Chapter Text
(King’s Landing)
Arya Stark was not an idiot, or as blind as the grown-ups around her seemed to think she was. She had spent enough time with the Sand Snakes, and Jaqen was useful. The Faceless Man had told her he would teach her the ability to hide using the faces of others. While those of his order normally killed those they impersonated, it was not necessary. Her lessons in strategy helped her understand why the Faceless Men normally killed them. A disguise is useless if the person you are impersonating walks into the room.
Her sworn sword of an assassin was currently playing the part of valet as he served her and Trystane breakfast. Her father and new stepmother had yet to exit seclusion, so it was the best time to meet and strategize, “Your brother and cousins don’t know you told me?”
Trystane smiled tightly, “They were worried you would react poorly.”
Rolling her eyes Arya accepted a pastry glazed with honey, “It’s not that I’m happy everyone was keeping secrets from me, but at least it is you and not someone stupid like a Frey.”
A chuckle came from the Dornish boy, “I am happy my lady thinks me better than a weaselly toll collector.”
“Well, you’re Egg’s cousin so it is strategically sound for both our families,” Arya looked to where her dire wolf Nymeria lay nearby, “We also have time I guess.”
“We are both too young for marriage yet, and if you are worried about how my people will see you,” Trystane smiled sadly, “Well, when we get to the Water Gardens there is a spot in the gardens I’ll have to show you. Also, we will be in Sunspear near the anniversary of the Coronation of King Robert, we do not exactly celebrate it the way the rest of the kingdoms do.”
A grimace appeared on Arya’s face, “The kingdoms celebrate the king’s coronation anniversary?”
“It has been so since the time of the Targaryen dynasty,” Trystane shrugged, “Do they not do so in the North?”
She shook her head, “No, and knowing father he’d not been pleased with anyone raising a cup to a king who stepped over the bodies of children to claim a throne.” Arya snorted, “Father never even talked about the Rebellion much, considering everything he was facing then.”
“True,” Trystane leaned back in his chair, “So, how do you want to get back at them?”
Arya smirked, “I already got Father and Lady Dayne, nothing too vindictive, just the wine and ale left in their chambers spiked with some bitters from the Vale.”
Trystane raised a brow, “That’s rather mundane.”
“Father hates the smell of this particular bitter, he once told Mother it reminds him of the brothels that he had to drag Robert out of,” Arya mused, “As for my siblings, well most of them will have to wait until we see them in Dorne. Rickon is innocent as is Bran, they would have both blabbed to me if they had heard about this,” she indicated Trystane and herself, “Edric though is close enough to strike, but he’ll be on guard after the spiking of our parents drinks.”
Trystane turned to Jaquen, “Could you procure a wig, one dyed with the most obnoxious colors imaginable?”
“A prince has a vivid imagination,” Jaquen smirked, “A man will have it by the time we depart for Dorne.”
Trystane nodded, “My cousins are rather spread out, but I would speak in their defense.”
A contemplative look came to Arya, “Hmm, I think the expectations of a prank will be enough punishment for them.” She saw his relieved expression, “But we’ll have to do something to your uncle before we leave King’s Landing.”
The grin Trystane gave her was brighter than the colors of his House, “I have never pulled off a prank on Oberyn. He usually sees them coming a mile away.”
Across the room, a door opened admitting Rickon followed by Shaggy Dog, Tommen, and Lancel. Her little brother was yawning as he tottered over to her, “Rickon, you want to help me with something?”
The little boy blinked before a mischievous grin appeared on his face, “Who you want me to bite?”
(Later)
Tyrion entered the small council chamber to find the Master of Whispers hiding behind the door, “Prince Oberyn, why are you hiding?”
“A little wolf is chasing me,” Oberyn glanced out into the hallway before ducking behind the door, “He is asking questions that if I answer will gain the ire of a bigger wolf, and his wife which I am not sure which I fear more.”
