Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

16th Day of the 11th Moon

The Spider

On days like this, Varys could not help but marvel at the whim of the gods. A furious storm had raged through the narrow sea for days, and many ships were sunk. Better yet, the direwolf and mermen sails had not been seen arriving anywhere from Gulltown to the Pebbles. It seemed like wolves made for poor swimmers. The Spider cared little about godly matters, but was this what it meant to have divine favour?

A king's death was a heavy blow, and someone had to take the fall for it. Barristan Selmy's dismissal brought great amusement to Varys. It chaffed the old knight's honour to be the first white cloak dismissed, but his protests fell on deaf ears. Not that he'd do anything but object, which would smear his precious knightly honour.

Still, even the stoic Barristan could not take the humiliation of dismissal before the whole court, and he threw away his cloak, arms, and armour before the empty Iron Throne and stormed out.

Jaime Lannister's ascension to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard rankled Selmy greatly, but he had more sense after decades in court than to insult the younger and just as capable knight to his face. He could object… but there was nobody to object to, for the boy-king had decided to skip the court session. Still, the now-former commander had made his way to the White Sword Tower and dutifully inked down his dismissal in the White Book before vanishing with nary a trace.

Or, well, disappearing for those who had no eyes or ears.

Did honour and duty turn all men of Westeros into fools?

Alas, the boy-king was not even there, too absorbed in his new pleasures; the new Queen's chambers were oft visited, much to Myrielle Lannister's dismay. Varys knew little about the art of lovemaking, but even he knew the woman ought not to cry in pain.

By sunset, Selmy was out in the city, wrapped in an old traveller's cloak, looking no different than a tired old greybeard. The disgraced knight brought a room for the night in a dingy inn near the docks, and the begging brother immediately saw him on a lonely table as he entered the dreary establishment.

Now was the perfect opportunity. Eddard Stark and his ships had disappeared into a storm… a tragic thing, but it only meant the gods were smiling upon him.

"Do you mind if I sit here, Ser?" He rasped out.

Barristan scrunched up his nose at the smell but just shrugged, gulping down a tankard of ale. Despite the nonchalance, Varys could not help but feel the man before him was as dangerous as ever.

"Dear Lord Commander, you look like you've seen better days," he tittered idly. The knight froze, his pale eyes stabbing into the eunuch like a pair of sharp swords.

"Spider," Selmy grunted with distaste, finally seeing through the disguise. "What does the crown require from a disgraced knight now? Are you here to send me towards my new manse? Or perhaps the boy king has asked for my head?"

"Oh, no such things, dear Ser. Our king is busy with matters of greater import, I assure you." Barristan was not amused as he gazed coldly at him, yet Varys simply smiled. "I am here for another reason."

"And why would a eunuch care about an old man like me?" His face was heavy with displeasure. "Ser Barristan the Old, they called me and laughed. Perhaps I am old."

Another heavy swig emptied the remnants of the tankard.

"You are a great knight, Ser, and the whole realm knows it."

Selmy snorted, staring at the bottom of his empty mug. "Do they?"

"From the Wall to Sunspear, children grow up wishing they could be you. I am Ser Barristan the Bold, they would cry out while playing. Can there be a greater honour for a knight?

"A knight's honour is only as great as his liege's worth," the knight laughed joylessly. "Four kings I've served, and for what? A house to die in and men to bury me."

"So you wish to serve, then?"

"Serve?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "There was honour in serving the crown, yet from Jaehaerys to Joffrey, my service felt empty. My name shall be remembered as the knight who lost his white cloak."

"A terrible tragedy," Varys softly agreed, placing a dirty hand on the knight's sleeve, earning himself a scowl. "But perhaps there is another way to redeem your name. Another liege to serve."

Barristan pulled his sleeve away, his cold eyes filled with warning. "You can't mean Viserys? I thought the boy had taken after his father, wits grown scrambled with madness." 

"You heard right, Ser. But I am not speaking of Viserys." 

