Two years of Shaera's life are gone. She wakes to a ruined world where the war has ended and half her family is dead. With no one else to trust, she tries to go home, only for Aemond Targaryen to do everything in his power to stop her and to make sure she never remembers the truth.
Warnings: Memory Loss, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Obsessive Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen, Possessive Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen, Toxic Relationship, Betrayal, Political Alliances, Dragon death, Angst and Tragedy, Cousins, Jealous Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen, Slow Burn, Dark Romance, Love/Hate Relationship, Cousin Incest, Targaryen Incest, Dysfunctional Family, War Trauma, Emotional Hurt, battles, Canon Divergence - Dance of the Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire), Alternate Dance of the Dragons | The Greens Win (A Song of Ice and Fire), Alternate Dance of the Dragons | War for Succession Happens Between Different Factions (ASoIaF), heavy smut, dead dove, Jealousy-Driven Sex, First Time, Possessive Sex, Overstimulation, Mystery
Ao3
Chapter 2
Chapter 1: Before
A very long time ago
Some children are born of love, and others of duty; Shaera was born of spite, and she felt the cold chill of it since her very first breath. What had begun as a single, loveless choice had spiraled into a lifetime of consequences, until Shaera finally understood just how grave a mistake her parents had made by bringing her into the world.
Shaera had never truly cared for her chamber. Yet as she watched the maids pack all her belongings into small travel bags, she found herself loving it all of a sudden.
It was not a grand chamber like the ones the princes and princesses occupied. It had only a tiny solar and an even smaller bedchamber, with a single narrow window that let in a thin blade of light. Still, for years it had been her home.
She had fallen asleep beneath the canopy bed counting the painted dragons stitched into the fabric above her. She had taken her first tumble down the narrow staircase that led to the sleeping chamber. And once, when her maids were not looking, she had carved her name into one of the stones near the hearth. She had made it her home, even though it belonged to another.
Home was a funny word to Shaera. It seemed to change whenever someone decided it should. First she had been told her home was Runestone, a distant place made of grey rock and bitter wind. Her father used to say even the sheep there were dull. Shaera had laughed at that as she followed him through the halls of Dragonstone, her hand clutching the edge of his cloak.
She had been five when he told her she must leave Dragonstone. She cried then. Begged him not to send her away but It made no difference.
This time her uncle had assured her this would be the last move. He had promised she would never have to leave King’s Landing unless she wished it.
Her hands clenched in her lap as she tried to remember what she had done wrong. The first thing that came to mind was Driftmark. The accident there had changed her entire life; though she hadn't known it that day, she had somehow felt it.
It had been the first time she met her half-sisters, and she wanted so desperately to make a good impression. She liked to think she was as fierce as her father—a rogue, just like him. She wore that mask in the Red Keep, and it had always worked for her. However, playing that part had ultimately led to Aemond losing an eye. And it had been done with Shaera’s own knife.
Of course, Luke had been nice enough not to tell anyone it was hers. He was as stupidly noble as his brothers, and she might have gotten away with it if it were not for Aemond. He knew exactly whose blade had sliced his face, and he undoubtedly blamed her. Yet, in the hall that night, he hadn’t spoken a word of it, either. That had been a surprise. Aemond despised her, and she despised him in return.
But when they finally returned to King's Landing, she understood his silence. He had told his mother and the Queen absolutely refused to have Shaera in the castle anymore. Her uncle Viserys was always weak, especially when it came to his wife's demands. Just half a moon later, Shaera was informed she was to leave.
The chamber door creaked open, and Shaera stopped swinging her feet on the stool she sat upon. Her uncle Viserys smiled as he walked towards her.
He looked worse than before, with only one hand left and half of a face, but when he placed his hand on her shoulder, Shaera found herself wishing he would never let go.
“It is time,” he said softly. They had spoken of this before. Shaera made no argument now, just as she had not the last time the matter was raised.
The Keep had been her home for five years, but she had no family here. No matter how much she tried to deny it, Shaera was a stranger and would always be one.
How could you do this to me? She bit the inside of her cheek as she walked beside her uncle through the corridors. By now she had convinced herself it was all her mother’s fault.
Rhea Royce was a woman Shaera knew only by name. She had disappeared on Shaera's first name day to go hunting. The hunting party returned, but Rhea didn’t. Not a bone or scrap of cloth had ever been found.
When she was little, Shaera believed her mother had simply gotten lost while hunting and would come back if Shaera behaved well enough. Later she came to hate her instead. If her mother had stayed, perhaps Shaera would have had a home. Perhaps someone would have stood for her when she needed it, as the queen did for her own children.
“You know, you can always visit,” her uncle said as they reached the main yard. A simple carriage waited there, with servants helping to lift her belongings inside. “You have a dragon, Shaera. Grey Ghost would gladly bring you here whenever you feel like it.”
“Grey Ghost does not like flying,” Shaera replied.
Shaera had not been given an egg in her cradle as other Targaryen children were. Her father had refused it outright, if only to spite her mother. For years she believed that meant she would never have a dragon at all. But during the short time she lived on Dragonstone, she had found Grey Ghost or he had found her.
At the time she did not understand what it meant. Not until the day she was sent away again and the pale dragon followed her into the sky as the ship carried her from the island. And though he did not care much for flying, nor for riders, nor for any of the things dragons were meant to enjoy, he was a good dragon all the same…and he and Shaera understood each other.
Her uncle laughed. “Even so, he will feel it when you need to go home.” He knelt beside her. “Child, I promised you many things once, but I find myself failing again to keep any of my words. I want you to know my greatest mistake is sending you away, but you must understand, you cannot stay here after what happened.” He huffed a labored breath. “The world is cruel, Shaera. You don’t need me to say it, for I know you have not lived long to experience just how cruel life can be. But when the time comes, you must stand with your family. You are a Targaryen. You must not forget that.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she pushed them away. She had promised herself she would never cry again in her life, and unlike her uncle, Shaera kept her promises.
“I remember, uncle,” she said. “Fire and blood.”
That earned her a small ruffle of her hair. She watched as her uncle struggled to stand, eventually guided back inside the Keep by two guards.
“It is time, my lady,” one of the maids said.
Shaera wanted one last look at the castle before she left. She had already promised herself she would never return here again. But as she lifted her eyes toward the Red Keep, something caught her attention.
Aemond stood upon one of the balconies overlooking the yard. They were the same age; they could have been friends if Aemond didn’t hate her so much, or if she had not called him every cruel name a child could invent.
She took a step forward, and Aemond took one backward. Perhaps this was how things would always be: him looking down at her, and she... leaving.
“My lady,” the maid called again. “Please.”
She turned to answer. “In a minute.” But when she looked back up, Aemond was gone.
Not my home, she told herself as she climbed into the carriage and then the ship. Until she reached the mountain stronghold of Runestone, she kept telling herself she had no home that she had only Grey Ghost and herself.
Never did she know that life had a way of changing when one least expected it.
When Shaera finally arrived at Runestone, she realized something strange: she understood her father. Standing there, she could see exactly why he had always spoken so poorly of this place, finding it dull and lifeless.
Runestone was not beautiful or grand like the Red Keep but rather it was old. The castle was made of thick, plain gray stone, built right by the sea to and there were no bright colors, golden decorations, or delicate windows here. As she stood in the chilly courtyard, a guard walked up to her. He gestured toward the wooden doors of the keep.
“This way, my lady," the guard said. "Ser Gunthor will meet you inside."
The wait was not long, though in the vast, echoing silence of the hall, it felt like an eternity. Heavy footsteps eventually broke the quiet, and Ser Gunthor Royce emerged from the shadows.
He had a thick beard and a weathered face and wore the runic bronze armor of his house. He looked at her silver hair and saw the Rogue Prince who had scorned his kin and brought only misery to their house.
For the first few moons, Gunthor was distant. He spoke to her only when necessary, his words clipped and formal, treating her more like a burdensome captive than a ward. He hated Targaryens, and he made no secret of it.
But Shaera was used to being unwanted. She did not demand affection or complain about the cold, nor did she act like the spoiled princess he had clearly expected.
The ice between them began to thaw the day he found her in the armory tracing the runes on a rusted shield. Gunthor had known his own share of emptiness; he had buried two wives, both taken by the birthing bed, leaving him with grief and no children of his own. In Shaera's silent nature, he slowly stopped seeing Daemon’s arrogance and finally recognized the lingering sorrow of a lonely child.