It did not take much to realize which little wolf and what type of questions would have Oberyn fleeing to somewhere a child could not find him, “I am surprised a boy of Little Rickon’s age would have such questions.”
“Oh,” Oberyn glared, “the pup is not speaking with his own voice,” the prince handed Tyrion a slip of paper, “Ashara had a guard bring me this.”
Frowning Tyrion unfolded the note and read it aloud, “Be on your guard, she knows?” He looked at Oberyn confused, “Who is she, and what does she know?”
“It is not a secret my brother has maneuvered things to match my youngest nephew with Lord Stark’s youngest daughter. The rub of it is we were all a bit worried about the girl’s reaction when she learned of betrothal plans. She is her aunt reborn.” Oberyn sighed, “I should have gone with my gut and been the one to tell her. She has no doubt turned her little brother loose to terrorize me for my complicity.”
Tyrion chuckled, “Should you not be warning your daughters and paramour?”
A pensive look came to the Dornish prince’s face, “What sacrifices I must make.” With that he dashed through the door and down the hall.
Tyrion watched Oberyn's retreat with a smirk and shook his head, "If I had a gold dragon for every time I've had to dodge a Stark's ire, I'd be richer than Casterly Rock. But being chased by a little wolf? Now that is a game of thrones I did not see coming. Maybe I should start roasting some chestnuts for these council meetings."
(Tower of the Hand)
Ashara poured a cup of wine, spiked with fragrant bitters that did not pair well with the Arbor Gold. The little she-wolf had an accomplice who was ensuring any fresh bottle brought to the Hand’s bedchamber was given the same additive. She looked to her husband, “Well, she’s putting her pet assassin’s skills to use.”
“His devotion to her is unquestionable. I’m sure anyone who tries anything in Dorne will find a less benign addition to their drink.” Ned sat on their bed looking crossly at the cup of ale he had been forcing himself to drink, “You are not bothered by it?”
Smirking Ashara joined him on the bed, “It’s not as bad in the wine, and trust me the drinks in Essos are far more unpleasant.” She leaned into him, “So, now the small council can get past the desire to have us fuck in the hopes you be more Ned Stark and less Quiet Wolf.”
Ned chuckled, “They act like those are two different people.”
“I think it is simply them rationalizing the image they have of you, and the fact they forget at the end of the day you are descended of Cregan Stark.” Ashara sighed, “Cregan was an honorable man at a time when honor died in dragon’s fire. He stormed into this city and named himself Hand, he punished everyone living who had a hand in starting the Dance. He was ruthless, but he remained loyal to the son of the woman to whom his own grandsire had sworn an oath of fealty.”
Ned raised a brow, “You believe had Aegon not been secreted away and not believed dead I’d have stood for him.”
“It is not a belief,” Ashara mused, “I am sure of it. I have thought about it since first departing Essos to return to Westeros. Had you found Aegon in that hidden compartment, you would have taken him to Jon Arryn. He had been safe at the Falcone’s side; Robert might have raged but neither of you had let harm befall him.”
A smirk came to Ned’s face, “We would have an infant Targaryen king. The story that the Herald spun at the tourney. Robert as the closest living of age male relative on the father’s side would be named to the regency council, probably the head of it.” A contemplative look came to his face, “That being said, it would have mattered when Jon and Hoster had decided to put Robert on the throne. I was not made aware of that plan until after the Trident. My own anger at Rhaegar and desire to find my sister blinded me to the machinations of others around me.”
“You believe the others meant to rebel before your father and brother were murdered?” Ashara frowned, “Your father’s southern ambitions?”
“I always knew about the Faith’s plots to try and convert me, our Maester was not subtle in his schemes. Lyanna thought me deaf and blind to the man’s actions, I hope she felt vindicated when I turned the man over to Roose to do his worst.” Ned growled, “I know she was angry with my supporting her betrothal to Robert, but she didn’t see my plans.”
Ashara’s eyes widened, “You wanted her to bring Robert and the Baratheons back to the Old Gods.”