"What, has the prancing fop declared himself king?" 

The scorn in Barristan's voice made Varys chuckle. It seemed even the prudish old knight suspected Renly's proclivities.

"Not yet." His voice turned into a whisper. "But it is only a matter of time before he does. Renly would never bow before his golden-haired nephew and would gladly take the rose of Highgarden for his Queen now that Joffrey is wed." 

Selmy recoiled. "That would be treason!"

"Do you want all to hear our talk, ser?" His words made the former Lord Commander shrink, face growing cautious. It was good that the three nearby tables were empty; otherwise, his outcry would have attracted much undue attention. The old knight had grown too used to acting out in the open. "Besides, Renly's brother raised the banners against the rightful king, did he not?"

"That was… different. There was a cause, and it was Jon Arryn who rebelled first."

Oh, the poor, naive knight. Honour and duty were dangerous things; they would make your wits go soft and dull, it seemed.

"Different or not, Robert showed that you can grasp the Iron Throne if you have the swords. But no… the worthy liege I speak about is neither Renly nor Viserys."

"Who?" Selmy's eyes squinted in confusion. "There's nobody else left."

Now was the moment of truth. A risk.. a necessary risk that might make their cause or break it. Failure here would be damning, and Barristan would have to be disposed of one way or another, no matter how difficult.

"There is one more dragon… hidden."

Yet, the Bold's fame could be a powerful tool. And he could see the desire for glory, for serving a worthy man, as a hunger in the knight's eyes.

"The last dragon fell at the Trident, Spider," the knight let out an angry hiss. "Begone, I'm not in the mood for games."

"But not before siring a son."

"Elia died before she could give birth."

"That she did. But where our Dornish princess failed, the Wolf Maid succeeded."

Selmy blinked as if he was seeing him for the first time. The silence stretched heavily before a dismissive scoff rolled off his tongue. "A bastard nobody has heard of?"

"Indeed, it was not easy to hide Aegon," Varys bobbed his head earnestly. "But it helped that Robert did not know about his birth."

"You mean to tell me Lyanna gave birth to a boy in the Tower of Joy, and nobody knows about it?" Barristan's voice grew dangerously quiet.

"What else do you think the Silver Prince was doing with Lyanna? Singing her songs and tugging his harp for months upon months?" It would have been so much easier if Elia had borne a son, but alas, the Martell princess had been slain while pregnant still.

"That does not make such a boy less of a bastard. A man cannot have two wives."

Varys smiled sweetly, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. "The House of the Dragon never cared for such trivialities, and the High Septon himself acknowledged this back in the days of the Conciliator. A Valyrian ceremony in the Isle of Faces with Dayne and Whent as witnesses."

"And where is such a boy hidden, Spider?"

"Why, away from prying eyes and ears. In Essos, raised by the finest tutors coin could buy, and the watchful eye of Jon Connington."

Barristan stood there, blinking with confusion. "Connington died. You reported so yourself to His Grace."

"I only pass what my birds tell me, Ser. It turned out he was not dead, only hidden, for only a leal lord like him could raise a future king."

"And how would this babe be spirited away from his mother, Dayne, Whent, and Hightower?"

"The poor Lady Lyanna was too young, and the birth and the Dornish heat took too much of her. As for your sworn brothers… the Silver Prince left them orders to guard his wife, which is what they did. It was not hard to take away the babe into safety long before Lord Stark rode into Dorne." At times like this, Varys loved the rigid code of the white cloaks. Aside from Jaime Lannister, Aerys' Seven were unbending, and any folly would be explained away by orders, no matter how foolish.

All of it was a complete and bald-faced lie, of course. Aegon, his nephew, needed every scrap of legitimacy he could get, and nobody alive could disprove his tale. Eddard Stark would be a small risk… if he were alive. But it seemed that the storms of the Narrow Sea had little love for the Quiet Wolf. As for the truth of the marriage… it didn't truly matter, did it? The swords supporting Aegon would be all the legitimacy he ever needed, along with Connington and Selmy by his side.

