Legacy of the Last Dragonlords

"Full attack?" Lyle Crakehall rubbed a hand down his face. Winter may have chilled the land around him, but beneath his thick plate and woollen gambeson, he was sweating like mad. "There's no way that these are the orders."

Harry Strickland frowned. The dour High Captain of the Golden Company and Commander in Chief of the Royal Army didn't seem to have any pleasant expressions in his quiver. Didn't bother Lyle, but his uncompromising adherence to orders - no matter how stupid - did. "They are. Adorned with the seal of the Hand himself."

It wasn't just Lyle that was having trouble reconciling military tactics with the orders given. "Lord Crakehall is correct, commander," stated Addam Marbrand. "It makes no sense as to why we would take on the Targaryens in the open. Not while they have two dragons."

"One of the dragons is wounded and abandoned on Dragonstone, while the other is wild and not tethered to the bastard he rides."

Still, something didn't smell right to Lyle. "We can't even risk against one dragon that can't be controlled. Our forces perished at the Fields of Fire for even trying."

"The Targaryen forces are no longer understrength," Leo Lefford pointed at the map. "They received at least ten thousand men from Dorne and the Reach, negating our advantage from securing the other Sellsword companies…"

Strickland put his hand down. "My Captains and I already have a strategy for facing down one dragon, and we can win with even numbers. Put one of my men against any wildling or Dothraki savage and they will come out on top." He put on his helmet. "Orders are orders. We advance on the Dusken while they cross."

After he left, the lords of the Westerlands and Crownlands murmured amongst themselves. "I still don't like this," murmured Lord Hayford.

"Our Queen gave her orders," countered Gawen Westerling.

Lyle stroked his chin. "There are other Queens… and Kings." The fact none of the Lords present spoke out against him was quite telling.

No guards. No advisors, not even Missandei or Davos - two he could trust with his life. Even Ghost wasn't present, such lengths Jon was willing to go to ensure the appearance of solitude and privacy. Normally, one would call such a person paranoid. But Jon had enemies everywhere…

And Sansa Stark was no ordinary guest. He had waited until nightfall to finally call her to his tent. Small smile still formed on her beautiful, proper face. Jon half wanted to hug his sister, and half wanted to strangle her in the same - because of her he was in the mess he was in, but was willing to hear her out. Hoping against all hope that she could be redeemed in a way that few others could.

The pack survives.

"It would be better for the both of us, sister, if we choose not to lie or mislead each other," he began.

"I agree. I don't intend to lie to you, Aegon." Sansa eyed him, appreciatively. "Red and black suit you, your Grace," curtseying half-seriously. "I would make it official and bend the knee to King Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, but I see that you've already gained the fealty of the Northern lords." She smirked. "I am greatly impressed."

Jon stared at her as if she had spouted two heads. Granted, he wasn't allowed to spend too much time with her during their childhood - and the beautiful northern lady had been a guarded enigma thanks to Ramsay fucking Bolton - but the person before him was utterly alien to him. What had she done? What does she want? He had been prepared to face a woman who wanted to destroy Dany to secure Northern Independence, but already he was facing someone altogether different.

"So you've accepted it?" Jon's voice was flat, searching. "Arya fled to King's Landing the moment I told her… so did Daenerys, now that I think about it. Pushed me away from her, demanding that I carry the line of House Targaryen." This was not the time to dance around the issue.

Frowning, Sansa stepped forward to hug him. "I'm sorry, Aegon. I could tell how much you loved her." A gentle kiss was pressed on his cheek. "But you are the King according to all rights of succession, both by the common rule and the Dornish rule. She doesn't really have a choice in what you decide to do."

His fists clenched - Jon would never hurt his sister, but she was getting close to crossing a line. "Dany was operating on a false source of information, as to her 'barrenness.' She carries my child. Your niece or nephew."

For the first time that night, Sansa looked at him with surprise. Not the resigned fear he expected, but something more to that of an unexpected treat. Did I misread her entire intent? Perhaps he had assumed the worst of his sister as Dany had assumed the worst of their entire situation - but that did not absolve Sansa of her sins. Not in the slightest.

