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Jon's chamber door slams against the stone wall with enough force to rattle the heavy iron hinges. He immediately regrets it - the sound will carry, and the last thing he needs is more witnesses to his loss of control. His hands shake as he presses them against the solid oak of his desk, trying to ground himself in something real, something that isn't the echo of Catelyn's voice calling him whorehouse spawn.
The room feels too small, the walls pressing in. He moves to the window, throwing open the shutters to let the cold autumn air bite at his heated face. Below, the courtyard bustles with preparation for tonight's feast - servants rushing with armloads of rushes, guardsmen laughing as they share wineskins. Normal life, untouched by the poison that flows through Winterfell's noble halls.
Should have been left to die. Lady Stark had said.
Jon doesn't turn when the door opens without a knock. Robb entered, knowing Jon well enough to recognize when he needs company rather than solitude.
"That was..." Robb pauses, clearly searching for words. "I heard Mother shouting from the other end of the keep. Something about you questioning her arrangements?"
"I suggested Lord Karstark deserved better placement at the feast." Jon's voice sounds hollow even to his own ears. "She took exception."
"Exception?" Robb closes the door and leans against it. "Jon, the entire castle heard her take exception. The kitchen girls are already whispering about..." He trails off uncomfortably.
"About the bastard being put in his place?" Jon supplies bitterly. "About Lady Stark finally saying what everyone thinks?"
"No one thinks that." Robb said right away without hesitation. "Well, no one who matters."
Jon turns from the window, studying his brother. Robb was their father's son, his hair crimson, and blue eyes. The heir of Winterfell, legitimate and loved, everything Jon can never be.
"Don't look at me like that," Robb says quietly. "Like I'm something separate from you. We're brothers, Jon. We've always been brothers. I don't give a shit what Mother says about bloodlines and proper order."
"Easy for you to say." The words come out harsher than intended. "You're not the one she looks at like something scraped off her shoe. You're not the one she wishes would disappear."
"You're right." Robb moves away from the door, settling into the chair by Jon's cold hearth. "I'm not. But I am the one who sees what it does to you. Who watches you shrink yourself smaller every time she enters a room. Except lately..." He grins suddenly. "Lately you've stopped shrinking. Started taking up space. And it's driving her absolutely mad."
Despite everything, Jon feels his lips twitch toward a smile. "Is that what I've been doing?"
"Gods, yes. The way you've been fighting in the yard? The attention from the ladies?" Robb's grin widens. "You've been magnificent. Terrifying for those of us trying to keep up, but magnificent."
Jon sinks onto his bed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Father seemed less than pleased with magnificent. You should have seen his face when he walked in."
"Father..." Robb's expression grows more serious. "Father is in an impossible position. He loves you - you know he does. But he also has to keep peace in his own household. And Mother, when she's angry..." He shakes his head. "She can make life very difficult for everyone."
"So I should go back to being invisible? Pretend I don't notice when she insults our bannermen to make some Southern point about precedence?"
"No." Robb leans forward, elbows on his knees. "But maybe pick your battles more carefully? You can't fight her on everything, Jon. Whether you like it or not,"
"Whether the North likes it or not, you mean." Jon thinks of the servants' whispers, the way some of the older guards compare Catelyn unfavorably to his grandmother. "She's been here over a decade and still acts like she's visiting. Still flinches when Father takes us to the godswood."
"And that bothers you because...?"
"Because Winterfell deserves better." The truth of it surprises Jon with its intensity. "Because the North deserves a lady who understands us, not one who tries to change us into something we're not."
Robb is quiet for a long moment. "You really love this place, don't you? Not just as home, but as... something more."
"It's in my blood." Jon repeats what he told Alys, but with Robb he can be more honest. "Sometimes I dream I'm walking the walls at night, and I can feel every stone, every beam. Like Winterfell itself is alive and I'm part of it."
"That's..." Robb pauses. "Actually, that's exactly how I feel sometimes. Like the castle recognizes us as Starks." He grins suddenly. "Maybe that's why Mother hates you so much. You're more Winterfell than she'll ever be, bastard or not."
"Careful," Jon warns, but he's fighting a smile now. "That sounds dangerously close to treason against your lady mother."