“You know as well as I that it isn’t a matter of coming back, just remembering.” Eddard sighed, “I hoped my friend would see the same lines of hypocrisy as I did. I thought he was coming around with how he went on being a father to Mya.”
A frown set on Ashara’s face, “Yet, Mya would not have been born had you not been away. Robert is not quiet about how you went about cleaning up after him.”
“That was more Jon Arryn than me, my foster father was amenable, but still a devout follower of the Faith. He was also a man of honor who did not want the stigma of such things to follow Robert.” Eddard looked to the ceiling, “Had he known of Edric, I am not sure how he’d have reacted.”
Smirking Ashara leaned into him, “Not even the vaunted Spider knew of Edric. Oh, he assumed, but could never garner the proof. His little birds never got the truth, only hearing the rumors my brother made that I had miscarried, and the babe was a girl that came out pale and lifeless.”
“Speaking of the Spider,” Eddard shifted slightly, “He is a guest of the Black Cells. Ser Duncan revealed the man to be a Blackfyre, in blood at least. The babe that Elia used to cover Aegon’s escape was the son of that cheese merchant Drogo killed with Viserys. He also sent those bandits.”
Ashara blinked, rage burning in her eyes, “This confirms our suspicions.”
Eddard nodded, “Yes, but we still need to get him to confess the truth. It will ensure no one can discredit Aegon’s identity. There are still some who suspect Aegon is not true, and as it stands your voice is the only one that can confirm it. Connington is not exactly a shining example of integrity. With most the realm seeing him in a poor light for his mummer’s farce at Winterfell.”
“One voice is drowned out in a sea of voices,” Ashara mused, “Yet two can turn the tide.”
(Black Cells)
Varys sat in darkness, though he was not alone. The cell next to his was the one Jon Connington was confined to. He had been there for months and was not doing well. Vary heard he was taken to other accommodations to recover but would be returned to the darkness whenever he started spouting off that Aegon was his son Young Griff, and not the dead son of Rhaegar.
“Spider,” the whisper came from the small hole some previous prisoner had made in some futile attempt at escape, “Spider, are you there.”
Sighing, Varys moved to the hole, “I am here Lord Connington.”
Hoarsely Connington spoke, “What is the plan? How do we get the boy away from these villains?”
“Villains?” Varys brow raised at that, “I am sorry to say my lord but we at the villains of this song. Aegon is right where we wanted him, or at least where you did. He is poised to take the throne and restore his family’s dynasty.”
Jon coughed before responding, “He is surrounded by traitors, they will destroy him before he sets foot on the throne.”
“Traitors?” Varys tittered, “Traitors to whom, the Mad King, or your sorrowful prince consumed by prophecy? Perhaps had Rhaegar trusted me even half as much as he did you or his other lickspittles, he had not gotten his chest caved in at the Trident.”
“Would you have really helped him?” Varys turned to see Robert flanked by his brothers at the door to his cell. Renly was holding the torch, while his eldest brother stood with arms crossed, “Or just use him to further your Blackfyre agenda?”
Varys chuckled, “By the time of your battle at the Trident, I already knew my plans were foiled. When my men did not report back from attacking Lady Ashara’s retinue, I knew something had gone wrong. When a party found my men slain, and signs of Northmen involvement I thought she and Aegon were in the hands of Lord Stark then. At least until word came her party safely reached Starfall.”
He could see the contemplative look on Robert’s face. The way his thoughts fought between memory, possibilities, and rationality. Sighing Robert shook his head, “It was better Ned did not find Aegon back then, maybe after the war after I had time to think. Hell, when I realized Jon wasn’t Ned’s I was conflicted enough.”
Varys could see the surprise on the other two Baratheon’s faces, “Your brothers were not aware you were aware of the truth of Lord Stark’s bastard son?”