More importantly, he began to see Rhea.
Their bond grew in the untamed lands of the Vale. Gunthor took her out of the gloomy keep and taught her how to hunt. He showed her how to track snow bears in the high passes, how to loose an arrow with precision, and, eventually, how to sit at the head of a table and rule. He was a harsh teacher, but a loyal one, and under his hand, Shaera began to flourish.
She was not alone in the keep, either. Runestone was alive with cousins she had never known existed. There was Willam, who had a booming laugh and a quick sword; Alyssa, who braided Shaera's hair and told her wicked stories; and others like Robar, Elys, and young Anya.
“We loved your mother," Gunthor told her one evening by the hearth. "She was fierce."
Even Grey Ghost thrived in the Vale. The mountain air seemed to invigorate him. He grew larger, bolder, and one crisp morning, he finally lowered his pale wing, allowing Shaera to climb onto his back.
When they took to the skies, soaring through the clouds above the Eyrie, Shaera felt a sense of freedom she had never dared to dream of.
She was Shaera Targaryen, daughter of Rhea Royce, and as she looked down at the ancient stone bridges and her waiting family, she finally knew the truth.
Runestone was home.
One year later
Grey Ghost’s pale claws scraped against the frosted earth of the high courtyard, kicking up a flurry of snow as he settled his weight. Shaera slid from his back, her cheeks flushed with the biting wind and the thrill of the flight.
She landed in the snow with a heavy thud, immediately turning to point a finger at the dragon.
“I swear to the gods," she told him, "if you clip the western tower with your wing one more time, I will have the maester paint you pink. Do you hear me? Bright, humiliating pink."
Grey Ghost merely blinked his pale eyes, unbothered by the threat, and let out a huff of distinctly fish-scented air right into her face.
Shaera wrinkled her nose, coughing. "Ugh. Alright, point taken.“
“Are you quite finished playing with your hound, my lady?" a gruff voice called out.
Shaera spun around to see Gunthor standing at the edge of the courtyard, his arms crossed over his bronze breastplate. His breath plumed in the cold air, and his dark eyes held that familiar, weary fondness he reserved only for her.
“He is not a hound, Gunthor," Shaera retorted, marching over to him with a grin. "And we were discussing strategy."
Gunthor raised an eyebrow. "Strategy for what? Avoiding your lessons with the maester? Because if so, your strategy is reckless, stupid, and currently failing. You have ledgers to review."
“Ledgers are for old men who like the smell of dust," she dismissed with a wave of her hand, entirely unbothered by his scolding. "No, we were discussing the strategy for a hunt."
Gunthor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Shaera, winter is setting in. The snow bears are denning, and the shadowcats have moved to the lower valleys. There is nothing left to hunt in the high passes right now."
“I am going to find my mother."
The wind seemed to howl a little louder around them as the old knight stared at her, the deep lines around his eyes tightening.
“Shaera," he began. "Do not do this to yourself. Rhea has been missing for ten years. The trail is gone. We searched every ravine, every cave, every treacherous path in the Vale. There is nothing left to find."
Shaera turned her head, looking back at Grey Ghost resting against the stones of her home.
“I know you did, Gunthor, but you didn't have a dragon."
"At the beginning, Alys is very much Aemond's carer. And as we get to know her over the course of the episode, there might be something more." – Ewan Mitchell
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON | Season 3, Episode 5, "Unbowed and Unbent"
The Long Night comes with the Dance of the Dragons, and the fate of the realm falls into the hands of Sara Snow, can she stop the turning of fate or will her heart be the ruin of them all?
Tags: Alternate Universe, The Long Night , Slow Burn, Enemies to Reluctant Allies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage, Political Marriage, Love Triangle, Mutual Pining, Wargs & Warging , Skinchangers & Skinchanging, Multiverse, Northern Politics, Civil War, Family, Found Family, Sibling Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Coming of Age, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut
Chapter 2: A New Guest
Ch1
I can not recall a time when we knew true joy. Mayhaps it was when I was but a babe, too young to grasp the death that surrounded me. Yet I remember well enough when the dark days began… with a prince.
Sara
Sara gnawed at her lower lip, biting down until she tasted the iron tang of blood and felt the skin peel away. Whatever salve Maggy had smeared upon her mouth was sweet upon the tongue, yet it left her lips a strange, mottled hue. She had not realized the ruin she had made of her lips until she caught her reflection in the glass.
I must stop this, she told herself. A lady must be presentable. Yet calm was a cloak that never fit her well. She might wear a mask of untroubled serenity, but Sara had learned long ago how to bury her true humors deep in the dark.
She bound her hair tightly and left her bedchamber. It was a quiet morning. Summer snow dusted the slate roofs and the uneven cobbles of the keep, a crisp frost that bit at the nose but held none of the true chill of winter. Sara made her way down the winding stone steps to the main courtyard, as was her daily custom. She found a quiet solace in walking amongst the castle folk, exchanging greetings and grasping hands. Her lord father had done the same; she could still recall the phantom warmth of his arms as he carried her down these very steps when she was but a babe.
“Good morrow, Moll,” Sara offered a warm smile to the old woman waddling toward her on surprisingly small feet, her great belly leading the way.
“A good morrow tae ye, ma lady!” Moll bobbed her head in a bow so deep that Sara caught sight of the fleshy lump at the nape of her neck.
“Oh, Moll,” Sara said, tilting her head. “What is it you have need of now?”
Moll straightened, her piggy eyes widening. “Gods preserve us, ma lady! I mean no offense, but hoo is it ye aye ken when I'm wantin' somethin'?”
Sara chuckled. The old cook had served the keep since before Sara drew her first breath. For all her bawdy japes and fiery temper, the woman could roast a fowl better than any in the Seven Kingdoms.
“My dear Moll, do you take me for a fool, that I cannot read the mind of my favorite lady?”
The cook bobbed another curtsy. “It’s the greens, ma lady. We’re fair run oot, scraped the barrels bare, we have. And the pigs! I maun pick the beasts masel' this time. That last swine Pate brought us had nae near enough fat on its bones. I roasted it slow, basted it all day, but it still didna taste right on the tongue.”
“I thought it quite a fine roast,” Sara said with a slight frown. “But how come we are out of greens?”
“Ate clean away, ma lady! Three heavy meals a day for all these newcomers, how could there be a leaf left? And we're runnin' short on the wheat as well. Wi' all these highborn guests... we simply... I canna... it's ower much, ma lady...”
Already they were costing Winterfell dear, and they had not yet asked the worst of her. Sara reached out and gave the woman's thick shoulder a gentle squeeze. Today was not a day she had the temper to weather Moll’s endless grievances. “I shall speak with Pate and see that it is all sorted as you wish.”
“Oh, bless ye, ma lady,” Moll began, her mouth opening to loose another volley of woes, but Sara excused herself with a graceful smile, fleeing before the old cook could list the dozen other things the kitchens lacked.
The castle and its daily workings were hers to manage, while the vast North beyond the walls belonged to Cregan. It was an unspoken pact between them, forged of circumstance, yet it served them both well. Her lord brother seldom doubted her, though in his darker days he had confessed a lingering dread: that she might one day press a claim to Winterfell. She was the elder, after all, and his own hold had been bruised and weakened by the treachery of their uncle Bennard and his sons. But Sara had sworn by the old gods that she would never play the turncloak. She was a Snow, she had reminded him, not a Stark.
Sara paused upon the landing of the lower levels. The children's lessons were customarily held in the glass gardens, but Ben had been fighting a fever these past days, forcing them to the stone chambers within. As she passed the open door, Anne lifted her head, fixed her with a glare, and promptly returned her eyes to her tome.
It was the greatest victory Sara had won from the girl in a full turn of the moon. For weeks, Anne had offered her stony silence, feigning sleep or turning her back whenever Sara drew near. This is good, Sara told herself as she climbed the stairs. She is nursing her wrath. Soon enough, the ice will crack and she will speak.
Cregan had borne the same worry. If Anne was a wall of ice to Sara, she was drawn steel to her brother, hurling bitter words at the Lord of Winterfell whenever he dared cross her path.
