A Chorus of Flame and Snow

Snow/Flame

Jeyne

Winterfell, The North

The Starks were one of the Great Houses of the seven kingdoms and the reigning house in the northern kingdom, with Winterfell as their seat and capitol. Lord Eddard Stark was the head of the Stark family and thus, the warden of the North and a great lord to the king. His wife, Catelyn, was from another Great House; Tully. He had five children by her: three sons by the names of Robb, Bran and Rickon and two daughters: Sansa and Arya. Yet, it is also known that Lord Eddard had another daughter; an illegitimate daughter borne to him by a woman he refused to name. Her name was Jeyne Snow; Snow being the surname of all bastards born in the north. However, Jeyne was unique among bastards or as some have said, a uniquely-loved bastard. For as most bastards are kept far away from the noble family to dampen the lord or the lord wife's deep shame of their existence; Lord Stark's love for Jeyne is said to be very great indeed. She was never too far nor too near so as to not stoke Lady Stark's ire. Still, some thought there was perhaps something more to this Jeyne Snow than Lord Stark let on.

With a held breath, Jeyne slumped in a way that wasn't even evident in the motion of her shoulders, elbows or even fingers. It wasn't ladylike, as the septa often reminded her with a swat of her disciplining rod. Ladies are dignified under the gaze of others and comfort is like a woman's secret; it should never leave one's bedchambers. Unlike what was common for most bastards, Jeyne was allowed to participate in most of the activities that Sansa and Arya took part in including schooling and the high arts of ladyship.

She looked about the needlework circle at the other girls, about seven of them. All attempted to appear as proper ladies for Septa Mordane, whom watched them all like a hawk, save for little Arya Stark. Arya was the youngest there, while Jeyne was the eldest yet it was Arya who was the only one who openly challenged the septa. Jeyne only did so in secret.

Most of the girls were dark-haired, pale-skinned and brown-eyed which were traditional northern features save for Sansa Stark among them. Sansa had long, auburn hair and lively blue eyes that would make any man want her hand as soon as she matured. She was prettier than all the girls in the room and likely than all the young girls in Winterfell. Due to the inherited looks of her mother's family rather than her father's, she set herself apart from the other girls like a golden swan in a flock of geese. Jeyne's grey eyes caught hers for a moment and Sansa pretty fade turned into something else. Jeyne wasn't sure if Sansa hated her or just felt a great pity; still, Jeyne loved her like she loved all the Starks and felt saddened at this. She often wondered when things first soured between the two; she couldn't quite remember. Jeyne looked away when Sansa's glare became unbearable.

Septa Mordane went about the room, looking over shoulders and critiquing pieces as the girls did their best embroidered cloth.

"That's shoddy work" she said to one girl. "What man would take a wife who can't stitch a simple line? You couldn't sell this for a copper pin. Untie it and try again. You won't be dismissed until I'm satisfied."

"I-I beg your forgiveness, septa." The girl seemed upset.

"A bit of effort wouldn't hurt, dearie" Mordane went on with a rueful smile as she patted the girl's shoulder. "I expect so much from you young women."

She continued on her slow trek around the room. She hummed some old Winterfell chorus as she looked over everybody's work, pausing every so often as the girls held their breaths to anticipate harsh criticism. She gasped when she beheld Sansa's piece.

"Oh, Sansa. How splendid! May I see?"

Sansa nodded gracefully. "Of course, septa." She raised her cloth to the septa; Sansa had embroidered a nearly finished castle on the cloth.

"I especially like the detail on the mortar. The lines. Very good, Sansa."

Sansa beamed. She loved to be praised. Mordane returned the cloth.

Eventually, she made her way to Jeyne and paused again. Jeyne paused and shifted her neck to allow the septa a direct view of her creation.

"Hmph." Mordane's only response, before she carried on.

Arya gave her a curious look and craned her neck so as to see what Jeyne had made. Jeyne saw this and relented. Jeyne raised the cloth so Arya could see that she had made a good replica of the Starks' sigil; a direwolf's head with spiked neck furs jutting back and upwards. Arya thought it better than whatever Sansa could have done. Jeyne never received praise for anything she did; Arya thought it unfair.

Arya could hear something in the courtyard just outside the keep; Occasional thumping sounds, accompanied by cheers. She could hear the voices of her brothers and men-at-arms. They were practicing archery; something Arya enjoyed more than anything they could learn from Septa Mordane. Arya gave Jeyne a frown, an almost pleading look. Jeyne quickly looked down at her thread and needles. She grabbed the needle and slashed it down her right palm then screamed out in pain.

"Jeyne!"

"Jeyne! Are you alright?!"