Varys did not know what had happened in the Tower of Joy. Nobody knew anymore if Howland Reed and Eddard Stark were indeed dead. Lyanna had been too young to give birth to a babe alive, especially without a maester to aid the labour at the tender age of four and ten, so it mattered little. Any child would have been born moons before the infamous confrontation before the Northmen and the white cloaks, so even Eddard Stark could not disprove his tale if he somehow lived. Alas, it had been a pity that the Quiet Wolf had left only charred ruins of the tower in his fury, so it was hard even to infer what had truly transpired.

"You have never been loyal to Robert Baratheon," Selmy noted, face impassive.

"I never lied to His Grace." Varys shrugged. "But I did not answer unasked questions either."

"Lyanna's son," the knight uttered slowly as if tasting the words on his tongue. But there was an odd glint in his pale eyes. "Is he…"

"Mad? Nay, the boy is sharp and bright and has known hardship and discipline ever since he could walk. You would not find a finer mind his age. Yet he cannot hope to come back and take the Iron Throne back on his lonesome."

"You mean to plunge the realm into war!"

"The realm is already at war, Ser. They have only yet to realise it," Varys shook his head. "With Joffrey's hand taken, Renly will wed Margaery and declare himself king, and blood will water the green fields again. A stout keep and servants to care for your every need, Renly Baratheon, Joffrey, or… Rhaegar's son. Which honour shall you choose, good Ser?"

Was there even any need for an answer? Selmy's face spoke it all - the man was desperate to redeem himself and wanted to believe that a rightful king with the right blood and bearing awaited a leal, honourable knight. So Varys told him everything he wanted to hear, and the old knight was as hooked as a fish on an angler's bait. He did not even ask half the questions the Spider had prepared to answer.

"Very well."

Varys nodded amiably at the curt acceptance but smiled inwardly. With Barristan Selmy by his side, Aegon's legitimacy would be nigh unquestioned. Let the old lion and the prancing stag fight while the dragon mustered his strength.

***

18th Day of the 11th Moon

The Stranded Bog Devil

Alas, crannogmen were not meant to lead armies. There were far more paramount attributes to leadership aside from blood. Martial ability, charisma, command, and honour were paramount, and while he was a deft hand with a trident, darts, and dagger, any of the Northmen elite could best him… in a straight fight, at least.

Give him swamp and bog, woodlands, darkness and subterfuge, or scouts and huntsmen. It was in their blood, for the crannogmen had brought down many reavers and warlords, their bones sunken in the vast Neck. But, there was a good reason why the crannogmen scarcely left the comfort and safety of the bogs and swamps.

Shaking his head, Howland looked at his friend, feeling pained. Eddard Stark lay unmoving atop the makeshift bed. His calm and peaceful face and the steady rise and fall of his chest made him look like he was just taking a brief nap. Without his mane of hair and well-trimmed beard, his friend looked somewhat… smaller and wrong. Yet, a dark stubble had begun to grow on his chin once again, along with a tuft of hair on his scalp.

Next to him, the crystalline blade lay bare, releasing a soft chill in the air. It had been half a moon since they landed, and Howland Reed could not miss his dear friend more. Ned had always been there since Lord Rickard and Brandon had been killed, steadfast in his duty no matter what. Now, though? His absence, even for such a short time, was direly felt.

"How is he?"

Arlyn shuffled, scratching his ear, something he only did when he was bewildered.

"Lord Stark is fine. Any wounds are all healed, my lord. Though, you can never tell with a strike to his head. He may awaken at any moment, or… never."

His insides twisted into an uncomfortable tangle, but Howland swallowed heavily. He could not show weakness anymore, for everything depended on his decisions and capabilities now, no matter how meagre. "Is it not dangerous for him to remain asleep for so long?"

"It should be," the physician bobbed his head, nervously running a hand through his dark tangle of hair. "Everyone needs sustenance, and the body begins to waste away quickly, even with dripping honey and water down the tongue. I tried everything I knew to wake him to no avail. Yet… Lord Stark is not growing weaker."