“Brother! Anne glared at me!” Sara announced, pushing open the doors of the council solar. “Soon enough, mayhaps she will—”
Sara stopped dead upon the threshold. The Lord of Winterfell was not alone.
Clad from neck to heel in rich, velvet green, Ser Gwayne Hightower stood before the hearth. He was a tall man, long of limb, with warm brown eyes and hair the hue of spun honey. Sara’s ladies-in-waiting whispered of his looks since the southrons rode through the gates, sighing that he was the finest-looking knight in all the realm. She could scarce dispute the claim without feigning blindness; he was a fair sight to look upon.
“I pray you forgive the intrusion,” she said, her gaze shifting to her brother where he sat at the head of the table. “I had thought you alone, my lord.”
“There is nothing to forgive… my lady.” It was Ser Gwayne who made the reply. “I fear I grew weary of idle hours, and Lord Stark has been good enough to suffer my company this morning.”
Sara attempted a smile, though it was a fleeting thing. Instead, she folded her hands together before her skirt. “Have we bored you so soon, ser?” She met his gaze then, catching the gleam in his warm brown eyes as he looked upon her.
“Not in the least, my lady,” he murmured. “Quite the contrary. I find myself utterly captivated by Winterfell… and all its breathtaking sights.” Does he speak of the keep, or of me? Sara worried her bruised lip once more as the knight went on. “I had hoped, however, for a brisk walk rather than another hour confined to a chair.”
“A restlessness common to all tourney knights, I wager,” Cregan rumbled. “You are welcome to sit with us today when I hold court, Ser Gwayne.”
Sara bit her lip harder, tasting copper. These open courts, held every turn of the moon, were meant to hear the grievances of the bannermen and smallfolk. Tempers often ran hot, arguments flared, and occasionally blows were struck. It was Cregan's way of bleeding out bad blood ere it festered into rebellion, but it was no place for the Queen’s own brother. To bare our fractures before them… to be seen as weak…
“Did Ser Gwayne not just confess a distaste for sitting?” Sara interjected. “I doubt a morning of hearing squabbles will be to his liking.” She shot Cregan a warning look. Her brother answered with a heavy frown; he was no fool, but he was ever too quick to play the accommodating host.
“The lady speaks true,” Gwayne said, shifting his weight. “I mean no slight to your hospitality, Lord Stark, but I would much prefer a mount or a walk about the yard. Confinement suits me poorly.”
“A walk would serve well,” Sara said before Cregan could speak. “I could show you the godswood. I am certain you would find it a mesmerizing sight.”
“I should like that above all things.”
“I must ask you to wait a while, however. It is my custom to attend the morning councils at my lord brother's side.” She tilted her head. “Mayhaps this afternoon?”
The knight's smile dimmed, though it was Cregan who answered. “There is no need for delay. If our guest grows restless, we must see to his comfort. Sara shall escort you now.”
“But the petitions—”
“I believe I can manage the smallfolk for one morning,” Cregan cut her off. “And I shall try speaking with Anne today.”
“No,” Sara said quickly. “She will come to us when her anger has run its course.”
Cregan nodded.
“My lady.” In a heartbeat, Ser Gwayne was at her side, offering his arm, that smile returning to his lips. It was as honeyed as his voice. It would not take a lady long to lose her heart to such a knight, she thought. Yet as she placed her hand upon his arm, she knew that she was no such lady. Her heart was captured, sworn and bound to another.
Jacaerys Velaryon.
The walk itself was not… unpleasant. Yet Sara could have sworn the godswood lay leagues further than she remembered. The knight was courteous enough, making easy conversation on a dozen different matters—the architecture of the keep, th chill of the air, and even a few gentle questions regarding herself. She forced herself to remain polite. She told herself it was his right; he was to be her lord husband, and there was no harm in taking the measure of the man.
But each time she sought to frame a question of her own, the words withered upon her tongue. It was folly, she knew, and she loathed herself for it. But her heart was too loyal, even to a phantom.
The godswood of Winterfell was no man-made garden. No gardener’s shears had ever pruned its branches, no spade had turned its earth. It was older than the keep itself. The trees grew as they willed, twisted, and old, their limbs tangling together, their roots plunging deep into the soil. At the very heart of the wood brooded the heart tree.
Its bark was bone-white, its sprawling canopy a sea of blood-red leaves. A face had been carved deep into the pale trunk, and from its hollow eyes, dark sap had wept and hardened intocrimson tears. At its roots lay a pool of water, black and filled with fallen red leaves.
“This is…” Ser Gwayne gazed up into the blood-red canopy, his easy charm faltering. “I… I confess, my lady, I am at a loss for words.”
“It is a place of the gods, ser. It oft has such an effect.” She shot him a sidelong glance. He prays to the Seven, she reminded herself. Though she had been tutored in the southron faith, she could never fathom why men would bend the knee to new gods when the old ones still watched from the wood.
“I pray you forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, recovering himself. “The godswood in the Red Keep is a rather dull and paltry thing compared to this.”
Another insult, Sara thought, her ire rising. What an ignorant knight he is. It soured her further to think she must share a marriage bed with him. For all his comely looks, the man was proving precisely what he had named the Red Keep's wood: rather dull.
“I have not seen the capital, ser, yet I would wager my life that every weirwood is a thing of beauty. Mayhaps it requires a sharper eye to truly see them.”
“Well, I shall ask you again when you at last visit the city. I am certain you shall change your mind.”
“Mayhaps.” She offered him the falsest smile she could muster. She drew a slow breath. “The old gods watch us through these carved faces,” she told him, her voice steadying. “The weirwoods bear witness to our most sacred vows… our marriages among them.”
“Like the septons in their septs,” he nodded. “Though I imagine your rites ar different.”
“Vastly, ser.” She decided to take the plunge. “I would be wed in the manner of my own people. I ask pardon for my bluntness, but I have no faith in the Seven, and I will not forsake my gods, not even for the lord I am to marry.” Gwayne opened his mouth to reply, but she pressed on, giving him no quarter. “That is my first condition for this betrothal. If you can stomach it, I have but one other.”
“I?” He blinked, pointing a finger to his own chest.
“I would take my sister Anne with us to King's Landing. She is deeply wounded by this pact. My brother has his heir in his son, and Anne will eventually be matched with a suitable lord in her own right.” She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. “She is fiercely protective of me… our bond is not easily severed.”
The Hightower knight smiled, a slow shake of his head stirring his hair. “My lady, your demands are far more modest than I had anticipated. Another in your place might have seized the chance to demand she be made… trueborn.”
“But I shall be. I was given to understand that legitimation was the very bedrock of this marriage pact.”
“Just so,” he agreed. “Once Lord Stark and I have sealed the bargain, that particular condition shall follow as a matter of course.” He took a step closer. Sara’s spine stiffened, and she took a half-step back; she was not accustomed to men pressing so near. Yet he possessed more boldness than she imagined, and he closed the distance again. “There is but one detail, I fear, that your brother has kept from you.”
“Cregan keeps no secrets from me.”
He did not argue the point, merely cast a glance toward the weeping eyes of the weirwood before meeting her gaze once more. “It is not I you are to wed, my lady. The pact is for Prince—”
“My lady!”
A hoarse shout shattered the quiet of the grove. A guardsman was sprinting through the trees, his breath pluming in the air. “Lord Stark demands your presence at once! You as well, Ser Gwayne!”
“What has happened?” Sara demanded, her blood going cold.
“An attack, my lady! Ravens from the Wall… the wildlings are attacking…”
Sara wasted no time in hastening back toward the chamber where she had left her brother. The thought of Cregan facing his council alone with such tidings spurred her steps, turning her swift walk into a near run.
“My lady,” Ser Gwayne called out, his long legs easily matching her pace. “I thought the North was well shielded against such incursions.”
“It is,” Sara cast back over her shoulder. “The black brothers of the Night’s Watch hold the Wall to keep them at bay, but…” She drew a sharp breath as they swept past the gates. “There is still the sea. The Bay of Seals to the east, the Frozen Shore to the west. They might have used the water to cross.”
“But the waters are half-frozen,” the knight objected, his brow furrowed. “Such a crossing demands ships, timber, a captain's discipline. Are these wildlings not mere savages?”
“So the nursery tales claim,” she replied. “Yet in truth, they are flesh and blood, just as you and I.”