"Oh, Aegon." Though the presence of Cersei and the hostile army in King's Landing obscured everything, Sansa was finally confident in victory. Firmly believing in her brother the King, knowing he could defeat Cersei and bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms. She hugged him again, a warm embrace with only the third person alive she could so trust. "I am delighted for you. A Crown Prince or Princess for the realm. The beginning of a new age."

"And Daenerys?" he rasped. "What of her?"

The next words made his blood boil. "I have nothing against her, brother. As long as she serves her rightful King."

"Let us cut to the point, sister." Jon pushed her away, glaring at her. "Did you tell Tyrion or Varys of my true heritage? Of my true name?"

"Yes." No form of hesitance. All forms of pride… Sansa looked so much like her mother in that moment. It was uncanny. "Tyrion came to try and convince me to trust Queen Daenerys, and that I should let you go south. I replied that a Stark never fared well in the south, but that you were not a Stark. That you did belong there as much as you did in Winterfell."

Running his hands through his hair - a habit he and Robb had picked up from Ned Stark, the fact of which often grounded him during his identity crisis - Jon really couldn't believe how glib Sansa was over being an oathbreaker. "I don't get it, Sansa. I still have difficulty wrapping my head around this. You learned from Father about the importance of oaths, and yet you decide to break one made in the shadow of the weirwood tree with the ease of snapping a twig in half."

Now it was Sansa's turn to glare at him - the hardened woman created by Cersei and Littlefinger returning… but peering into her eyes, Jon could see more of the stubborn Catelyn Stark than the other two. "Our father was a good man, Aegon, but his 'Oaths' ended up killing him. I heard stories in King's Landing, of how he and Renly had the opportunity to take the throne from Cersei and Joffrey before Robert's death. But he didn't. His honor meant he had to support Stannis… and that fact condemned me to a life of all seven hells." Sansa seethed, memories surging forth. "Raped, nearly raped, brutalized… all was owed to 'oaths,' so don't give me that, Aegon!"

"My name is not Aegon!" What could make her keep calling me that… It suddenly came to him. Oh, Sansa. You are so much like your mother. "So you freely admit that an oath from you means nothing. What do you hold sacred, Sansa?"

"Family. You, me, Arya, and Bran. Bound by blood. Our father taught us that too, that the pack survives when the lone wolves bind together… and we only have each other to trust. Three wolves and a dragonwolf."

"Daenerys is part of my pack, Sansa. She is as much blood and family as you, Bran, or Arya."

She scowled. "I'm not averse to that, but she wants to be the Queen. The 'true' Queen. Such is a lie, and taking away your birthright." She trembled from anger, and Jon realized that she was angry not for herself, but on his behalf. Something Cersei or Littlefinger would never do… but an emotion he had seen from Lady Stark on more than one occasion. "You were treated like a bastard all your life, but you aren't. I know you forgave me of my being an ass to you, but do you think I can live with myself if I let the rest of the world treat you as I did. As my mother did?" Sansa poked him in the chest. "If you do, then you have another thing coming. I will protect this pack with my life, and if Daenerys wishes to be in it then she has to acknowledge you as the King you are."

"I never wanted it, Sansa!" Jon felt tired. So damn tired. Being among the Free Folk had given him a taste of true freedom - a small part of him wished he could take Dany, Ghost, and their child and ride with Rhaegal and Drogon somewhere free. "I don't want it still."

"And yet you took the initiative and became the King you were born to be, Aegon." Her smile returned, placing a hand on his arm. "I am proud of you, brother. You've become a great leader."

"Daenerys is a great leader."

She rolled her eyes. "The Northern Lords would have never supported her on her own." Looking at the brazier, she watched as the flames danced and flickered within. "We want independence, we deserved it, after all we suffered. And I was ready to fight for you to be King in the North, your supposedly proper place." Sansa then turned, meeting his eyes. "But then I learned you were Aegon Targaryen. A southern prince that we would be honored to follow. One that I will proudly serve as Wardeness of the North."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "You never allowed yourselves to see the Daenerys that I saw. The Queen I chose."