Howland blinked in confusion, gaze moving from Ned to Arlyn and back. "What?"

"Yes. The Stark is not dwindling as he ought to." Arlyn rolled up Ned's sleeve, revealing a muscled arm that did not belong to a bedridden man. "It's some sort of magic, but I can't tell if it's the ice blade, the connection with the direwolf, or something else entirely. Neither in the Citadel nor my family's records was there any mention of such a thing. Only the gods know what such magicks are doing to his wits."

"Lord Stark will endure," Howland said, more to convince himself than anything else. Was that why Winter had started eating twice as much? The direwolf had snuck into the wilderness more than once, only to return covered in blood and gore and eat more and more. Far more than any beast ought to. "Is there anything more that can be done?"

"Nay. So long as he's not getting worse, there's hope. I would still caution against moving him, though."

Gathering himself, Howland left the tent. After the sailors scavenged the remains, the creeping tide and another storm had taken what little was left from the crashed ships. Straight lines of tents made from sail canvas covered the hill, the base surrounded by a palisade shy of twelve feet tall. Even now, men were hammering down a second line to support a makeshift rampart.

The ship's planks and beams salvaged were insufficient, so more materials were sourced from nearby woodlands. They had made their base near a small river, just enough to satisfy their need for fresh water.

In the flat clearing midway up the hill, many men-at-arms sparred or wrestled furiously, keeping boredom at bay. Three brawls would have broken out if Walder and Jory had not managed to keep a tentative peace. A short crannogman could hardly keep the peace between the belligerent Northmen, even if he were the only lord amongst them.

Thankfully, there was nothing more severe than a handful of bruises, a few knocked-out teeth, and a broken nose.

Aside from the petty squabbles, at least one thing was going well. Much to the boy's lamentations, Tommen's training went without a hitch. And it was one of the more entertaining things happening around their camp.

Right now, the prince was red-faced with exertion as he tried to draw a longbow handed to him by the stocky Beron Burley. His body was taut, and his veins throbbed with strain, yet the bowstring barely budged under his small gloved hands.

After half a minute, Tommen gave up, face swimming in sweat and puffing like a horse after a long race.

"I can't, it's too hard!"

"Pah, grow stronger, then. Life's hard, princeling." The clansman's face scrunched in thought for a moment. "Here, try this one. It's the smallest bow we've got." Beron snatched the longbow and handed over a medium-sized recurve that was still more than half as tall as Tommen.

The prince's eye lit up when the bowstring budged slightly, albeit with colossal effort.

Liddle, Knott, Ryswell, Manderly, and a handful of others watched with rapt attention, trying to figure out the best way to mould the prince into a fine warrior. Well, not Manderly, the rotund knight offered a different sort of tutoring, yet no less important - things like fealty, law, trade, history, and how to be a knight. At least under Ned's tutelage, Tommen had the basics drilled into him and no longer cried or gave up at the first sign of hardship or pain.

Alas, there was nothing princely Howland could truly teach Ned's page. Not that he had time for such things; the camp's organisation, patrols, and such were hardy tasks on their own. If not for Vayon Poole dealing with the supplies and all the other logistics issues, Howland would have been overwhelmed.

Shaking his head, Howland made his way to the makeshift gate, where Damon Dustin was just arriving with a dozen outriders. Aside from scouting, they also hunted - the three mules were loaded with two wild boars, a deer, and half a dozen wild hares.

"Any success?" The crannoglord asked. The previous scouting parties had found nothing but charred ruins, villages reclaimed by the wilderness long ago. Even the coast was bereft of fishermen for miles and miles in both directions, as if a scourge had passed, striking down every man, woman, and child.

"Finally found a living soul, an old huntsman living in some caves along the coast," the barrow-knight grumbled. "Barely understood a word, but thankfully, Jeyk could speak that nonsense of a tongue. We're about five hundred miles north of Pentos and nine hundred miles south of Braavos."