“I apologize for my ignorance, my lady. The tales told in the south paint them as rapers and murderers. I had little cause to doubt the truth of it… elsewise, why raise a Wall of solid ice a hundred leagues long to keep them out?”
“It is a common misunderstanding,” she said. “Even here in the North, it is the custom to fear and hate them. But a man caged like a beast in the dark will soon enough bare his fangs. And I would wager my life that there are as many cutthroats and rapers walking the streets of the south as there are beyond the Wall.” Sara halted at the topmost step, turning to face him. “Ser Gwayne, I pray you forgive my asking, but this is no petty southron grievance. I must ask that you do not send word of this to the King.”
Gwayne offered a courtly smile, yet even Sara could see it did not reach his eyes. “My lady, I am a knight. My vows forbid me to speak falsely to my King. I fear I cannot give you the word you seek.”
Sara let out a frustrated breath. She turned her back on him and moved to ascend the final stairs.
“Yet,” Gwayne added swiftly, taking the steps two at a time to catch her, “a man cannot be named a liar for that which he simply forgets to mention.”
Sara paused, dipping her head in a nod. “I thank you, ser. You are too kind.”
“Mayhaps,” he murmured. “Though I confess, Lady Sara… my kindness is easily bought by someone as.. kind as you and lord Stark.”
A heat flared in Sara’s cheeks, she ducked her head to hide the rising flush and hastened toward the doors of the council chamber. Ser Gwayne shadowed her steps, and for the remainder of the walk, neither spoke a word.
The two guardsmen stationed at the doors heaved them open at their approach. It was no shock to find the chamber filled to bursting. Lords and knights were packed so tightly that many were forced to stand, leaning against the wall when the chairs around the table proved too few. What took Sara aback, however, was the ferocity of the shouting.
“…madness, my lord! We must march at once! Call the banners! Sound the horn!” It was Lord Karstark doing the loudest of the bellowing. The stout, grey-bearded man sat near the head of the table. A dozen voices roared their assent, fists pounding against wood as they called for steel and wildling blood.
“We have naught but dark whispers, my lords,” countered Edric Cerwyn. “It would be folly to march before Lord Umber's outriders return with true tidings.”
“Need I remind you, pup,” Jon Karstark snarled, “that Karhold lies nearest to the Last Hearth? Should those savages break through, it is my lands they will reave, my women they will take… Not all of us have the luxury of hiding behind Winterfell's stout walls, safely clinging to Lord Stark's cloak.”
Edric smiled. “My lord, I know well enough where each keep lies. But I also know not to leap blindly into the dark. And if my scant years offend you,” he gave a careless shrug, “know that I am twice as loyal to my liege as some… older men in this chamber.”
Lord Karstark slammed a fist on the table, surging to his feet. “What is the meaning of this insolence? Speak plainly, boy!”
“I should have thought my words were plain enough, my lord,” Edric replied. “Has age deafened your ears as well as clouded your wits?”
“Insolent whelp! You dare speak to me—”
The chamber erupted into a storm of curses and shouted threats until Sara could not tell one voice from the next. The crush of angry lords blocked her path to the empty chair at Cregan’s right hand, and no matter how she pushed, the wall of broad backs would not yield.
A flagon of ale was suddenly dashed against the flagstones, shattering inches from her boots. Ser Gwayne caught her firmly by the arm, pulling her back from the splash. “My lady, mayhaps you ought to remain here at the edge of it.”
“I must reach my brother,” Sara insisted, rising onto her toes, straining to catch Cregan’s eyes.
“Why are they at each other's throats?” Gwayne asked over the clamor.
“They despise Edric,” Sara shouted back. “He is my brother's closest confidant, yet his tongue is sharp as glass. And Lord Karstark hates Cregan most of all… His sister is wed to our uncle Bennard, who rots in the dungeons below our very feet.”
“They harbor treason in their hearts, yet your brother grants them a seat at his council?”
“Of course,” Sara began, attempting once more to forge a path but the angry crowd shoved her backward. She would have lost her footing had Gwayne not caught her.
“Forgive me, my lady,” the southron knight murmured, his hands lingering upon her shoulders to steady her. “But you Northmen are a strange breed. In the south, we do not treat our traitors so kindly.”
“The Karstarks are share the same blood as the Starks,” she told him. “Kin often quarrels… but they remain our blood in the end."
“Enough!” Cregan surged to his feet. “Must we fight a war within our own walls while our enemies ravage our lands? An attack upon any keep in the North is an attack upon me. So we have ruled for a thousand years, and so we remain. If these raids be true… then we march.”
“Just so!” Lord Karstark bellowed. “We must march in full strength! Call the banners! Every man who can hold a sword must ride!”
His bloodlust drew shouts of approval from half the lords, but it sent a cold dread pooling in Sara’s belly. To strip Winterfell of its garrison… it would leave it vulnerable. It was not the wildlings she feared; Winterfell's great walls could withstand a siege for moons on end. But an attack from within… the castle would fall before the sun set.
“Is there word of how these wildlings breached our shores?”Lord Bolton stood in the shadows of the corner, his voice was soft, yet it carried over the murmur of the men. The hearth fire caught the pale reflection of his bald scalp, but little else. He was ever a quiet man, yet to Sara's mind, the most dangerous in the chamber. The nervous, sidelong glances of the lords around him said they shared her dread.
“For moons, ravens from Skagos have spoken of missing fishing skiffs, burned camps upon the shore, whispers of wildlings,” Cregan answered. “Naught that is uncommon.”
“A few stolen skiffs do not explain how a host bypassed Eastwatch-by-the-Sea without the black brothers sending warning,” Lord Bolton said, stepping forward. The throng of men parted for him. “Are we certain these are wildlings?”
“Who else would they be?” Edric asked.
“An army, mayhaps,” Bolton reasoned. “One with enough longships and steel to inflict such damage. That would explain the silence from the Wall.”
“It matters not who they are!” Karstark roared. “We are under attack, and we must answer with steel immediately!”
“Or it could be a lie!” Sara’s voice rang out.
Every head in the solar snapped toward her, but it was Karstark who spat, “A lie? What lie? And to what end?”
“I do not know,” Sara kept her chin high. “Men find a hundred reasons to lie, my lord, and the truth is rarely plain. This is a grave risk. The North has only just stopped bleeding from our own wars. I beg you, my lords, let us understand the true shape of our foe before we draw our swords. We must not repeat the mistakes of the past.”
“Mistakes?” Lord Karstark snorted. He thrust a finger toward her. “The only mistake I see in this hall is you.”
“Hold your tongue!” Edric surged forward, near ready to lunge at the old lord, but Cregan’s hand clamped down on his friend's arm, holding him fast.
“My sister shall not be mocked in my own halls, Lord Karstark,” Cregan said. “You will beg her pardon this instant, or you will take your leave.”
“I shall beg pardon of no bastard, nor will I leave,” Karstark defied him, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. “I hold my right to a voice in this council. Or would you swallow your own words, Lord Stark?”
“My word is iron,” Cregan replied. “This council was called that we might rule as one, and as my sister said, to avoid the follies of the past. But I will not suffer any slight against Lady Sara. To disrespect her is to disrespect me. So I say once more: beg her pardon, or walk out that door.”
The old lord glared at Sara, then at Cregan. With a shake of his head, he turned on his heel and marched for the doors, a dozen knights and a smattering of lesser lords trailing in his wake. As he passed Sara, he stopped, his gaze raking over her from head to heel. She had borne such looks all her life—looks of disgust, looks that screamed baseborn, looks that wished her dead and buried. She had learned the armor for such things; learned to draw power from their scorn rather than shame.
But the fire in Lord Karstark's eyes was a different one. It was a pure venom. She could not blame him, in truth. In his mind, Sara was the sole reason his nephews would never rule Winterfell. He muttered something under his breath—one that drew cruel chuckles from his knights—and swept from the hall.
“Very well,” Cregan declared to the ranks. “Let us put it to the vote. All who say we march, stand to the left. All who counsel patience, stand to the right.”
Sara watched as Lord Mormont and Edric exchanged a jape and moved to the right. Lord Bolton drifted to join them, followed by Desmond Manderly. Soon, the right side of the chamber was heavy with men. Even the strange, Lord Reed, took his place on the right, though not before offering Sara a smile.