“Pfft,” Robert snorted, “They barely knew Ned, Renly was a child and as for Stannis,” he looked at the older of his younger siblings, “He always was a bit jealous of the relationship between Ned and me.”
Stannis grit his teeth, “I wasn’t jealous, just irked that you so easily cast us aside for some second son from the North.”
“I don’t know,” Renly smirked, “the veins at your temples would bulge whenever Uncle would read us one of Robert’s letters recounting whatever trouble they got themselves into in the Vale.”
Robert chuckled before turning seriously to Varys, “So you were not manipulating events to put Aegon on the throne, were you?”
A sardonic snort came from Varys, “I merely kept my options open. I serve the realm, and I have done so since realizing the dangers of the Iron Throne. My late friend wished for a puppet king, a king of his blood and that of his late wife on the throne. His wife may have been of relation to me, but the matters of the Blackfyres have little concern to me. Had he learned his son was slain because of my miscalculation, I would not be long for this world.”
“Would he even have known Aegon wasn’t his son?” Renly frowned, “It wouldn’t have been plausible for a child to know his father after being separated since he was a swaddled babe.”
Varys bowed his head, “The babe slain in Aegon’s place had a birthmark that Aegon does not possess.” Varys motioned to the side of his face, “A burst of red across his right cheek. Elia put the mark to use in her ploy that the child had come down with a severe illness. Voiced concern it was greyscale even. Pycell the fool was so fearful of catching the illness he never directly examined the child.”
“All the better,” Stannis sounded pleased even if his face remained sour, “Pycell is no longer of this world. Ser Duncan made him a head shorter when he went on his little crusade of culling the Citadel of oath breakers.”
“I wondered why he did not share a cage on the trip from Old Town,” Varys tittered, “I would warn against trusting this thing wearing Ser Duncan’s face. Magic always has a price, and whatever he paid to remain alive may not have left him as the man from the songs.”
“The price was blood and suffering,” Robert complained, “The man watched everyone he knew either die in flame or wither with age. This is not the Westeros he knew.” Robert snorted, “As for songs? Pfft, those are for children.”
(???)
Robert rose from his bed to the sound of an infant crying. Frowning, he exited his chamber to find no one present; the halls of the keep were empty. Yet the cries persisted, drawing him onward. As he walked through the halls following the sounds, he noticed that he did not encounter a single person. Even at the latest hour of the night, someone should have been awake, whether guards on patrol or servants attending tasks in preparation for the next day.
The corridors of the keep became oppressive as the candles along the walls seemed to dim. The reddish clay of the keep gradually turned grey. The warm air began to cool as a creeping mist started to rise, and roots from ancient trees began emerging from the ceiling and clinging to the walls.
As he proceeded, the changes became more apparent as doors appeared along the hallway. He paused as the crying seemed to emanate from a door on his right. The door seemed familiar, although it could have been any door in the Red Keep. Pushing it open, he froze at the scene before him.
A crib stood along one wall; in a chair in the corner, a woman he vaguely remembered sat slumped to the side, her chest rising and falling with the steady breath of one deep asleep. It was surprising how she managed to sleep through the wailing from the crib, which was loud enough to rattle the very stones of the castle. Standing over the crib was a formidable figure, one Robert recalled seeing once in his reflection.
The younger King Robert easily scooped the wailing baby from the crib. “Quite the lungs you have there, little one.” The wailing seemed to abate slightly as the baby was settled into the crook of the young king’s arm. “How does Ned think a noisy child like you will pass as his? He should have claimed you were Brandon’s; I would have believed that over him forgetting his vows.”
The young king approached the sleeping wetnurse and none too gently woke her with his foot. The wet nurse woke with a start, eyes wide upon seeing her charge in the arms of the king. “Your Grace?”
He snorted. “I came to speak with Ned—Lord Stark, I mean—and found this poor child screaming his head off.”
“Pardon, Your Grace,” the woman bowed her head. “The journey has been long, and I must have been more tired than I realized.”