"What's she going to do, send me to my room without supper?" Robb's eyes gleam with mischief. "Speaking of supper - you are coming to the feast tonight, aren't you?"
Jon groans. "After that scene? She'll have me seated in the stables."
"All the more reason to show up looking magnificent." Robb stands, moving to Jon's wardrobe. "Wear the new doublet, the black one with silver wolves. And actually comb your hair for once."
"Why do you care what I wear?"
"Because Lady Alys spent half of breakfast staring at you, and the other half trying not to be obvious about it." Robb pulls out the doublet, tossing it on the bed. "You promised her a dance. Are you really going to let Mother's tantrum stop you?"
"It wasn't a tantrum—"
"Jon." Robb's voice goes serious again. "If you hide tonight, Mother wins. Everyone will see that she can drive you off with harsh words. Is that what you want?"
No. The thought of Catelyn's satisfaction, of proving her right about his place, makes Jon's jaw clench. "She'll make it miserable for me."
"Probably." Robb shrugs. "But you'll have the most beautiful girl in the hall on your arm. I'd say that's worth some maternal glaring."
"When did you become wise about women?"
"I've been watching Theon fail spectacularly for years. I've learned what not to do." Robb heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "For what it's worth, Jon? Father may have to play politics, but I don't. You're my brother. Always. And if anyone - Mother included - tries to say otherwise, they'll answer to me."
The fierce protectiveness in his voice makes Jon's throat tight. "Robb..."
"Wear the doublet. Dance with Lady Alys. Let them all see what I see - a Stark in all but name." He grins one last time. "Besides, someone needs to give Theon competition for most scandalous behavior at a feast. The Iron-born peacock has been unchallenged too long."
The door closes behind him, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts and a black doublet that suddenly seems like armor for a different kind of battle.
Pick your battles, Robb said. But what if the battle has already picked him? What if being invisible was never really an option, not with his mother's eyes and this strange fire burning in his blood since his illness?
Jon picks up the doublet, running his fingers over the silver embroidery. Direwolves racing across midnight fabric, proud and unashamed.
Let them see, he decides. Let them all see.
.
.
The servant's corridor behind the kitchens buzzes with more energy than usual. Jon pauses in an alcove, picking up fragments of heated discussion.
"—saw the whole thing, I did. Lord Stark's face when he walked in—"
"—bout time someone said it. The way she arranges those feasts, like we're in the Riverlands—"
"Hush! You want to lose your position? Lady Stark has ears everywhere."
"Let her hear. The boy's got the right of it. Lord Karstark fought beside Lord Eddard in two wars. Deserves better than being shoved down with the merchants."
Jon recognizes the voices - kitchen staff who've worked Winterfell since before he was born. Old Sara, who sometimes sneaks him extra bread. Young Tom, whose mother served Jon's grandmother.
"Still," another voice interjects nervously, "speaking against the lady of the house... 'tisn't proper for a bastard."
"Proper?" Old Sara snorts. "Was it proper when the lad helped your daughter when she burned her hand? When he spent his own coin getting Maester Luwin to tend her? Where was Lady Stark's propriety then?"
"That's different—"
"Aye, it is. Because Jon Snow sees us as people, not just hands to serve. Can you say the same of her ladyship?"
Jon moves away before he can hear more, discomforted by the raw loyalty in Sara's voice. He's never cultivated the servants' affection deliberately - it just seemed natural to treat them with courtesy, to remember their names and troubles. But now he sees how that simple kindness has created divisions he never intended.
"Eavesdropping, Snow? How terribly common of you."
Theon leans against the wall near the armory, his usual smirk firmly in place.
"Just passing through," Jon replies evenly. "Shouldn't you be preening for tonight's feast? I heard the Manderly girls arrived this afternoon."
"Already done. I'm naturally magnificent, unlike some who need hours of preparation." Theon pushes off the wall, falling into step beside Jon. "Though I must say, you've been giving me unexpected competition lately. Lady Alys couldn't keep her eyes off you at breakfast."
"There's nothing—"
"Oh, spare me." Theon waves dismissively. "I have eyes. Pretty little thing, excellent bloodline, clearly interested. Though after that scene with Lady Stark..." He whistles low. "Might be she reconsiders associating with such a scandalous bastard."
Jon stops walking. "You heard?"