Everybody looked over as Jeyne winced and held her bleeding hand in pain. One or two girls came forth to check on her. The others cowered away from the blood; they were but young girls so it was understandable.

"May I please be excused to the heal ward, septa?" Jeyne pleaded in tears.

"I'll take her!" Arya cried, who wrapped Jeyne's hand in a cloth and rubbed her arm to comfort her.

"Yes!" Mordane shouted, exasperated with the panicked girls. "Fine! Fine! Just out!"

The two sisters quickly fled the room and made their way down the hall.

"Now, settle down girls!" Mordane went on. "I'll have a servant girl clean up! Back to your work at once!"

Sansa ignored her for a moment and approached Jeyne's station. She reached down and picked up the bloody cloth she had embroidered. She saw the sigil of her house, the direwolf, drenched in blood. She swallowed and looked back at the chamber door where Jeyne left.

When Jeyne and Arya made it far enough down the hall, Jeyne stifled her tears and the two burst in laughter though they quickly hushed themselves so as to not give themselves away.

Jeyne turned to Arya. "Well, shall we to the courtyard then?"

Arya grinned. "Yes, lets! But wait, what about your hand?"

"Oh?" Jeyne brought up her wrapped hand to her face. "I don't know, healer, why don't you take a look?" She reached out and stroked Arya's cheek with her fingers, who instinctively pushed them away.

"Ah!" Arya cried. "Don't touch me with it!" Jeyne gave a laugh.

Jeyne turned and took Arya's hand in her other to lead her to the courtyard. "Come on, little wolf."

Robb loosed his arrow, striking near the center of his target before lowering his bow and looking back at his younger brother, Bran, whom was but nine years old. Robb himself was fifteen, the eldest child and heir to Winterfell.

Bran swallowed. "You expect me ... to do that?"

"You'll do fine" Robb assured him.

He held out his training bow and a modest, though sharp arrow out to him expectantly. Bran swallowed again and Robb clapped him on the right shoulder.

"You can do this, Bran" Robb encouraged as Bran made his way over to Robb's former position in front of the target.

Bran took a stance with his steadying arm facing the target and firing arm away. He raised the bow just below shoulder level and began to pull his arrow.

"Easy" Robb warned. "Widen your feet a bit. Give a slight bend to the knees. Just slight. Remember to breathe but a held breath just before loose. Round your shoulder more and put your nose closer to the bow."

"Am I all wrong?"

"Just trying to help, little brother." He looked at Theon, a charge of his father's, who shared a laugh with him. "Sorry, I'll just ... shut up now."

Bran attempted to concentrate his shot.

"Oh, just one more thing" Theon volunteered to a groan from Bran and went to him to bend to his ear. "Just so you know, your mother and father are watching."

The two of them peered up to the hanging above. Just as she said, his lord father and mother were spectating, along with several of their trusted men.

Theon tapped his drawn shoulder. "No pressure."

Bran groaned again and his attention went back to his shot. Just as he was about to send his arrow ... Thhunk! Another arrow appeared just a needlepoint to the right of Robb's own. Robb was actually impressed and considered it an even finer shot than his own. Everybody turned and saw Arya Stark with a bow of her own in a stall across the yard. Bran gave her a look and Arya gave a mock curtsy. He immediately gave chase as Arya scurried away. Everybody in the courtyard roared in laughter, even the usually stern Lady Catelyn Stark.

Jeyne, whom had accompanied Arya approached Robb and Theon.

"Ah, dear sister!" Robb greeted as she closed the distance between them.

"Robb." She said simply, with a smile as he pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her cheek.

They released each other and stood apart. Theon looked at the two of them before looking at Jeyne. "Well, where's my hug then?"

Jeyne and Robb shared a chuckle.

"Hold on" Theon said. The two of them looked up and noticed that the men at arms were gathering around their father on the veranda. They all seemed to be locked into some deep conversation.

"Wonder what that's all about" wondered Robb.

Theon slapped his arm. "Well, shall we find out?" He started for the steps.

"What? No. Theon." Robb went to chase him down but all was well as Lord Stark's group broke and began to descend.

"Boys!" Lord Stark called to the two of them at the bottom of the steps. "You two with me!"

"Yes, father!"

"My Lord!"

They joined his group. He called out for Bran.

"You too, Bran!"

"Yes, father!" Bran stuck his tongue out at a jealous Arya and ran off to join the others.

Jeyne shook her head and lamented that she was left alone. She went and began plucking Robb's training arrows from the target when she suddenly froze in place after pulling Arya's. A chill crept down her spine like an isolated icicle trapped against her bare skin by her own cloak. She looked back to the balcony and found Lady Catelyn glaring right at her with such distrustful eyes. She hardly ever showed her kindness, just the opposite in fact.