Shaking her head, Sansa sighed. "It's irrelevant at this point. You are King. The news is out." She gave him a knowing cock of her head. "I know you lied about marrying her. A smart move if you want to avoid power squabbling. Aegon, you have become a shrewd ruler that father or Robb never were. Abandoning such foolish oaths to proclaim your birthright or leave the Night's Watch…"

His entire expression darkened. "I never broke my oath to the Night's Watch."

Sansa blinked. "What?" She didn't know. No one had told her, and Jon talked about it to no one. "But the vows are for life."

Beyond caring, Jon's hands went to his tunic, swiftly unlacing it and pulling it from his shoulders. Hearing Sansa's pained gasp echo through the tent, seeing tears form in her eyes - how close she came to losing the one person who could protect her without even knowing it. Nearly identical to Dany's only sisterly rather than romantically. "My watch ended as soon as they drove the knife into my heart. Once the Lady Melisandre brought me back, I was absolved of all oaths."

Wrapping her arms protectively around her, she stared at Jon through watery eyes. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Jon reached out to grab her shoulders, steadying her. "It doesn't matter. None of that matters - all that matters is what we do, Sansa. We have to live with the consequences to our actions. Bringing the Wildlings south of the wall killed me. Trying to convince Cersei of the Army of the Dead killed Dany's child. And telling Tyrion against your oath nearly killed Daenerys… killed our child."

"That was not my intention…"

"So why did you do it?!" he yelled. "How could you break your oath?!"

"You are the true King! A trueborn King!" she screamed back. "The Bastard of Winterfell, not a bastard at all. But Aegon Targaryen, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. That is you, Jon. My brother, but also a Targaryen."

"What does a name matter to me?" Jon waved the concept off. "I became Lord Commander as a Snow. I took Winterfell as a Snow. I was declared King in the North as a Snow. I…" It still hurt. "I won the heart of the greatest person I've ever known while I was nothing but Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell. Why should I be anyone else?"

Sansa looked at him incredulously. "Because this is what you deserve! Imagine not being saddled with a bastard name! To hold the most august name in the history of Westeros, to finally have nothing stopping you or marring the great man you truly have become?!" Why doesn't he see it? "After all the shit you've been through your whole life, you deserved to have the world see you for who you really are!"

Jon scoffed, shaking his head. "As what? A trueborn Targaryen or the trueborn Targaryen cousin of Sansa Stark?" An exasperated chuckle. "You are still so much like your mother, Sansa. Desiring me to no longer be a stain on your good name."

Staggering, it was to Sansa as if Jon had punched her in the stomach. "How could you say that?" She smacked him hard in the chest. "How could you fucking say that, Jon?!"

"What am I supposed to think?" Jon looked away. "Studying under Cersei and Littlefinger. Manipulating everyone with petty politics… it wasn't above them to pretend to care for me only to get what they want… and you played this perfectly, didn't you?" It hurt him to assault his sister like this - even when she hated him, he had always loved her. As he loved all his family. I just have to know. He swiveled around, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Using the perfect tactic to force Daenerys and I apart. To get what you always wanted."

A tear fell down her cheek. "All I wanted, Jon, was my family back. To be safe and in control of myself, something taken away from me by Joffrey and Ra…" She couldn't say the name. Couldn't allow herself to feel that pain again.

"And 'Independence' was how far you were willing to go? Independence kept the north poor, kept it starving! Driven to poverty from the constant invasions we had to beat back. Invasions that made Robb's war in the Riverlands look like a tickle fight!"

"Until your birthright it was the only way!" Sansa was screaming. "The only way for us to be safe! For the pack to be safe! Cersei, Ramsay! The world was out to get us!"