“It is decided, then,” Cregan said, leaning upon the table. “We hold our strength. And we wait for Lord Umber's raven.”
Anne
Anne stood in the nursery, watching Rickon in his cradle. He was but a few moons old, not yet able to walk nor even crawl, yet these past weeks she had found she preferred his company above all others. Gretchel, his nursemaid, had just taken her leave to seek her own rest, and while Anne had sworn to watch over the babe, she had made no promises about not picking him up.
She reached carefully into the furs, slipping her hands beneath him. “You are too heavy!” she declared with a grunt as she heaved him upward. “Why must you be so heavy?”
The little boy answered her with a fit of giggles and his usual, wet babbling. Summoning all her strength, Anne carried him to the window to watch the sun sink below the castle walls.
“Look,” she murmured to Rickon. “The lords are taking their leave at last.” Heavy wheelhouses were rumbling through the gates, trailed by horses and smaller wayns.
Anne gnawed at her lower lip. One of these departing lords might be the very man Sara was to wed. Or, mayhaps, it would be that ugly southron knight, Anne had seen Sara walking with him in the yard just this morn… and both had been smiling.
“I do not want Sara to go,” she whispered, watching another wheelhouse vanish into the fading light. “I know you do not want it either. She has cared for you ever since Arra died.” Anne hiked him higher against her chest as he began to slip. “When you are of my years, Sara will tell you tales of your lady mother… more than she ever told me. She and Arra were as close as sisters.”
No, I am her only sister, Anne thought. Though she had loved Arra well enough and wept when the childbed fever took her, it was she and Sara who shared the deepest bond. Or so she had always believed.
“No matter,” she went on. “I have a plan to make her stay and I shall have need of your help.”
Rickon's only reply was to shove a chubby fist into his mouth. “You must fall ill! I know it is a foul thing to ask, but Sara would never leave Winterfell if one of us were sick. I had thought to use Ben, for he is ever tired and coughing, but he is a craven and cannot be trusted. But you,” she peered into his wide eyes. “You will not breathe a word to a soul, will you?”
Another wet giggle bubbled from the babe. Anne pressed a kiss to his soft crown. “I pray you forgive me,” she whispered. “Pray, do not hate me for this.”
She cast one last glance toward the window before turning back. This dark seed of a thought had taken root days ago. She knew the wickedness of it, yet she saw no other path. She had lost her father and mother; their faces were already slipping into the fog of forgotten things in her mind. She was terrified she would forget Sara’s face as well. She could not bear it. She would not.
“Forgive me,” she murmured to Rickon before opening her arms and letting him fall to the hard stone floor.
As the gods would have it, the door swung open in that very instant. The babe's crying was loud, yet her sister's cry rang louder still.
“Alysanne! What have you done!” Sara rushed forward, dropping to her knees to gather the weeping babe into her arms.
“I… I didn’t know….”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, Alysanne?” Her hands flew over Rickon, searching for broken bones, before she scrambled to her feet and fled the chamber.
Anne darted after her, running down the corridor. “Where are you taking him?”
“To the maester! He must be looked to at once. What possessed you to drop him so?”
“I did not mean to!” Anne lied, her voice trembling. “He slipped from my grasp.”
“Do not speak lies to me, Alysanne!” Sara tried to soothe the squalling child, but it was of no use. By the time they neared the maester's turret, Rickon’s face was a mottled, angry red. “You should be thoroughly ashamed! Your jealousy of Ben I can understand, but to do harm to a babe… your own blood… Alysanne, I have never been so gravely disappointed in you.”
“Stop calling me that!” Anne shrieked. She put on a burst of speed, darting ahead to block the corridor, forcing her sister to halt. “You always call me Anne! I despise my true name.”
“Aly—”
“I said do not call me that!” Anne heaved a ragged breath, tears suddenly spilling over her cheeks. “Yes, I dropped him! And do you know why? Because of you! You mean to leave me, just as mother and father did. You care so little for me that you will not even stay!”
“And harming Rickon is your answer?”
“I did not mean to do him true hurt! I only wanted you to fear for him, to stay here where you belong, with us! I do not want you to wed!” Anne sobbed so fiercely that Rickon ceased his wailing, burying his tear-streaked face against his aunt’s chest. “Every night…” Anne hiccuped. “I weep… thinking I shall be alone again… like in the dark days of the war. I cannot bear it.”
“Oh, Anne…This is no choice of mine. I have no wish to be wed either.”
“Then do not do it!”
“I must. It is my duty. And one day, the very same duty will be required of you. But I shall never truly leave you, Anne, I—”
“Lady Sara, is something amiss?” The ugly knight was hurrying down the corridor toward them. Anne knew not which archway he had emerged from, only that he brushed past her without a glance to take his place at Sara’s side. “Are you well, my lady?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Oh, yes… it is a small misunderstanding.” Sara smiled at him. She smiled at him!
“Is there anything I might do to aid you?” the knight pressed.
“You are too kind, ser. I…”
They were ignoring her. Anne's tears meant nothing to Sara now. Once, her sister would have taken her into her arms and stroked her hair. Now, she looked right through her… or worse, saw her and cared not. All Sara cared for was her southron knight, with his stupid honeyed hair, his foul smile, and the cloying stink of southron roses that trailed him everywhere.
Anne stepped forward. With a hand as quick as a viper, she snatched the dagger from the knight's belt.
“Alysanne!” Sara screamed. “Put that down! Put it down this instant!”
“No!” Anne shrieked back.
“Child,” the southron knight said, taking a cautious step toward her, but Anne matched him, taking a swift step back. “Do as your lady sister bids.”
“This is no concern of yours,” Anne spat. “We do not want you here! Sara and Cregan are merely too polite to say it.”
“Then I shall take my leave, if it pleases you so.”
“Without Sara?” Anne challenged.
The knight hesitated, his gaze flickering back to Sara. “She is not mine to take.”
“Alysanne,” Sara pleaded. “Put the blade down.”
“No!” she screamed once more. She brought the dagger up, catching hold of her own braid and she sheared the hair away, cutting it bare to the scalp. The black locks fell to the floor like dead things. “You will stay, or you will take me with you!”
Both Sara and the knight stood frozen, their mouths agape in stunned silence. Only Rickon made answer, blowing a wet bubble of air and offering a soft giggle.
Cregan
Sara took her seat before the roaring hearth, extending her legs toward the flames. “Rickon is well,” she told him. “Anne is too small to do any true harm. I have only just put the babe to sleep.”
“And Anne?”
Sara sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions of her chair. “She wept her tears dry, suffered me to hold her, and then begged pardon of Ser Gwayne.”
Cregan laughed. “Did she truly?"
“You should not laugh,” Sara nudged his shin with the toe of her boot. “Alysanne needs a firm hand, and I fear I have failed to provide it. I need you to speak with her.”
“On the morrow,” Cregan promised.
“We must control her anger… you know well why.”
“Has she done it again?”
“No, I have kept a close watch upon her… but rage is the very thing that makes her do it without knowing.”
They sat in silence, watching the embers glow. The wolf hour was Cregan’s favored time of day, if only for its stillness. Yet he feared true peace would be a stranger to Winterfell for a long while to come. He cast a sidelong glance at his sister. “I thank you,” he murmured. “For what you did today.”
“I did nothing,” Sara shifted in her seat. “The lords would have voted the same, with or without my words.”
“Mayhaps. But it was you who flushed the Karstark from the room.”
“That was your doing, my lord.” Sara offered a tired smile.
Cregan wished he had the words to tell her how deeply he valued her. Sara was his truest ally, his greatest confidant, the only soul who truly understood him. And now, he was bound to cast her away to the south. He looked down at his rough hands, unable to meet her gaze.
“It is Prince Aemond… The marriage pact is for Prince Aemond.”
“I…The One-Eye?”
Cregan nodded. “I ask your forgiveness, sister. It seems the Queen is hungry for Northern swords… and she will not rest until she binds House Stark to her cause. It is either you or—”
“I understand,” Sara cut him short, sparing him the rest. “We shall speak of this later. First, we must know the truth of this army marching upon our lands.”
Cregan nodded, reaching out to grasp her arm. “A raven?”
“yes”
He squeezed her hand. “Be careful.”