"Just in the middle of the old Andalosi coast." Howland rubbed his brow. "I thought this place would not be so damn desolate."

"Me too, but it's the horselords, according to that huntsman we found." Damon's eyes shone with battle lust. "The savage fucks put everything to the torch, slay everyone who resists and enslave the rest."

"But the Dothraki Sea is thousands of miles from here!"

"Aye, but it's an honour - the further you can raid and pillage, the more glory you claim. Since the Free Cities can pay off the bigger khals and have no fear of the smaller hordes, everyone goes for the towns and villages instead. One of the villages was torched recently, no longer than two moons ago."

A litany of curses escaped Howland's mouth. He was not prepared to lead men into battle just yet.

Worse, they could not move lest Ned's condition worsen. No ships sailed close to the craggy shoreline either, probably not daring to risk getting stuck or skewered in the rocky shallows. Once a ship's hull was breached, it would sink within days. Howland contemplated sending an envoy to Pentos but quickly discarded the idea. Ned still couldn't be moved, and ships could not truly pick them up without a safe harbour. All they could do was wait. Howland loathed the idea of splitting, for there was strength in numbers, and the palisade gave him a sense of security amidst the rocky hills.

Gods, Ned better awake soon.

***

24th Day of the 11th Moon

Daenerys Targaryen, Vaes Dothrak

"Brother, oh brother," she lamented. Her husband had taken his pleasure and left to visit another Khal in the city. Her body had grown so fat and ungainly as the babe grew in her belly, making her feel tired and ugly. "My Sun and Stars will hear nought of sailing west."

Her husband was braver than any other Khal, fearing no man or beast, but the sea scared him, just like all the other horselords. Anything that a horse could not drink was something foul to the Dothraki. And the vast, stormy expanse of black and blue waters was loathed, for they all considered the world ended at the Narrow Sea.

"My hand was promised for a crown," Daenerys said, standing up with some difficulty. "Yet the crown has only grown further away since I've wed." Pentos was like a distant dream, and she could imagine the Iron Throne just across the Narrow Sea, all the swords of the sunset lords forged into an enormous throne by dragonfire. The Usurper was sitting atop, hollering for her head.

If only Daenerys were an ordinary woman, she could be happy here, in Vaes Dothrak. A palace to live in, a place amongst the Dosh Khaleen to grow old in. She had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids who cared for her every need, and the Stallion Who Mounts the World grew strong in her womb. But no, Daenerys was more than a Khaleesi. She was the blood of the dragon, a child of Conquerors and Kings, destined for greatness. Rhaego was to be named after her other brother, the one she had never seen.

"Ser Jorah says Drogo will move when he's ready. But would the Dorthaki ever be ready to cross the Narrow Sea?" Her Khal had decided they would stay in Vaes Dothrak until his son was born. And then… then he planned to go further east, away from her home, to raid the lands around the Jade Sea.

As usual, she received no response, for Viserys had gone quiet for eternity. Daenerys looked at her brother… or what remained of him. A white skull crowned with an ugly, uneven cap of gold spilling down the bone. After dying to the molten crown, the Dothraki had boiled his flesh away to be fed to the vultures, but she had picked up the skull.

She could not tell why, for Viserys had proven himself a false dragon, but her brother's presence in death was soothing. Or, far more soothing than it had been in life. It helped Daenerys remember the good of their childhood when the dragon had not yet awoken and their mother's crown had not yet been sold. Now, her brother would listen dutifully when she spoke, his gilded cap shining at the slightest glimmer of light, nestled between the three dragon eggs.

Viserys had not been a true dragon in life, but Daenerys was a generous sister and let him join the clutch he so desperately lusted after in death.

Then, Rakharo ran into her quarters.

"Khaleesi, the Khal is summoning you in his hall."