"Daenerys and her dragons would keep us safe!" Jon knew he was close to getting the real feelings out of his sister. Feelings so long suppressed. "You said you trusted me, because she won my heart in spite of my horseshit and bastard armor! She came to my rescue north of the wall, losing one of her dragons - her children - all for me. All she wanted was a home and a family and would die to defend it, but you never allowed yourself to trust her!"

"She is not family, Jon!" Jon, not Aegon. He was getting to her. "You, me, Bran, and Arya. We're all we have for each other! Everyone else betrayed us! Everyone I thought would be family, more inclined to support us than the daughter of the man who killed our uncle and grandfather! Joffrey turned into a sadistic monster. Aunt Lysa almost threw me out the moon door. Petyr sold me to the Boltons. Theon burned Winterfell to the ground…"

"You forgave Theon," Jon said softly. "Daenerys didn't do anything to you, while Theon actually betrayed our family… the actual cause of Rickon dying. Of Winterfell falling to Ramsay - Roose Bolton would have thought twice about crossing Robb had the Ironborn not taken Winterfell. And yet you forgave him. Why?"

Eyes closing, Sansa seemed to strain to keep her composure. "I knew Theon… I didn't know Daenerys, only the stories… And Ramsay killed Rickon."

"Aye, he did. But we could have saved him. You wrote him off." Jon didn't blame Sansa, but the thought always remained. Why Sansa was so quick to dismiss any chance of Rickon living. "Had you told me of the Knights of the Vale, we could have saved him!"

"Ramsay would have found a way, Jon!" She began to tremble. "He knew everything! Played his little games on everyone! You didn't know him like I did… surprising him the way we did was the only way!"

Jon finally looked her in the eye. "I trusted you, but you didn't trust me. Not with Daenerys, even though I did know her better than you did." Her eyes widened. "Sansa, you claim to wish to atone for your mother's treatment… but this obsession with titles and blood…" He felt tears pricking his lids himself. Memories of his childhood returning. "In the end, it didn't matter as long as I had a loving family. Robb saw me as his brother, Arya saw me as her brother. Father saw me as his son. Daenerys… she never cared that I was a bastard. She loved me because I was worthy to be loved in her eyes. Seven hells, I think she thought herself the one out of her league, gods know why."

"I… I…" Sansa's voice caught in her throat, face paling. "I had no idea."

"The throne meant nothing to me. All I ever truly wanted - under all the walls and fears - was for a family to see me as the person I am. Love me as the person I am. My brother, sisters, and beloved. Daenerys was so scared of her supposed barrenness, but now she has to contend with this… shit." His eyes blazed fire. "All because you thought my title the most important. Just like Lady Stark."

Finally learning the truth, the dam broke. Their father, Robb, Catelyn, Rickon, Theon… everyone they lost, she had experienced the greatest agony but never allowed herself to truly grieve. And now, the one person that made her feel safe - even for a fleeting moment, in the courtyard of Castle Black - she had betrayed him. Hurt him in the worst way. She thought she was doing him the greatest of favors to atone for the two decades of vile slurs, but had only played into them. And even now he still sees me as his sister… Gods, what have I become. Sansa could only imagine Littlefinger, the same man that gave her to Ramsay Bolton, smirking at how his student had become the master. Tears were flowing freely, soft sobs breaking out. Years of strength battered down by Jon. Probably the only person who could.

Hearing her, watching her, Jon saw not Cersei or Littlefinger - but the scared little girl Sansa must have been. I have my answer.

Wiping the tears staining her cheeks, eyes red and puffy, Sansa clasped his hand. "Please, Jon. I am your sister and I love you. I… I never meant to hurt you." Her soul was ripping itself apart, an indescribable pain taking her over.

Jon sighed - she was sincere. If there was anything the last month had taught him, it was to read sincerity. A lesson long overdue, but at his time of greatest need it had finally been accepted. Tears pricked at his eyes, the long-seated desire to have a loving family of his own finally within reach. Siblings that truly loved him, friends that stood with him through everything, an adoring beloved, and a child growing in her womb at that very moment. Such a perfect life… yet by the curse of the fates all denied to him by war and political backstabbing. A life he just wished to embrace with open arms. "Sansa…"

In the distance, a wolf howled - Jon tensing immediately. Ghost. He knew his direwolf companion anywhere… a fact he was counting on. Face hardening, he inconspicuously reached into a pouch on his belt.