Is that what hatred looks like? She internally wondered to herself. Jeyne often wondered if she could ever throw Lady Stark's outright vindictiveness for her right back in her face. She refrained because Lady Stark was the lady of Winterfell and Jeyne, though she was Ned Stark's daughter, was still natural. She considered herself fortunate to receive the privilege she received already and didn't dare risk it.

Objectively, Jeyne was a fair girl though not nearly the beauty her darling Sansa was; she had the long face and sharp jaw of a Stark with high cheekbones. She had deep gray eyes that were almost black, porcelain skin that camouflaged well to their snowy climate and long, curly hair as dark as burnt oak. The ongoing opinion that Jeyne was more in line with traditional Stark looks as well as resembling the tragic Lyanna Stark was probably what hurt Catelyn the most. She took after the Starks more than any of her children save for likely wild Arya.

Blinking first, Jeyne tore her eyes away from Catelyn and went about her business. She pulled the arrows and returned the bow to its place before leaving the courtyard; Catelyn Stark watched her the entire time.

Daeron

Pentos, Free City of Essos

He stared out over the city, a tight arrangement of rich manses and baronies, through rare violet eyes. From what he had been told all his life, he was from the great House Targaryen; he was the last male heir and descendant of Old, Doomed Valyria. As he had also been told, the Targaryens were the rightful rulers of Westeros, the continent of seven kingdoms across the narrow sea to the west. Until weeks prior, it was him and his sister traveling the free cities of Essos and surviving on whatever scraps they could get. Only then, a benefactor found them in Pentos. He gave them board to luxurious bed chambers, adorned them in expensive jewels and clothing and filled them with the finest food and drink either of them had ever had. The great Illyrio Mopatis said he wanted to help them reclaim Westeros; yet, how he intended to do that remained to be seen. He looked down at his hands where every finger had a ring save for his thumbs and pinkies, rings that were slid on his fingers by people he didn't know. He wore a satin shirt and pants and fine slippers. The same hands and feet were dirtied and ragged not so long before.

"Oooh, little Daaaaeee'!" his sister sang her arrival as she entered his bedchamber. "I have something to show you, little brother!"

Daeron stepped inside the room from the landing as Illyrio's servants closed the door after Visenya as she entered. Dressed in a fine, sleeveless gown of her own, she approached him with the widest grin he had ever seen on her beautiful, flawless face. She was holding a thin, cloth-of-gold dress across her arms. She stopped just before him. Although young Daeron was a young fourteen and Visenya was seven years older; they were the same height. She held it out in her arms for inspection.

"What is this?" asked Daeron, not necessarily meaning the dress.

"This is our future."

"Our future?"

"Yes. Go on. Touch it."

He reluctantly reached out and felt it. The softest cloth he ever touched that seemed more suitable for decoration than for wear.

"Is this dress see-through?" he questioned.

She chose to ignore that question and took the dress away to lay it upon his bed. She returned to him a few moments later, staring into his violet eyes with her own, which were absolutely gleaming. She unnerved him because he hadn't seen her so happy in quite a while if ever and he wasn't sure how to handle it.

She looked him up and down before taking his hands into her own, playing with the rings on his fingers. "Recite our history, little brother."

"The long version or the short version?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "The short version."

"We are Targaryens. The Targaryens are the rightful rulers of Westeros. Rulers of the seven kingdom. We ruled it for three centuries until the Usurper stole it from us, slaughtered our family and chased us from our rightful home. The Targaryens are fierce warriors and the highest among men; dragonkin. We are the last dragons."

Visenya slid the fingers of her right hand between fingers of his left and brought his hand to her mouth and planted a soft kiss on his middle knuckles. She closed her eyes as if this brought her bliss. "The magister honors us, Dae'. He has brought us a great gift."

Illyrio.

"What did he promise us now?"

She opened her eyes and took both of his hands. "We are finally going home."

"What ... what do you mean?"

Her eyes gleamed with joy as she dropped her hands away from him and stepped away to unclasp her dress. It dropped freely from her body almost at once, revealing her pale but curvaceous form to him.

"Vis-", he began, turning away.

She giggled. "Why do you look away, Dae'? You've seen it all before."

"Yes ... we ...bathed" he struggled, still turned away. "We were younger then ... and homeless!"

She stepped from her dress and went to him; she cupped his chin and forced him to look at her. "Not anymore. I am to be married to a warrior with an army and a means to take the Iron Throne from the bastard Usurper. They will all kneel or face the dragon's wrath. I will be queen and you ... well, you will be a prince but other than that ... I haven't really decided to what to do with you, yet."