She smiled before her eyes rolled back, showing milky white. Her hand went slack, slipping from his grasp as her chin fell to her chest.
Cregan could only watch. He had never truly understood the logic of it. Sara had explained it to him once—that the blood of the First Men ran thickest in their veins, granting them the power to slip their own skins and ride inside the beasts of the wood. Yet whenever Cregan sought that same communion… he failed. From Sara’s reckonings, Anne shared the same gift, though the girl herself knew nothing of the power within her.
The blood of the First Men slumbers in us all, Sara had told him, but a deep wound must wake it. For Anne, it had been the sudden death of their lady mother. Cregan had never dared ask what sorrow had broken Sara enough to awaken hers. He only knew he was profoundly grateful for it; he had won every battle with her eyes watching from the skies above.
Suddenly, Sara gave a violent gasp, her body jerking against the chair.
“What happened?” Cregan dropped to his knees before her, gripping her shoulders as she fought for breath.
“I was struck down by an arrow,” she gasped, her hands trembling as though she could still feel the phantom shaft piercing her heart. “It was… it was as though they were waiting for me.”
“How could that be?”
“I know not,” Sara whispered. “Let me try once more.”
Cregan held both her hands as she slipped the skin again. He watched her try, and try again, her body twitching and gasping in the chair. But each time, she was jolted violently back to her own flesh. No matter the beast she wore or the direction she flew, they shot her from the sky.
“Enough!” Cregan commanded, shaking her awake. “Do not try again.”
“It is as if they knew my mind… they knew I was coming… yet I saw no one… what if—" Suddenly, the words died on her lips. Her gaze fixed over his shoulder.
When Cregan turned, he saw it too. Perched upon the stone sill of the frosted window, a large black raven sat watching them.
The Long Night comes with the Dance of the Dragons, and the fate of the realm falls into the hands of Sara Snow, can she stop the turning of fate or will her heart be the ruin of them all?
Tags: Alternate Universe, The Long Night , Slow Burn, Enemies to Reluctant Allies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage, Political Marriage, Love Triangle, Mutual Pining, Wargs & Warging , Skinchangers & Skinchanging, Multiverse, Northern Politics, Civil War, Family, Found Family, Sibling Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Coming of Age, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut
Chapter 1: The Dragon
I am my sister’s keeper. She is of my flesh, as I am of hers. A strange thing it is, how her face is lost to me now… It is her tales I do remember. She ever wove the finest of stories.
Sara
Sara Snow closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar air of her bedchamber. The fighting was done. She no longer had to sleep upon the freezing earth or endure endless, grueling days in the saddle. Better still, Cregan sat the high seat of Winterfell at last. She had just turned onto her side when a sudden scraping at the window shattered her peace.
The war had sharpened her senses and made her reflexes dangerously quick. Slipping from the furs, she threw a robe over her shoulders and approached the shutters.
Down in the ward stood Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. He smiled up at her making her own lips open with an answering smile, despite her surprise. He gestured urgently with one hand. Come down.
Why? she gestured back, a flick of the wrist.
Just come here, he signaled.
Sara gnawed at her lower lip. One minute, she signaled, holding up a single finger. He gave a quick wave and melted back into the shadows.
Winterfell was huge, and on any other night, the yards would be thick with guardsmen. But Cregan had divided his host twice over, leaving the castle's corridors half-empty, making Sara slip through the shadows, unnoticed by the few watchmen on duty.
"Jace!" she whispered as she found him in the dark. "What are you doing out here?"
Jacaerys turned, but his smile vanished the moment his eyes swept over her. "What are you wearing?"
Sara looked down. "My nightgown."
He unfastened his cloak without a word. "You will catch a chill," he muttered, stepping close to drape it over her shoulders.
His hands lingered there. He always looked impossibly handsome— whether crusted in mud, astride his horse, or upon the back of his dragon. Now, with his face mere inches from hers, the heat of his body warding off the wind... Sara's breath hitched. She wanted him to lean in. She wanted his lips...
She gave her head a sharp shake, forcing the thought away. "Was there something you needed, my prince?"
"Oh... I," he stammered slightly, dropping his hands and taking a half-step back. "I was thinking of you. The truth is, I could not find sleep, and I found myself wishing to see you."
Sara smiled. "I was thinking of you as well."
He raised a brow. "Were you?"
"You are leaving on the morrow... I was thinking of that."
Jace grimaced. "Come. There is someone I want you to meet."
"At the hour of the wolf?"
"He is shy," Jace explained. "But he is exceedingly eager to meet you, seeing as I speak of you half the time, and think of you the other half."
Sara felt a hot flush rush to her cheeks, deeply grateful for the dark. "Who is this person?"
Jace offered his hand. "He waits for us in the godswood."
She took his hand, unable to suppress her smile. "We ought to hurry, then, before the watchmen catch sight of us."
His fingers entwined with hers, and Sara's heart gave a flutter against her ribs. When she had first met the prince, she had thought him arrogant and proud. But as the moons turned, the distance between them had melted away, until walking by his side felt like the most natural thing in the world.
She had never held a man's hand before. In truth, no man had ever touched her save her brother. She had always supposed her first touch would belong to whatever lordling she was eventually married off to, but somehow, with Jace, it did not feel wicked. It felt right.
"It is a fine night," she murmured, looking up at the stars.
"It is," Jace agreed softly. "I think I shall miss the clear skies of the North most of all."
She looked at him. "Truly? That is what you will miss?"
Jace chuckled, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "Of course not."
The rest of the walk was swallowed by the silence of the sleeping castle, though Sara was certain he could hear the beating of her heart. They stepped into the gloom of the godswood, stopping before the pale trunk of the heart tree.
"Where is this... someone?" Sara asked, peering into the deep shadows of the trees. "Or was the prince telling falsehoods?"
"The prince could never lie to you, Sara," Jace said. He turned to face her. "One look into your eyes is enough to strip a man of his falsehoods."
"Jace..."
"I wish I were not leaving," he whispered. "I wish... I could stay here. With you."
"I wish it too," Sara said, the sudden sting of tears blurring her vision. "Jace, do not leave."
"My mother has need of me," he said, taking both of her hands in his and pulling her close against his chest. "Duty comes for us all."
"Duty," Sara echoed.
But before the sorrow could fully settle between them, the chill suddenly retreated. The red, weeping leaves of the weirwood tree began to tremble, though there was no wind.
Sara gasped, taking a step backward, but Jace's hand tightened around hers, holding her in place. "Do not," he murmured.
The darkness parted and a massive head slithered into the moonlight. Sara felt the breath leave her lungs. She had seen the dragon from afar, but up close, Vermax was a… terrifying. His scales were a deep olive-green, spikes of obsidian ran down the length of his crest, and his eyes... his eyes were gold.
As he drew closer, the heat radiating from his scaled hide made the winter frost weep into water around his claws.
The blood of the First Men screamed at Sara to run, to flee this creature of fire and blood that had no place in the sacred quiet of the godswood. But Jace stepped forward, drawing her with him, until they stood mere inches from the dragon's smoldering maw.
"Vermax," Jace said softly, reaching up to lay a hand upon the dragon's snout. The dragon let out a huff of hot breath, closing his eyes at his rider's touch. Then, the great head swiveled.
The eyes locked onto Sara.
She froze. The dragon lowered his head until he was perfectly level with her. He was so close she could see the jagged rows of teeth, black as iron, and feel the heat of his breath washing over her face, smelling of ash.
Vermax inhaled deeply, a long, snuffling breath that drew in the scent of her. Dragons were not mere beasts; the maesters wrote that they possessed a cunning that rivaled men, that they were tethered to the souls of their riders.
Vermax let out a low, rumbling sound in his chest. Slowly the dragon leaned forward and nudged his snout against Sara's trembling shoulder. The force of it nearly knocked her off balance, but it was surprisingly gentle, a demand for acknowledgment.
Jace laughed. "Touch him."
Sara hesitated, her hand trembling as she raised it. Slowly, she pressed her palm flat against the side of the dragon's jaw. His scales were not slimy like a snake's, nor rough like stone; they were smooth and incredibly hard at the same time.
Vermax let out another purr, leaning into her touch.