"Sister, I cannot trust you. You betrayed my wife and my trust beyond repair - nothing but an oathbreaker. Littlefinger's minion. Cersei's pawn."

Her eyes widened in agony. "Jon, no!" It destroyed her, being hated by the one person who had truly saved her from Ramsay and the hells her life had become since leaving for King's Landing. Her protector that now despised her… and Sansa knew it was all her own doing. "Please, let me prove my trust to you."

Narrowing his eyes, Jon grabbed both of her hands, darting forward to plant a brotherly kiss on her forehead. "I know you desire the throne, sister." Releasing his grip on her hands to cup her cheeks. "Ya' broke my heart." Breaking the intimate connection. "You broke my heart, Sansa." Turning, Jon waited at his table till Sansa left. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, hoping that the act satisfied the prying eyes…

And that the object he left in Sansa's hand could solve two of his major problems. I want to trust you, Sansa. I want the pack to survive.

Don't become my enemy. Jon didn't think he could ever turn on his family. It was just impossible for him.

Everything was crumbling. Simply everything.

Brown, woollen cloak wrapped around him, Lord Varys softly glided through the campsite. Taking advantage of the desertion and silence. He was a member of the small council, and thusly knew all the patrol schedules. His ruddy eyes were ever peeled, but occasionally he kept glancing up at the sky. Taking in the stars embedded in the heavens. Wondering how all of his plans threatened to crash on the shoals.

Varys' mind kept replaying the crackling fire, the rhythmic chants of the sorcerer casting his manhood into the brazier. The words the fire spoke to him. It was clear as the full moon above them. "Westeros… Westeros…"

A call that brought him to the august land, one that propelled the eunuch into the position of the highest power next to King Aerys Targaryen himself. And that had kept him through four other monarchs, all of whom depended on his services in a way that a fish needed water. Not a fighting man, Varys trafficked in secrets. Worth their weight in gold…

But secrets brought contact with the realm - those he used to obtain such secrets, they imprinted on him their plight and desires. In this lifetime, Varys had come to a conclusion. One that explained the words in the flames…

It was his duty to save the rulers of Westeros from themselves… and to save the realm from their rulers if need be. Decades of manipulation and animal cunning had led to Daenerys Targaryen - and to Aegon Targaryen, or Jon Snow. He fought for them, fought for their interests and their claims, only to be greeted with the very monsters he sought to guard against.

Creeping in the shadows, Varys kept returning to his repeated failure. Every chance he had at securing the proper King for the realm had failed. Each prospective ruler dying, being exposed as a fraud, or succumbing to the inner demons that Varys so hated. With Aegon a lost cause, he was forced to find a new solution. One that could tear the Kingdom apart - or lead to himself being torn apart - but it was a risk the Master of Whisperers was willing to take.

She was where his little bird said she should be - in the mood his little bird said she would be in. Returning from the King's quarters, where they had sat and discussed her loyalty long into the night. The child had not known what their conversation had been about beforehand, but the frostiness had clearly expanded, Sansa Stark forgiven but not allowed back into the inner circle of Aegon Targaryen. Favored yet not favored. Powerful yet not connected. A position he was glad to take advantage of.

Just about to enter her tent, Sansa caught a glimpse of the rounded figure approaching her. A hood pulled back to reveal Varys. "Lady Sansa, may we have a private word?" Steeling herself, Sansa nodded. Pushing open the tent flap to allow the Master of Whisperers to enter.

Closing the tent flap, Sansa kept her voice low. Better safe than sorry - especially with the Lady Brienne or Ser Podrick in their own quarters. "I have a feeling that I know what you desire, Lord Varys. And I believe we can come to a mutual arrangement." Her voice was cold and emotionless like the icy land of her birth, but behind it was a tinge of ambition. Of a lust for power and control.