She leaned into him, placing her ample breasts on his chest and slid one of her knees between his legs to whisper into his ear. He could smell the scented oils on her of lilac and sweet oleander.

"You could be my dragonknight" she said as she grasped the back of his neck. "Or would you rather be my consort. Or both."

"We're ... siblings" he protested.

"Targaryens have wed brother to sister for centuries to strengthen the bloodline or did you forget your lessons, little brother? You have grown in height and weight; your voice no longer shrills and has deepened to a manly tone and ..."

She slid a hand into his pants and cupped his groin, causing a flinch and squirm from him.

"Seven hells" she remarked with a smile, "you are becoming a man before my very eyes, little Dae'."

"Visenya ... please." He placed a hand on her shoulder for support. She shoved herself off of him with a laugh.

"Gods, little Dae'! I am your sister! Don't tell me you actually hold a torch for me."

He winced and watched as Visenya moved back to his bed for her dress. He tried to smile through it. "N-no. Of course not."

"Good. I am spoken for now, my little dragon."

He looked up as she slid her golden dress up her body and slid the sleeves over her shoulders. Her form was well hugged and her nipples protruded obscenely against the thin fabric.

"What do you think, little brother?"

She put her hands on her hips, widened her legs and pushed her chest out in a pose for him. Daeron said nothing as he was still readjusting and nursing a hardening prick he didn't know how to deal with at that moment.

"Ah, nothing to say then? Fine."

She gathered herself and moved to leave the room, smoothing down her dress with open palms.

"My husband will soon arrive. I'll send in servants to dress you shortly while you fix yourself. I expect you to look your best."

He cursed himself and her as she closed the doors behind her.

Jeyne

She was the only girl among them and most girls might've felt unsafe or uneasy in that situation, especially when in the presence of imminent death, but not Jeyne Snow. Truly, she felt at home anywhere in the north regardless of her company and that had nothing to do with her father or her own noble origins.

Lord Stark, along with his children Robb, Bran, and even Jeyne Snow gathered at the executioner's block on the cliffs outside the township away from his innocent subjects. Stark's soldiers and close men were there as well as the Greyjoy hostage and ward, Theon. Jeyne was ten and five; it seemed that the older she got the more hostility she was shown by Lady Catelyn. Sensing the rising tension between the two, he would bring Jeyne along with his parties if only to provide space between them.

Jeyne held her dear brother, Bran, close from behind for comfort. Bran believed that it was to comfort him but the act of killing didn't quite sit well with her either so holding him close indeed settled her mind as well. Her arms were around his stomach and she pulled him even tighter as they brought the man to the blocks.

Like most others that shared his fate, he was raving and offering excuses. She gathered that his name was Gared. Supposedly, he was a ranger from the Wall which upset her even more. She had the highest respect for the Night's Watch but this man was ruining it with his lunacy.

"I'm not craven! White Walkers approach the Wall! I saw them! We are no match! We must -"

He stopped as they pushed him down to his knees and he looked up at Lord Stark from the block and fell silent. He could see a man intent on doing his duty and knew his words and true intentions didn't matter.

Ned beckoned to Theon, whom brought forth his sheathed greatsword. Ned pulled the large, cross-hilted traditional sword from its sheath, drawing a sharp song as its edge slid against leather.

"Would you have final words, son?" Ned asked.

The ranger swallowed. "I know I deserted. I should've gone to the wall to warn them but ... just please send word to my family. Tell them I'm no coward."

Ned nodded at this.

Jeyne whispered to Bran's ear. "Don't look away. Father intends you to see."

Ned first said a silent prayer above Ice. "In the name of King Robert, the First of his Name ..." were the only words she could make out. When he was finished, he did not hesitate.

In a circular motion to manipulate the sword's weight, Ned brought Ice up and above his head. In a great, rounded swing, Ned brought it down and severed the deserter's head in one go.

"A fine execution, my lord" said Harwin, a man-at-arms as he took the sword from Lord Stark to clean it with a wolf skin while Jory Cassel lifted the deserter's head to place it in a weave basket.

"Send a raven to his family" Ned ordered. "His family will bury their son."

He then rubbed his gloved hands together to look at his children. Robb, who straightened, seemed honored by his lord father. Bran was cradled from behind by Jeyne; he appeared stunned but he knew the boy had saw just as he intended.

"That's a good lad" Jeyne said as she leaned down and kissed Bran's head.