"I do not believe it," Jace whispered, his eyes wide with wonder. "He is fiercely protective of me... he does not suffer strangers gladly. Even the dragonkeepers must approach him with caution."
Sara stroked the scales. "Why does he permit me, then?"
"Because he knows," Jace said. He stepped closer, his free hand coming to rest lightly upon her waist. "Dragons share the hearts of their riders, Sara. He feels what I feel."
Sara looked up, the golden reflection of the dragon's eye illuminating the sharp, angles of Jace's face. "And what is it you feel, Jace?" she asked.
He stepped closer. "That I am undone," he confessed. "I flew North to win the war, but it is you that has conquered me. I love you, Sara."
Sara opened her mouth, the words swelling in her chest, but before she could voice them, Vermax's head snapped up.
The dragon let out a shriek that rattled the frozen branches of the weirwood. Without warning, he uncoiled his frame and launched himself toward the sky. The draft of his leathery wings hit them , Jace threw his arms around her, shielding her with his body as the wind swept their feet from beneath them.
They crashed hard into the snowdrift banked against the heart tree's roots. Sara blinked through the flurry of falling snow and settling leaves. When she opened her eyes, Jace was hovering directly above her. He had braced his weight on his forearms to keep from crushing her, but his hips were pressedto hers, his curls dusted with snow.
He leaned in, and his lips met hers. Sara let out a soft gasp, her hands rising to tangle in hair the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The cold of the snow seeping through her nightgown was forgotten, burned away by the heat of his mouth.
When they finally broke apart, both of them gasping for air, Sara stared up into his eyes. "I love you as well," she whispered. "I love you, Jace."
He rested his forehead against hers. "Then I will take you as my wife."
She reached up, gently tracing the line of his jaw. "Jace... it is a sweet dream. But it is impossible."
"It is not."
"I am a Snow," she said. "I am baseborn. A bastard. Princes do not wed the daughters of whores. The realm would never suffer it. Your mother would never permit such a stain upon your honor."
"You do not know my mother. She knows better than anyone the cruelty of names. She will not care whether you are a Stark or a Snow. She will only see the girl who holds my heart, and the brave northern girl who stood steadfast by my side. I know she will love you as I do."
Sara searched his eyes, looking for the lie, the naive hope of a boy. But she found only the iron certainty of a man who meant to rule the Seven Kingdoms. "I cannot wait to meet her, then," Sara said, a tear finally slipping free to cut a hot track down her cheek.
Jace smiled, lowering his lips to kiss the tear away. "And I wish to meet Anne, and Ben. Properly, this time. Not merely through the stories you tell me, but as their brother."
He leaned down again, capturing her lips in another kiss. "Wait for me," Jace murmured against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. "Swear you will wait for me, Sara."
"I swear."
Anne
One year after the war.
"…Long ago.. in the heart of winter…there was a castle… and on the very top of that castle.. there was a very tall tower.." Anne drew closer to the bed, squinting into the gloom. She could not see Sara’s face, only the silhouettes cast by her carved wooden toys, looming against the stone wall like a dark fortress.
"And on top of that tower was… a bedroom with a quite tall ceiling . Two children slept on the top of the world." the shadow suddenly changed to be more like a bedroom. Anne gasped and clapped her hand as Sara continued. "Correction, they were never asleep, no matter what they were told.. they were for sure, riotous. And they were—"
"Mayhaps they had no liking for sleep!” Ben shouted from her left.
A flash of sour irritation seized Anne. He had no right to intrude upon them this eve; Sara's tales were meant for her ears alone. Her little brother was ever mocking the stories, a slight she despised almost as much as she despised the boy himself.
"Well, no one really does like to sleep, it is quite dull," Sara's voice drifted from the dark. “Yet there are times we must bear what we do not like, for the greater good.”
"What is the greater good?" Ben asked.
"A duty to ourselves and our kin. To be as gentle and true as the gods allow.”
"And if we—"
"Shut up!" Anne cut him off. Ben was but two years her younger, yet in her eyes, any who lacked her years was a mere puling babe. “I want to hear the end of Sara's tale!.”
Ben turned red, his black eyes blinking rapidly in the shadows. “Anne!” Sara stepped forth from behind the velvet hangings of the bed. “You shall not speak to your brother in such a tone.”
"B-but he was making a clamor! He cares not for your tales, Sara, and he speaks cruelties of me."
Ben began to weep—soft sobs at first that soon swelled into wails. The din grew so loud that Anne could no longer hear Sara's words, though she knew well enough she was being sharply chastised for making the boy cry once more.
Sara gathered Ben into her arms, patting his back and murmuring to him in a voice as soft as silk. Anne could do nothing but watch as her sister bore their brother to his bed across the chamber. It was another grievance Anne nursed bitterly—sharing her bedchamber with him. Yet she held her tongue this night. Sara had promised her a chamber of her own right soon, and Sara’s words were iron; she never spoke a falsehood.
“I want to hear the rest of the tale,” Anne demanded when Sara returned to take her hand.
“In time,” her sister replied, settling upon the mattress beside her. “On the morrow, mayhaps.” She cast a glance toward Ben's quieted form. “Your brother has need of sleep.”
Anne blew out an angry breath and threw herself back against the pillows. “I hate him.”
Sara leaned next to her. “Hatred is a heavy burden, sweetling. Would you truly wield such a word against your own blood?”
Anne hesitated. Ben was insufferable, a constant vexation, and a boy ! Yet Sara had warned her once that hate was a ravenous beast, one that would gnaw at her from the inside out. “I do not hate him.” She turned to look into her sister’s deep blue eyes. Mine are grey, she thought, like Ben's and Cregan's... why could the gods not make me like her? She drew a long, shuddering breath. “I only wish... I wish him to be more like me.”
Sara offered a gentle smile. She smoothed the tangled black locks from Anne’s face, and the younger girl closed her eyes at the touch. “Oh, my love… it is our differences that lend us strength. Were we all same, I swear to you, we will not survive a single turn of the moon. Your brother has need of you, just as you have need of him.”
“I have no need of him!” Anne protested fiercely. “I have you.”
Sara kissed her brow in answer, drawing her close against her chest. She was warm, ever warm, even in the bitterest depths of winter; Sara's embrace was a hearth fire to ward off the chill. But Anne was a bit greedy. Not much though, only a little. She hungered for more of that warmth, and more than anything else, she wanted the end of the tale. She pulled back just enough to meet Sara’s gaze.
“Will you share my bed this night? I had the waking terror again.” That much, at least, was no lie, though she had learned some five moons past that invoking the nightmare was the surest way to keep her sister at her side.
Sara was just about to yield when the door swung open upon its iron hinges.
“My lady, I pray you forgive the late hour,” wheezed an aged servant woman, pausing at the threshold. “Lord Cregan commands your presence.”
The summons itself was nothing out of the ordinary for the sisters. Their elder brother often had need of Sara, even for the most trifling of tasks; she was a year older, and to Anne’s mind, possessed far more wit and merriment. Yet a strange ill ease hung in the air this night. A sorrow swam in the old serving woman's eyes, and Sara spoke no word to Anne before she took her leave.
Anne waited until their footsteps faded down the corridor. Throwing off her furs, she leapt from the mattress and hurried to the door, pressing her ear against the wood.
“What are you doing?” Anne near jumped at the sound of Ben’s voice.
“Hold your tongue,” she hissed through the gloom. “Go back to sleep.”
“You are eavesdropping again,” Ben said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Sara said it is a base and wicked thing to do.”
“She also bade us seek out our own truths,” Anne whispered fiercely.
“That is not the same.”
“It is!”
“It is not!” His voice was rising, and Anne feared his clamor would soon expose her.
“If you do not close your eyes this instant,” she threatened, blowing out an impatient breath, “I shall have my dragon eat you.”
“Ha!” Her brother stuck out his tongue. “You have no dragon!”
Anne narrowed her eyes and stalked slowly toward his bed. In answer, the boy shrank back against his pillows. She drew herself up, mimicking Sara's regal bearing as best she could. The tale of the Dragon Queen was her most cherished of stories, perhaps because she was named after her.
“Is that so? And what, pray tell, was locked in the stables this morn, that Sara would not suffer us to see?”
“A horse!” her brother squeaked, clutching his blankets tighter to his chest. He made a brave show of it, but he was no match for her. Anne fixed him with an unwavering stare, Ben gave a violent shudder and pulled the furs over his head.