Daenerys nodded but frowned inwardly as she summoned her handmaids. At first, she chafed at their help, but now, their strong and deft hands were welcome as they scrubbed her swollen body and clothed her in flowing sandsilk.

In a handful of minutes, Daenerys was riding her silver mare to Drogo's hall, a massive pavilion made from silk and cotton that could fit hundreds. She dismounted and handed the reins to one of the slaves.

Once again, the air was heavy with roasts and the smell of fermented mare milk, but now Drogo was sitting alone on the high bench, and the Khals Jommo and Ogo were not invited. Truth be told, Daenerys knew not what they were celebrating or why they were called, but to her surprise, her Sun and Stars waved her over by his side. The Khaleesi did not usually sit with the Khal and warriors in the places of honour.

She steeled herself and walked forward, waving over for her handmaidens to bring in a few cushions. A glance around the hall had her pause; amongst the sea of dark eyes and copper skin was a fairer group, looking entirely out of place. They were not slaves, lacking chains or tattoos, and were clad in simple yet elegant silks.

As soon as Daenerys was seated beside him, Drogo stood up and waved his hand. "Approach, Andals, and speak your due."

Three stepped forward. To the left was a gaunt man with dark hair and grey eyes, wearing a padded surcoat slashed with white and purple, two golden keys crossing each other. To the right stood a taller and younger comely man with pale eyes and a bronze shield heraldry bound by runes on the edges. Both had the build of warriors and steel in their eyes, and between them was a slighter man who reminded her of a eunuch.

"Hail, Khal Drogo," the slight man in the middle bowed deeply. "I, Maester Arren, Ser Donnel Locke and Ser Robar Royce, come from Westeros by the decree of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark to congratulate you on your union with Daenerys Targaryen."

The words, spoken in a smooth Dothraki tongue, send chills down her skin despite the heat of the bonfires. Had the Usurper's dogs come to try and slay her?

Daenerys opened her mouth to warn Drogo, but no words came out under his warning gaze. A Khaleesi was not to gainsay her Khal.

"You're late," her Moon and Stars snorted. "It's been a year now."

The short man bowed again. "Westeros is far, great Khal, and word travels slowly. The king decided to send gifts as soon as he heard of the union."

"Did not this Rober Baraton steal the Iron Chair?"

The two warriors turned stone-faced, and the short man coughed as if he had choked on something while Daenerys had to suppress a chuckle.

"There was no theft, Great Khal," Donnel Locke said with a frown in surprisingly good Dothraki, if a bit rough. "The Targaryens lost in battle despite having the numbers - King Robert slew the Silver Prince in single combat."

Daenerys' heart cracked a little when Drogo grunted with approval. Her eyes found Jorah in the crowd, but he confirmed with a grim nod. "Bring me this gift from the other side of the world."

Two burly men dragged over the biggest chest Daenerys had seen, easily half the size of a small palanquin. It was made of smooth, dark wood, bound by bronze and covered by angry-looking inscriptions. Drogo stirred from his seat with interest, and even the bloodriders and the kos were now looking on with rapt attention.

Without further ado, Robar Royce unlocked the chest and pulled it open with a loud groan, revealing the gift. For a short moment, Daenerys forgot to breathe. Amidst black velvet lay an enormous polished horn taller than her, easily six feet from one end to the other. Curved like an enormous bone-white scythe, it was bound by intricate rings of bronze, silver, and gold. Galloping centaurs were etched in the metals, chasing and clashing amidst a sharp-looking runic script. Even the polished bone was carved with intricate bronze runes that glimmered with power under the dancing bonfire.

Drogo had already walked forward, smouldering eyes not leaving the gift.

Reaching out, he picked up the horn. His muscles swelled with exertion, and his back tensed as he lifted it on his lonesome and brought his lips to the silver band at the mouth of the warhorn.

A powerful, rumbling echo drowned all noise in the world as if a mighty beast had roared, and Daenerys felt even her flesh and bones rattle.

***

The gift pleased Drogo greatly and made all the other khals green with envy, much to Daenerys' chagrin. Even now, the Westerosi were feasting with the kos, who were animatedly retelling her brother's demise.