The Stark party began their trek back towards the Winterfell township through the wolfswood only to take a mild rest to make water and have a bite to eat. Jeyne herself took a bite of cattle jerky from her pack and took a hard chew. It was seasoned well and pleasing to the taste. She moved to the sound of flowing water and found a stream flowing between mossy trees. She followed it until fell to a drop into a rock trail and saw that it flowed clean.

She tugged one of her gloves off and cupped her hands; she brought them to her lips to sip.

"I pissed in that, you know" Theon's voice stopped her.

She did hesitate but she had seen the water flow from the rocks and knew it was untainted.

"No, you didn't" she said simply and gulped it. The ice cold water refreshed her and sated her dry throat. She pulled out one of her water skins and began to fill it.

"No, I didn't" Theon said with a chuckle, looking around. "Still, I do have to piss and the thought of you makes it quite hard to aim. Care to hold my cock for me?"

Jeyne finished filling the skin. She knew Theon didn't dare insult the virtue of Sansa or any other noble girls in Winterfell but because of she was, he teased and took advantage. She could tell her father and make Theon's life hell but she was no frilly lady and could fight her own battles.

She took a gulp of her water, corking the top and standing up to face him.

"Are the whores of winter town tired of you already?"

She turned and began to make her way back to the party. With a smirk, he followed.

"Still a virgin, eh?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Theon."

"Why save yourself?" Theon asked as he hopped over a branch in his path. "What do you think? A noble will sweep you off your feet and whisk you away to his tower? You're not Sansa."

She climbed up ahead of him. "All I ask for is a man who is honest and kind."

He guffawed. "Fart on that. You're a bastard girl! No man would sully his reputation to marry you, highborn or peasant, even if you are kin to Stark. Not in this lifetime or any other. They may fuck you but marry you? No."

She swiftly turned on him, tore his own dagger from his waistbelt and put it to his throat in a second. "I've heard enough out of you, Greyjoy. Another word from your tongue and I shall have it. Leave me be."

He raised his hands in surrender and smirked. "I'm just sayin'; why not have fun with your status? You can take your pleasure as you wish. I can be your first. It will be enjoyable, I promise."

With some hesitation, she handed the dagger back to him handle first. "Save it for your others. Their standards do seem to be low."

She turned and continued on her path. He followed again.

"When I fuck them, I often imagine you. Your pretty face; that slender waist; the brea-"

"Shut up, fool!"

She had stopped in place and pointed ahead of them.

Her calls brought the others running.

When Ned arrived to the source of the shouting, they found Jeyne, Robb and the rest of the Stark party peering down at a fallen great stag lain on its side. One of its antlers was snapped off and its midsection ripped wide open with its guts spilled out.

"What could've done this, father?" Robb asked. "A mountain lion? A bear?"

Lord Stark thought on it for a moment and then shook his head. "No, those animals don't run in these woods."

"What then?"

It was Jeyne who heard it first. Soft, animalistic whines in the distance drew her towards them in a run.

"Jeyne!" Robb called after her and followed, along with the others.

When they caught up with her, she was kneeling at the corpse of a monstrous creature. It appeared to be a wolf, only it was almost three times larger; a beast of mythic proportions. Jeyne's wolfskin cloak covered her front.

Ned called out to her. "Jeyne! Away from there!"

"She's dead, my lord!"

"She?"

"Aye" she answered and stood up, cradling two wolf cubs in her arms and displayed them to the others. "And a mother, too."

Ned approached cautiously to look upon them and the corpse. There were three more cubs beside the two Jeyne held, trying fruitlessly to suckle their departed mother's dried teet. Ned saw that there was a broken stag antler in the beast's neck.

"Ah, a mutual kill" He said with wonder.

"A wolf, father?" asked Bran.

"No, Bran" his father answered. "A direwolf."

"I thought direwolves never make it south of the wall" somebody said.

"Well, this one did."

Jeyne kneeled down and set her two cubs down with the others. She watched as they immediately padded over and tried to shove their way past their siblings for a tit. She gave a sad smile.

"Can we keep them, father?" asked Bran.

"No, Bran" Ned replied. "Direwolves are not made for pets. They'll die slow deaths without their mother's care as well. Theon, do them kind mercy."

Ned then turned to leave as Jeyne gave him a startled look.

"Right, then" Theon said, moving over to the cubs. "Come on then, little pups."

Theon reached over Jeyne and pulled up a cub by the scruff of his neck. He had a ready dagger in his other hand.

"No, father!" Bran pleaded.

"Put it down, Greyjoy" commanded Robb.

"I take orders from your lord father, not you!" sniped Theon.

Jeyne stood up then and gave a slight cursty to her father. "My lord! Direwolves are a sigil of your house, are they not? Is this not a sign? An omen of good fortune from the Old Gods? They smile on you and yours. There are five Stark children and I count five wolfcubs here. They were meant to have them."