The young king handed the baby back to her. “I will not inform Lord Stark of this, but I do not wish to hear such distress from him again.”
The image faded and Robert was left blinking at an empty darkness. The door closed as he turned away. Another door further down the hall opened and he could hear voices within. Looking within he found his younger self standing at a fireplace, Ole Jon Arryn sitting in a chair nearby.
Lord Arryn was speaking, “You’re sure Robert?”
“As sure as I am the whelp is no get of Ned’s,” Robert snorted, “Got to be Lyanna’s boy, too many coincidences.”
Jon Arryn nodded sagely, “I had my doubt the child was Ned’s, the boy was never one for whores or camp followers. I would think you would be angrier.”
“Angry,” Robert scoffed, “I am furious, but what is there to be done? Rhaegar cannot die a second time, other than in my dreams. The addled brain dragon spawn is not going to just pop back up so I can smash his chest in again.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Rhaegar,” Jon said carefully, “I was speaking of Eddard, he is technically committing treason by hiding a Targaryen child within his household. If this became common knowledge, it could be dangerous. Even with questionable parentage the boy could be a threat.”
Robert shook his head, “You really think Ned is going to go through all the trouble of faking the babe as his bastard just to raise him up to take back the throne?” A derisive snort came from the young king, “Patches has more ambitions than Ned, and he’s an addle-brained fool who mutters about merfolk.”
A chuckle came from Jon, “True, I forgot who we were talking about. Though, his greeting upon his return was colder than the lands of his birth. He has not forgotten the confrontation in the throne room, the way you dehumanized Elia’s children.”
“Aye,” the younger Robert leaned on the mantle of the fireplace, “probably why he came up with that cock and bull story the boy is his.” Robert looked to Jon, “You know Ned’s people have that saying. The North remembers, some say they never forgive either.”
Jon nodded, “Lord Varys came to me this morning, he said there were whispers that Lady Ashara Dayne’s child was in fact Lord Stark’s. The Daynes are few and last I heard there was no heir for Lord Dayne. He was severely injured at the Trident, and it is unknown if he can still father a child.”
Robert blinked, “What are you thinking?”
“I will have Varys continue spreading the rumor that little Jon Snow is the illegitimate child of Lord Stark and Lady Ashara. If Lord Dayne comes to the end of his days without a son, we arrange to have Jon legitimized and placed as the new Lord of Starfall. It will put someone loyal to us in Dorne.”
The memory dissolved into darkness as the door closed. Robert proceeded down the hall but encountered only shadows. With a frown, Robert became aware of the sound of boots scuffing against the stone floors. Gradually, two figures emerged from the shadows.
The first figure caused Robert's blood to run cold. It was Orys Baratheon, the ancestor of Robert’s line after the Conquest. Robert had seen the man's portrait hanging above the fireplace in the lord’s solar at Storm’s End for as long as he could remember. The man beside Orys bore the Targaryen appearance, and Robert had also seen his portraits, though he had ordered most of them burned in the Red Keep.
Aegon the Conqueror raised his head to observe him. "Orys, is he one of yours?"
"Indeed, brother, far down the line," Orys replied with a snort. "He has our father's temper, just like Visenya and myself. It is probably fortunate that our dear sister's line ended with your less agreeable son. I doubt the realm could have endured two lines cursed with such temperaments."
Robert blinked as the two specters focused on him, “What is going on?”
Orys chuckled, “You have forgotten already blood of my blood? You are in the Godswood of the Red Keep; you used the paste of a weirwood. It permits one to experience the past, present and possible futures. It is even possible to communicate with those long or not so long dead. Unfortunately, while I never partook in my life, my dear wife nearly drove herself to madness seeking the ghosts of her father and brothers.”
The Conqueror frowned, “Partook once, after Rheanys death, but I could not find her. Torrhen refused to supply any more of the paste when he learned my goal. He knew seeking her was futile, for she is not here.”