Such people were not high on Varys' list, but with all better options either dead or impossible… at least such lust could be manipulated. "And what is it that you think I wish for?"

Sansa didn't hesitate. "Peace. Stability. A ruler that cares about the realm enough to remain benign and narrowly ambitious."

His eyebrow rose. "You have inherited your brain from your mother, not your father. While Ned Stark was a good man, he didn't play the game of thrones well enough. I am glad to see you as one who won't make his mistakes." She could do nicely. That is, if Varys was right about what she would ask of him. "And if you help me, what will you require?"

"I want to be Queen."

Yes, exactly as I hoped. Varys smiled, silently celebrating the beginning of a very beneficial relationship.

In his glee, he missed how the Lady Stark dropped a sliver of paper into the brazier.

"Get back!" Whip cracking in the air, the Goldcloak lieutenant unleashed it viciously at the crowd. An older man found himself knocked to the ground, skin of his shoulders torn open from the lashes. It didn't restrain the crowd. Desperate bodies quickly surged into the man's place, hands out with a visceral hunger. "Get back, damn you!"

Where the whip didn't work, the commands wouldn't. "We want our food!" screamed a younger man, nearly skin and bones.

A balding man in Lannister red-gold, obviously miserable, read off a ledger. "Go to your designated communal kitchen for the two daily meals at the marked time of day…"

"All the food there is rotten!" cried a woman, holding a screaming baby. "I can't feed my baby rotten food!"

"'Alf me family's already dead, mi'Lord," begged a common laborer. Dressed in trousers and the overalls of a smith, he was better off than the rest - the fact that even he was begging testified to the dismal state of the population of King's Landing. "Please! Queen Margaery made sure the food stores were full…"

The official looked like he sympathized with the crowd, but there was little he could do. "All the granaries are designated to sustain the war effort against the Targaryen scum…"

That seemed to arouse the fury of the crowd. "Horseshit!"

"Fuckin' Cersei fuckin' eats!"

"Drinks wine while fuckin' her brudder!"

"I saw 'er cunt! Only her brudder would fuck that pussy!"

"Brotherfucker!"

"Cockslut!"

"Lion Queen Cocksucker!"

One snarky teenager found his jaw cracking as a Goldcloak slammed his mailed fist into it. "Don't you dare speak of your Queen that way!" shouted the lieutenant. His chainmail armor fit him well - the City Watch of King's Landing was open to all recruits willing to fight for Queen Cersei of House Lannister, and they ate well. Drawing his sword, his entire command drawing their swords or levelling their spears.

While it had worked many times in the past, this time the Goldcloaks were greeted by only cackling jeers. "What ya' gonna do, cuntface?" the smith sneered. "Blow me up with wildfire? Queen's already done that, and to beloved Queen Margaery too!"

"Remember Queen Margaery!"

"Down with the Brotherfucker!"

"The Dragon Queen feeds her people!"

Mere mentioning of Daenerys' title stoked the anger of the Goldcloaks. "Who said that?! I'll find the man and gut him like a fish!"

An idle threat that fell on deaf ears. Defiant ears. "Hail the Dragon Queen!"

"Long may she reign!"

"Seven save the Dragon Queen and the Wolf King!"

All cries morphed into a show of support for Daenerys and Jon. "DRAGON QUEEN! WOLF KING! DRAGON QUEEN! WOLF KING!"

Two scrawny kids darted out of the crowd, tossing hunks of cow dung straight for the royal official and the commander of the Goldcloaks. Blow nearly causing him to topple over, the weasley bureaucrat simpered and disappeared into the back of the warehouse. The lieutenant meanwhile reddened to the color of a ripe tomato. Grabbing one kid by the scruff of his collar, one swing of the sword left the boy beheaded. Eyes wide and mouth agape as his head rolled upon the filthy cobblestone. "Anyone else!" he hissed, sword dripping blood.