She took the cub from Theon's grasp in two arms. "And they are wolfcubs, not pups."

She then went over and handed it off to Bran, who took it in his arms with a wide grin.

Ned hesitated, before giving uneasy glance at Jeyne. He then looked at Robb, then Bran. "Fine. But you will feed and care for them. You and nobody else. Expect no help from servants."

Jeyne went over and scooped up more cubs and handed them off to Robb and others. They turned and began to leave. Theon put his dagger away and began to depart as well.

Bran stepped towards Jeyne, stroking his direwolf's head. "What of you, Jeyne? Where's your wolf?"

Jeyne smiled and ruffled Bran's hair. "I'm Jeyne Snow. I'm not a Stark, remember? Run along now. Before your father leaves you behind."

Theon then turned after Bran scampered past him. Jeyne made to follow him when she heard another soft whimper behind her. She turned back and stumbled trying to find where it was coming from. She went to her knees and reached one arm, deep beneath a log a few yards away from the direwolf mother and felt something soft in her glove's grasp. She pulled it up into her arms and held it up in both hands to look it over.

It was another wolfcub, only this one was much smaller and thin from lack of nourishment. It was snowy white and had ruby red eyes that struggled to stay open as it tried to avoid her gaze in seeming fear. An albino. A rejected just like her. It had settled beneath the log, away from the world's cruel grasp. Her heart instantly melt for the poor thing. She looked at its genitalia. A girl.

"Ha!" Theon laughed. "Looks like you got a pup, after all. Runt of the litter. How fitting for a bastard."

He then turned and followed the others.

She then turned her gaze back to her new cub. "Well, that's fine. You were hiding, weren't you? Because they didn't love you. Well, I'm not loved either. But I'll love you. We can hide away together; my little ghost."

Daeron

The Magister Illyrio had arranged this. Beautiful Visenya and her young brother Daeron stood beside him in his great courtyard in anticipation of her husband-to-be, the great Khal Drogo. Yet, Visenya wasn't accustomed to waiting on anyone, let alone a savage horselord.

"Where is he, Illyrio?" Visenya demanded to know. "Why does he keep his wife waiting?"

Illyrio held out a hand to calm her fire. "The Dothraki aren't ones to acquiesce to anybody's schedule but their own. Ah, do you hear that, your grace?"

Daeron heard it; the sound of quickening hoofbeats on the ground; galloping steeds. Four dark, tattooed men with long, braided hair swiftly approached through Illyrio's extensive garden on stallions of brown and white. They wore boiled leather pants and shoulder harnesses as well as bells and gold medallions in their braids and smoky ash smeared on their faces. Daeron quickly took notice of the largest man in the lead; he was the stockiest, tallest and had the longest braid that reached to his left mid-thigh even as he seated on his horse.

Visenya leaned to Daeron's ear. "That is my husband-to-be, the Khal Drogo. He is a savage who probably smells of piss and horseshit but he is the greatest killer on this side of the Narrow Sea. The Dothraki are prideful warriors and cut off their hair in shame when they are defeated; Khal Drogo's hair has never been cut. He will take us home, brother."

As the Dothraki came to a halt before them, Illyrio walked down the steps to greet them graciously. He spoke to them in some foreign tongue that Daeron didn't understand but then Drogo looked up from Illyrio, directly at Daeron and the two locked eyes. Illyrio then began to speak in the Common Tongue.

"May I present my honored guests? Daeron of House Targaryen, the third of his name and rightful King of the Andals and the First Men. His sister and your bride-to-be, Princess Visenya of House Targaryen, third of her name and namesake of the legendary Aegon the Conqueror's elder wife."

Visenya straightened as if filling with pride at the mention of her name in association with her honored ancestor. She expanded her chest through trained breathing making it appear that her breasts swelled in size and she started down the steps. Daeron noted that her hips carried a seductive sway that he had never seen her use before as she made her way to Khal Drogo. She stopped a short distance from him and folded her hands in front of her in a demure manner and gave him a soft smile. He studied her for a short moment, staring directly into her violet eyes before looking up and down her body. He set his steed in motion and circled her in a trot, seemingly taking in her entire form. He then spurred his horse on and stormed right out of the courtyard and away from Illyrio's estate with his men following suit.

Visenya, stunned, started to run after them before turning angrily and moving back to Illyrio. "What was that?"

"The ceremony is over" Illyrio said with a steady nod.

"Ceremony?" she spat. "He didn't do anything! He barely looked at me! Did he even like me?"

"Oh, he liked you" Illyrio said as he turned away from her. "If he didn't, we'd all be headless right about now."