With a hard swallow Robert avoided looking at the ghosts of his ancestors, “Lyanna, I thought, at the wedding.”
“The veil has thinned as of late,” Orys mused, “though the Lady Lyanna is perhaps the most willful of those blessed by the Old Gods. Whatever the Old Gods did to give our world a fighting chance, it seems to have stirred things here.”
The sound of hurried footsteps drew Robert’s attention to Stannis and Renly coming down the hall. Both stumbling to a halt upon seeing the two men their elder brother was conversing with, “Robert is that?”
He nodded, “Aye, got a bit distracted. Where have you two been?” He noticed Renly’s face was damp beneath his eyes, “Renly, you been crying?”
His younger brother hurriedly wiped at his face as Stannis spoke up as he placed a firm hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “We were with mother and father.”
“I see,” Robert grimaced, “I am sorry I wasn’t with you, but seems I took a trip down my memories.”
Renly finished cleaning himself up and took a breath, “They said it was not the right time, they would see you when it was. Did you find the Lady Lyanna?”
Robert shook his head, “No if she was here, she has moved on to somewhere else. Must have just been attending ole Ned’s wedding.”
(Red Keep; Godswood)
Robert opened his eyes to Duncan the Tall, handing him a waterskin. He rinsed his mouth and spat before taking another swig of life sustain liquid. He looked to where Oberyn and Lord Reed were assisting his brothers. Not far the High Sparrow watched curiously, “Your Grace, did you find what you sought?”
“If you’re hoping for some grand message from the gods,” Robert huffed, “Your out of luck, just saw a couple of my memories played out before me and have a brief chat with Orys Baratheon and the Conqueror himself.”
Lord Reed nodded, “It is rare to receive that which you seek. Even Prince Oberyn did not truly find what he sought his first time.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t what we sought,” Stannis worked his jaw, “but what we needed. Renly and I encountered our parents. Renly was too young to remember much of them. I found the experience both unsettling and yet fulfilling.”
“Intriguing,” the High Sparrow looked to the bowl of paste before speaking to Lord Reed, “My Lord Reed is it possible to have such visions without the need of the paste?”
A knowing look came to the little man’s face, “The paste only enhances what is already there. All those of the blood of the First Men have the power of Greensight to a degree. It is the blessing of the Old Gods upon their chosen, but for most the power has faded. Think of it like a limb that has been crippled, the muscles slowly wither, and the limb becomes nought but skin and bone.”
Duncan spoke up, “Yet in this case the limb is not one person’s but one shared by all those who share blood.”
Robert frowned, “Lord Reed, is it only the First Men. The Conqueror said he used the paste, but Torrhen Stark cut him off when he learned he was seeking Queen Rhaenys’ ghost.”
The Lord of the Neck mused, “Did you not know? Aegon the Conqueror was the blood brother of Torrhen Stark. They swore a blood oath in the Godswood of Winterfell.” He looked over those present, “The Conqueror’s heir was not of a constitution nor were the Starks willing to reaffirm the blood oath after Aegon the First’s passing. Jacaerys Velaryon was the first of his descendants to reaffirm any oath between the dragons and the dire wolves. Though, I do not believe Prince Jacaerys and Lord Cregan went as far as the blood rite.”
Stannis frowned, “Lord Reed, what is the blood rite?”
Lord Reed sighed and pulled off his glove to reveal a scar across his palm, “I have two blood brothers among my fellow northern lords. Lord Great Jon and Lord Manderly. It has long been customary that the Lord of the Neck and Lord of White Harbor swear a blood oath, we are the southernmost houses and first line of defense against Southerners. Lord Umber and I swore our blood oath at the start of his grace’s rebellion. We swore to stand by Lord Stark as he took his place as our Magnar.”
Renly looked appalled, “Is that safe?”
“Maesters frown on the practice, but no body has ever gotten ill or died from it,” Lord Reed frowned, “Well, there was Lord Bolton’s grandfather, but he was a known bleeder.”