One victory at a time. Well pleased with herself, Anne eased the door ajar. Finding the corridor empty, she slipped into a narrow, winding passageway meant only for the castle servants. In the black of the wolf hour, there was not a soul to bear witness to her prowling. The thrill of it took her, and she bounded down the stone steps two at a time, reaching the bottom landing in the space of but a few heartbeats.
Dropping to her hands and knees, she crept beneath the high, arched window that looked down upon the kitchens. Muffled voices and barks of laughter drifted through the glass. It was a lingering wonder to her how the castle folk slept so little yet managed all their labors; Anne herself required at least half a night's rest merely to focus on her lessons, and more still if she was meant to sit a horse.
Nearing the Great Hall, she rounded a corner to the left and froze as though turned to stone. Crooked-nosed Maggy was coming down the hall, the yellow glow of her oil lantern casting long shadows, a guardsman walking in step beside her.
“…and I told the wretched woman that if I ever caught her so much as glancing at the new bedchambers, the lord himself would hear of it,” the old woman was saying. “I have had my fill of that girl!”
The crone could not see Anne, for the girl was small and swallowed by the pitch of the night. Yet as Maggy passed, Anne twisted her features into a wicked mockery of the old woman's face. If ever she were to wield the word hate, it would most certainly be meant for Maggy.
But she could not let the hag delay her now. The time will come for that old crone, she promised herself, scurrying up the spiraling steps toward the chamber where Lord Cregan held his councils.
“I do not understand. How did it come to this?” It was Sara’s voice, ringing out so sharply through the timber that Anne had no need to press her ear against the oak.
“Greed,” Cregan answered. “And a hunger for power. The whole of the realm knows of the bitter enmity between the Queen and the Princess. This is their chance to gather swords and banners.”
“To what end?”
“The Queen shall never suffer the Princess to ascend the Iron Throne. Not while she has three sons of her own blood.”
“But it is treason!” Sara insisted. “Besides, the Princess has been the named heir for near on twenty years. The lords of the realm bent the knee and swore their oaths to her.”
“Words are wind,” Cregan replied bitterly. “These southerns care nothing for oaths and promises. They break them as easily as they break their bread.”
Anne eased the door open a fraction. Through the narrow crack, she could spy Sara seated by the hearth, while their brother paced the floorboards. Cregan was clad in leather and a heavy fur cloak. Has he been out in the yard? Anne wondered. Fresh snow dusted his broad shoulders, yet he had supped with them inside the keep. She leaned closer as Sara rose to face him, a tightly rolled scroll of parchment was in her grip.
“You know full well what they intend with such a visit. The Queen's own brother.” Sara shook her head, the firelight catching in her hair. “You cannot suffer them to come.”
“Sara, I cannot refuse guest right to the Commander of the City Watch. A Hightower match is no small thing, Sara. Refusing the Queen’s brother would be taken as insult.”
“Then let it be an insult!” Sara cried. “Where was the Crown when we bled for a year? They sent no swords to our aid. They did not so much as answer our ravens.”
The war. Anne closed her eyes, Sara had forbidden her from leaving the keep back then, yet Anne had always found a way to slip past the guards, searching for Cregan.
“Sister.” Their brother stopped his pacing and laid a hand upon Sara's shoulder. “When have I ever stood against you? In this matter, as in all others, you speak the truth. But those are turbulent times. I cannot simply turn them away.”
What times? Anne thought. The war had been over these past twelve moons. The Boltons had bent the knee at last, accepting her brother as their liege lord, swearing fealty and promising an end to their rebellion. Their uncle Bennard and his sons rotted in the dungeons still! Alaric andAnne played together at times, though she had never liked the boy; little Ben was of a far better sort, and she—
“I will not give them Anne!” Sara’s sudden shout cut through the chamber, sending a violent shiver down Anne's spine. This is about me. She leaned closer, her breath catching in her throat. “She is but a child, with years yet before she flowers.” Sara pulled away from their brother's touch, stalking toward the window.
“And what would you have me do?” Cregan demanded. “They come bearing a marriage pact for the Queen's brother. Unless you would have me wed him to our treacherous uncle, we are bound to treat with them.”
“I will not give them Anne,” she repeated fiercely.
“Sara…”
“You have two sisters, my lord.” Sara turned back from the glass to face him.
"You cannot truly mean—”
“But I do,” Sara said, cutting him short. “This entire folly is of my own making, and it is unjust that you or Anne should bear the cost of it.”
“But it is only idle whispers! Would you shackle yourself to guilt over a lie?”
“It was no lie,” Sara’s voice rose sharply. She turned away from their lord brother, dragging a hand through her dark hair.
“What are you saying?” Cregan demanded. When she offered no reply, an flush crept up his neck. Anne felt a cold sweat break across her own shoulders. “Answer me.”
“Have I not been a true and loyal sister?” Sara asked him. “Did I not help to free you when our uncle threw you in the cells? I have proven my fealty, even when your own lady mother had—”
“I have not forgotten what you did for me… for Anne and Ben as well. But this… this is a different matter entirely.”
Sara wrapped her arms tightly about her own chest. In the shadowed corridor, hot tears pricked at Anne’s eyes. Cregan had no right to speak to her so. Anne had never known her mother; she had been but three name-days old when the lady passed, a year after Ben’s birth. It was Sara who had raised her, Sara who had guarded them when their uncle Bennard would have seen them dead. How could Cregan use such a tone with her now?
“I fear at times, brother, that you forget I am but a girl, and not our father… though you are never quick to forget the taint of my birth.”
Cregan cast his gaze to the floor. “I meant no slight, Sara…”
“I know the sight of me brings shame to you, and to the honor of your House. I only ask that you do not judge me for a moment's folly. And… it was not as the tales claim. A simple kiss it was. We were alone, the war was upon us, and we had need of… of hope.”
Cregan nodded, yet he stepped further away from her. “The prince shall be betrothed soon. To his Velaryon cousin, I should think… And if not her, then…”
“To a highborn lady. Not a bastard.” Sara finished the thought for him. She wiped a tear from her cheek. Anne’s chest ached so fiercely she clutched at the fabric of her shift. “I shall keep Anne safe. But we must also weigh what this pact means… and how our house might reap an advantage from it.”
“You would leave us?” Cregan turned back to look at her. “Leave me?”
No, no, no, no. “Yes,” Sara answered.
Anne could no longer stifle her gasp. It tore from her throat, loud enough to echo in the high-vaulted chamber. Both her siblings snapped their heads toward the door, but Anne didn't care if they had discovered her. Sara was leaving. She was going to lose her.
She fled down the corridors toward her bedchamber, hot tears blinding her, turning the stone keep into a blurred haze. She did not stop until she reached her bed.
Throwing the iron latch behind her, she buried her face in the mattress, pulling the furs over her head. Soon came the pounding of fists against the wood, and Sara’s desperate calls. "Anne! Open the door!”
She would not. In time, the tears dried upon her cheeks, and the pleading of Sara's voice faded into silence.
Anne prayed fiercely to the gods that the waking dream would not claim her this night. But the gods of the First Men were deaf and cold, for she dreamed she was in the stables once more, bedded down in the straw alongside the animals as though she were one of them. This time, however, a bitter fury coiled inside her—an urge to draw blood. She bounded toward the stable doors, but the wolf was there waiting. Its eyes were an icy blue, its bulk so massive it struck a terror into her heart.
Yet the great beast had never brought her to harm. It only lapped at her face with a rough, warm tongue and curled itself beside her in the straw.
She was warm again… for now.
This new fic will be a very slow burn and will most likely be more North/Stark centered!
Little Aemond trying to climb Vhagar. This is something silly but I had it in my sketch pile for a hot minute and I felt it was unfair not to color it😭
A little something something special for @vixxiesims 🫶🏻
really really love this daeron i love his sensitive observant gaze i love his quiet placid nature i loveddddd his creepy cultish forcible indoctrination into masculinity i love that he is already war crimes mcgee. he’s only six seconds old
the way he imitates the gentle paternalistic chivalric misogyny of like we must be polite to women and how as we show them out and protect them for Ormund to shatter the illusion and explain that manhood is about power and carnage and violent punishment of those you can deem as lesser…