Visenya stopped at that, stunned to silence.

The three of them moved to the high landing, a high ledge that oversaw Illyrio's garden. Visenya and Illyrio stood together at the balcony while Daeron stood a bit apart from them.

"Soon, you will cross the Narrow Sea and take back your father's crown" Illyrio told her. "The citizens of the Seven Kingdoms give silent prayers for your health and soldiers secretly bare your coat of arms in secret, awaiting your return."

Visenya smiled at this. "When will we marry?"

"Soon, your grace. The Dothraki don't sit still for long. Drogo will want to have you before his departure for new lands."

The two moved to walk along the landing so Daeron turned and followed them.

"Good" nodded Visenya. "And how large is Drogo's army?"

"Forty thousand strong, your grace."

Visenya gave a low giggle. "This pleases me. Magister, you have proven yourself to be a great ally of the crown. You will be greatly rewarded when we return home to Westeros."

Illyrio gave a short bow. "You honor me, your grace."

Daeron then stopped and swallowed hard. "You shouldn't marry him, sister."

The two stopped and looked at him. He went on. "It is as you say, he is a savage. Do you truly believe he will honor our agreement and take us home?"

Visenya walked to him. "I have my ways with men, brother, if you must know. I will make him honor his agreement."

The way she looked at him made him falter. "I'm sorry; I just want to go home."

"As do I. But for that, we need an army. Khal Drogo provides us that army."

"We don't need an army, sister." He reached for her hand and took it into his own, stroking the back of her fingers. "We only need each other. We don't even need the throne. We can just ... live. We can settle; find some land and grow rich and fat. Tell our children of our great adventures and continue our honored line, in peace. We may never have peace if we go back this way."

Visenya yanked her hand away. "You expect me to live like smallfolk?" She yanked his long, silver-blonde hair in front of his face, jerking his head towards her. "Do you see this? The hair of royalty! We can never hide! Nor should we ever! The dragon flies above! Meaning we are above all beings in this world!"

She threw his hair away, causing him to stumble back. "You will not be King when we return home" she said with finality. "I am elder and I know what we lost better than you. You will step aside and allow me my birthright. I will be Queen Visenya Targaryen and you will be prince and a consort if I decide you deserve it. But if you ever betray me or come to me with this again, you'll not live long enough to see it. Do I have your fealty?"

"Yes." He said low.

"I'm sorry? I don't believe that's how you swear fealty."

With apprehension, Daeron lowered his right knee to the ground and bowed his head to her; this brought a satisfied sigh from her. "I swear fealty to you sister. Please forgive me."

She extended her right hand towards him, particularly the ruby-encrusted gold ring on her forefinger. He grasped and brought towards him for a kiss.

"Rise, brother." He did. "Remember, if you think you might ever say anything that will upset me; just keep your fucking mouth shut."

She then turned on her heel and walked away with Illyrio to continue speaking of strategy. Daeron remained there, glassy-eyed. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into one of his palms and drew blood. It was at times like this that he resented the power she had over him.

Jeyne

The icy chill permeated her stony room. Every time a limb or part of her face dared leave the safe confines of her blankets, the cold attacked. She knew that she should've been asleep but she couldn't stop peering over her bear fur to peer at the wool basket next to her bed, bundled with small covers and furs of its own, housing little Ghost within. Her precious cub was sound asleep. She didn't think she had heard a sound from Ghost since the whimpers that allowed her to be found. She would've thought her dead, save for the very slight rise and fall of the furs in the basket.

She heard a series of soft knocks on her door. Someone trying to be quiet, no doubt. Jeyne had a feeling who it was but she played at being asleep just to be safe. She closed her eyes as the door creaked open.

"Jeyne?" the voice whispered. Arya's voice, the damn girl.

"Arya, what are you doing out and about?" Jeyne whispered back. "Go back to bed!"

"I can't sleep. Can I lay in with you?"

Arya used to sneak into Jeyne's room to sleep often when the girl was younger, to everyone's dismay. She did so at a decreasing rate as she got older but it still happened from time to time. It was no secret that Arya favored Jeyne over her trueborn siblings. Jeyne felt bad for the poor girl, honestly, for Arya wanted so badly to live life like Jeyne without the attentions of Septa Mordane and others; she wished to avoid being pigeon holed into the life and routine of a highborn lady; she didn't realize that Jeyne would take a life like that in an instant and more if it meant having a place next to her father.

"No, go back to your room. Now." Jeyne turned away from her and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she realized that her door didn't close and there were no retreating footsteps. She turned back towards her doorway and saw the darkness of Arya's form still standing there. Jeyne sighed.

