped when she realized what she said. "Forgive me, I should not have mentioned him."

Daenerys was silent for a moment. "There is no need for apologies," she said, her voice coming out softly that Sansa had begun to recognize as her armor. "I lost my son, and with him the chance to ever mother another. We have both walked hard roads, I think, though few in this hall would have the wit to understand them. They will write songs our victories, not our struggles. "

"The singers had me weeping in a tower," Sansa said, her smile small and private against the rim of her cup. "I stopped caring for the songs a long time ago. There is a certain safety in being someone no one has bothered to record with any accuracy."

The wariness bled back into Daenerys as she studied her. "Yes," she said, "there is."

The rest went unsaid. A real warmth had settled between them, but it was bounded by a shared calculation that passed in the shadow of the empty great seat. They sat in that quiet understanding for a time, watching as the hall returned to its chatter and the business of the feast.