Daenerys, however, was still feeling somewhat dizzy, the deep rumble of the horn still ringing in her ears. She had lost her appetite and returned to her cushioned spot away from the high bench.

"Mammoth ivory is rarer than gold, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah explained. "Unlike elephants, the woolly gargantuan beasts are scarce and can only be found Beyond the Wall. Their horns are far larger. Only Stark and the Night's Watch are said to have a meagre supply of their ivory."

"Can't people just hunt more?" She asked.

"The Lands of Always Winter is a vast place, a deadly place, bound with ice and snow all year, even in summer and filled with savages, giants, feral beasts, and other dark things. The cold snow is the bane of courageous fools, and the Lands Beyond the Wall are a graveyard of many great men."

Daenerys shivered at the Bear Knight's grim face and frosty words. It was the first time Jorah had shown such gloom. Shaking her head, she spied on the Westerosi, feasting without a care in the world. Donnel Locke had challenged Pono to a drinking contest, and the fermented mare milk flowed like a river spring as a large group of riders had gathered, clamouring around them.

"Should I be wary of the Usurper's dogs trying things?"

"No, they shared food under Drogo's roof and would not dare to break the sacred laws of hospitality."

"You can't mean to say the Usurper is genuinely sending a wedding gift?" Daenerys scoffed. Her brother had mentioned nought of hospitality or any such. "Surely, some plot is afoot."

"I would say so if Eddard Stark was not involved," Jorah's face turned sour. "The Lord of Winterfell would rather die than abandon his precious honour for some plot or underhanded foolery. No, it is far more likely a warning."

"A warning?"

"Aye, the king knows what Viserys and you were up to but does not deem you important enough to act. It is a peace offering of sorts."

"Correct," Ser Robar Royce approached, eyeing the Bear Knight contemptuously. Jorah tensed, looking ready for a fight, earning himself a scoff from the Westerosi. "We come here with peace, Jorah the Slaver."

"Mind your tongue, lad. I've been killing people ever since you were a babe at your mother's breast."

"Truth hurts, Ser, but it cannot be silenced just because you like it not. Knighthood is wasted on you, for all the valour in the world cannot cover a black heart underneath. Your kin would weep with fury if they saw you now, and Locke does not approach, for the urge to smash your face in would be too irresistible. Jorah the Andal, they call you, and all for a maiden that discarded you." The Royce let out a guffaw while her companion's face reddened dangerously. This was the first time she had seen the Bear Knight so unsettled.

"Peace," Daenerys urged. "You speak of it, yet you come here to make trouble."

"You will find no trouble from us, daughter of Aerys. But Jorah? He is a cur who has broken his vows to his liege lord, his people, his knighthood, and his kin. Only kinslayers would be more cursed than he."

Jorah's face turned pained, offering no retort. His silence was damning. Daenerys thought him exiled for just selling some slaves, some simple trifle…

Robar Royce stood there defiantly, lithe, with broad shoulders and a comely face.

"Why serve under the Usurper?" She asked. "He's a vain, cruel man. Join me, and when I reclaim my birthright, I shall shower you with honour and glory."

"Why do I serve the Usurper?" Royce laughed. But it was a cold, joyless thing that sent shivers down her spine. "Oaths of fealty were sworn. My uncle, Kyle Royce, was murdered by your royal father on a whim for no crime and with no trial. Donnel Locke lost his cousin much the same. Your father's cruelty is well known from the Wall to Sunspear, Daenerys Targaryen, and it was little wonder when many celebrated as the Targaryens were cast down."

Her insides turned into ice.

"You lie," she hissed. "My father was a great man. Tell him, Ser Jorah!"

Yet the bear knight stood there, silent and sad. Why was Jorah silent?!

Robar Royce inclined his head with amusement and walked away to join the drinking contest, leaving her with a pit in her stomach. It was a lie; it had to be a lie.