"Fine" she said, lifting the right side of her covers to make room. "Come on, then."

Arya closed the door softly and scampered over to Jeyne's bed to leap in. Jeyne sighed as Arya excitedly shuffled to get under the covers and snuggle up close to Jeyne. In Arya's struggle, Jeyne felt Arya's ice cold feet graze against her own bare ankles. She gasped.

"Are you insane, child?" Jeyne whispered, trying to grab Arya to settle her. "You came to me barefoot? You'll catch cold."

"We are Starks, remember? We wear the cold like clothing."

"Please." Jeyne said with an eye roll as she padded the covers over Arya to tuck her in.

Arya scooted closer when Jeyne settled down so that they faced each other and were almost nose to nose. Arya pulled Jeyne's arm over her shoulder and snuggled close.

Jeyne tried to sleep but Arya didn't allow it.

"Jeyne?"

"Hmm?"

"Where did Robb find the wolves?"

Jeyne paused, confused. "...hmm?"

Arya repeated her question.

"They said Robb found the wolves?"

"Yes ... he did ... didn't he?"

Jeyne paused. She shouldn't have been surprised. One of the truths of being a bastard is never doing anything noteworthy. It may or may not have even been Robb's doing. She reminded herself that it didn't matter. "Aye ... he did. In the wolfswood on our return."

"I named mine Nymeria. After the great warrior of Dorne."

"A fine name. And you're caring for her well, I hope."

"Yes, I fed her and everything. She did shit on my floor and father made me clean it."

They both giggled at that.

Arya went on when they settled. "I still love her, though. What did you name yours?"

"I named her Ghost."

"Ghost? Why Ghost?"

"Because she's as silent as one. And she's an outcast just as I am."

"I wish you were my sister", Arya suddenly blurted out.

Jeyne's eyes went wide. "I believe I am your sister."

Arya gave pause at that. "No, I mean ... I wish my mother was yours. It's so unfair how she treats you. Sansa too. They refuse to see you like I see you. How great you are."

Jeyne's eyes watered but she closed them and patted Arya's head. "It's fine. Now go to sleep."

"Did you hear that Lord Jon Arryn died?" Arya said after a short while. "Father's old friend."

"Yes, I have. Yes, my lord has been quieter than usual."

"Also, the king is on his way to Winterfell on the kingsroad."

"Ah, I hadn't heard that one. Well, it hasn't anything to do with me."

Arya stopped and stared at Jeyne's face. Her eyes were closed and she looked so graceful; at peace. She thought her prettier than Sansa though most disagreed.

"Jeyne? Why don't you sing anymore?"

Jeyne reached over as if to caress Arya's face but instead feigned and pinched the bridge of her nose instead. Arya yelped and Jeyne gave a soft laugh.

"I said go to sleep, little wolf" Jeyne said with a smile. Finally, Arya did.

Jeyne rarely had dreams that she could remember beyond a feeling by wake. That night, however, she found herself back in the wolfswood in her favorite midnight blue dress with matching gloves, snow boots and a short cloak with cowl to cover her neck and shoulders. She leaned against on the trunk of a great heart tree straddling her great black harp to her left, fitted snuggly between her body and the snow-covered ground.

The snow fell in a steady flurry occasionally carried a blue luminescence, magical in its rarity. She felt no cold though she slowly recognized that she should. She looked out in front of her and saw an audience had formed before her. They were a crowd of pale, long men with glimmering blue eyes who wore odd, translucent armor. Tears streamed down her cheeks though she had no idea why. One of the men stood up; his skin was unnaturally blue and dark as if frost bitten and long dead. He wore something akin to a crown of spikes atop his head. He raised his arms to her as if beckoning her to play.

She turned to her harp and tugged loosed her gloves, only to realize her skin was just as frozen and rotten as theirs. Her long nails were black and cracked and threatened to separate from her fingers. Perhaps that was why the mood seemed morose.

Still, she flexed her fingers; they were still as loose and limber as always. When she plucked a string, its vibration resonated with her heartbeat; she always did consider the harp a limb of hers, same as the bow. The melody she played was a decidedly upbeat one though the mood was somber so it seemed wrong. Then, she remembered when she sang: When it were ice and steel met, it were the others that fell; the song she played was "The Night that Ended", a song she had never played nor sung but had heard plenty of times. Why dream of it? And in that scenario? There wasn't much else to the dream that she retained save for the melody.

She rose from her bed to see that little Ghost was scratching at her door to be let out. Arya still slept next to her on her front. Her eyes still watered; she sniffled and wiped her tears away. She took the time to look at her hands and skin, noting that she was still a lively pigment and not rotting. Thank the gods.