"Oh, fuck," muttered the scarred man. Cuffing the shoulders of his two companions watching the scene from an inn far across the street. "This is gonna get ugly."

Out of the blue, the boy's distraught father leapt on the Goldcloak. Paving stone in hand as he brought it down again and again on the lieutenant's face. Leaving it a bloody pulp of brain and bone as a spear ran the man through. Further stones began to hurl at the other Goldcloaks guarding the food warehouse, crowd surging forward in an enraged mass. Already, crossbowmen began disgorging bolts at the lot, blood spilling onto the ground.

The scarred man had enough. "We're going, now!" His companions had no complaints to the course of action. Shoving aside screaming - and cheering - smallfolk, the scarred man burst through the wall of the inn, burly shoulders easily splitting open the cheap plywood that seperated the establishment from the filthy alleyway that provided a safe exit.

As if anywhere in King's Landing was safe anymore.

Whether it was minutes or hours that passed, neither of the three had any idea. Too many piss-stained corridors, dark alcoves that stank of shit, and abandoned houses they snuck into - many with the emaciated corpses of those that fell victim to the starvation gripping the city. The girl found her scarred companion gazing at each of these victims with a sense of… was it guilt? It perplexed her, but with each trample of dozens of booted feet signalling more Goldcloak reinforcements towards the rioting districts she was forced to put the thoughts out of her mind.

Finally, the immense bulk of the dragonpit came into view and with it, safety. A sandy alcove that likely once hosted the retinue of many a Targaryen dragonlord offered a quiet, undisturbed place to stay the night. No residents of the capitol came here much. It was considered cursed since the Dance of Dragons - Robert Baratheon was said to have visited it once to gloat, and in the next week his firstborn child with Cersei was stillborn. His only child with Cersei.

"Fuck, that was close," Gendry breathed, checking the small hammer hooked on his belt. In the distance, the setting sun was marred with greasy black smoke, the sounds of screams and clashing steel filling the air.

"The city's on a damn knife's edge," hissed Arya, rubbing blisters on her feet. "Too many mouths, too little food, and one lioness cunt that won't jump into Blackwater Bay."

Sandor Clegane spat on the floor. "Now I know where that cunt Joffrey got it from."

"Daenerys and Jon are getting huge support, even with all the drivel Cersei's been feeding them instead of food." The gods only knew how many posters they had come across, printed leaflets of a monstrous demon on a dragon and an ice skeleton with a direwolf burning innocents alive. Many smallfolk in Flea Bottom used them as toilet paper. "Makes me heartened for the people."

"Fuck the people." He grabbed the wineskin from his pack. The odd jobs they worked at in the city always kept them supplied - the Hound was strong, Arya was quick, and Gendry was the hell of a smith. "Ya' should have gone to the fucking Stormlands, Lord Baratheon." The Hound laughed. "You a lord. Next thing ya' know, I'll be the fucking Imp."

"Fuck off, Sandor," Gendry shot back.

"He's right you know." Arya glared at the rightful Lord of Storm's End. "You should be claiming the Stormlands for yourself, not gallivanting around with me and this fucker." Sandor snorted and drank deeply. "Every time I think you're not stupid, you go and act like a fucking idiot."

Gendry smiled at her, one that made Arya go weak at the knees. Not that she'd ever show it… "Told you, Arry. Not gonna leave your side till you accept my proposal."

"I'm no lady," she repeated, though each time she did her resolve weakened.

The Baratheon bastard shook his head. "Never would want you to be anyone but yourself, just be my side while you do what you wish."

Arya punched him in the shoulder. "Shut up." His words were sweet, but she didn't want to think about it. Not now. "I hope the smoke doesn't reach here."

"Fuck King's Landing," muttered the Hound, still drinking.

Shrugging, Gendry took his own drink of wine. "Can't disagree."

Closing her eyes, Arya went back to the only world she knew. Cersei, Qyburn, the Mountain, Euron Greyjoy… Cersei, Qyburn, the Mountain, Euron Greyjoy… Cersei...