"Jon, they heard in fucking Dorne." But Theon's voice lacks its usual mockery. "Look, I know we're not exactly close. But can I offer some advice?"
"Since when do you offer advice that doesn't involve taverns or whores?"
"Since I recognized a fellow outsider making classic outsider mistakes." Theon's expression grows uncharacteristically serious. "You think because you're good with a sword and clever with words, you can challenge the order of things. But Lady Stark? She's been playing this game since before you were born. She knows exactly which strings to pull."
"Your point?"
"My point is that charging headfirst into her provocations is exactly what she wants. You lose control, say something unforgivable, and suddenly she's the victim of the ungrateful bastard's abuse." Theon shrugs. "Trust someone who's been the unwelcome ward for years - sometimes the best rebellion is success. Be so fucking charming tonight that everyone wonders why Lady Stark has such a problem with you."
Jon stares at the older boy. "That's... actually good advice."
"I have my moments." The smirk returns. "Plus, watching you and Lady Alys make eyes at each other might actually make these northern feasts interesting for once. Do try not to step on her feet during the dancing - I've placed bets on your success."
"You've what?"
But Theon is already sauntering away, whistling a Ironborn sailing song off-key. Jon shakes his head, caught between annoyance and unexpected gratitude. Even Theon Greyjoy, it seems, has chosen a side in Winterfell's quiet war.
The thought should worry him more than it does.
.
.
The great hall glows with the light of a hundred candles, transforming the austere northern keep into something almost magical. Jon pauses at the threshold, taking in the scene. The mingled perfumes of visiting ladies, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread, the subtle tension that ripples through conversations when his presence is noticed.
He's chosen his entrance carefully - not early enough to seem eager, not late enough to draw undue attention. The black doublet fits perfectly, the silver wolves catching candlelight as he moves. He's even managed to tame his curls somewhat, though they still refuse complete submission.
Lady Catelyn sits at the high table, resplendent in Tully blue and silver. Her eyes find him immediately, narrowing with displeasure at his appearance. But Jon doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. He offers a perfectly correct bow, just deep enough for the lady of the house, and watches her jaw tighten at his composure.
Your move, my lady.
"Jon!" Arya's delighted shriek cuts through the formal atmosphere. She abandons her seat without ceremony, rushing toward him in a flutter of grey skirts. "You came! Sansa said you wouldn't but I knew you would because you promised and you always keep promises and—"
"Breathe, little wolf," Jon says, catching her before she can barrel into him completely. "Of course I came. I have a dance to claim, remember?"
Arya's eyes go wide. "With Lady Alys? She's been watching the door for ages. She's pretending she hasn't, but she has. She's over there with the other Karstark ladies."
Jon follows her pointing finger and feels his breath catch. Alys wears deep green tonight, the color bringing out hidden depths in her grey eyes. Her brown hair falls in elaborate braids threaded with silver ribbons that catch the light when she turns. She's listening to one of her cousins with polite attention, but Jon can see the way her gaze keeps drifting toward the entrance.
Then she sees him. The smile that blooms across her face is like sunrise after a long night - warm and genuine and impossible to resist. Jon finds himself smiling back, forgetting for a moment about Catelyn's glares and political complexities.
"She's pretty," Arya observes with a child's blunt honesty. "Are you going to marry her?"
"Arya!" Jon feels heat rise in his cheeks. "We've had one conversation about books. That's hardly grounds for marriage."
"And a tour of the castle. And breakfast conversation. And now dancing." Arya ticks off on her fingers. "That's four things. Old Nan says four is a sacred number."
"Old Nan says many things." Jon tugs gently on one of her messy braids. "Go back to your seat before Septa Mordane has an apoplexy."
"Septa Mordane always looks like she's having an apoplexy," Arya mutters, but she goes, throwing one more encouraging grin over her shoulder.
Jon makes his way through the hall, noting how conversations pause as he passes. Some faces show curiosity, others disapproval, but a surprising number offer subtle nods of acknowledgment. The servant's gossip network has clearly been active.
"Lord Snow." Lady Wylla Manderly intercepts him near the wine table, resplendent in sea-green silk. "How fortunate. I was just telling my sister about the tales of your performance in the yard last week. She didn't believe someone could disarm three opponents in succession."
"Your sister is wise to be skeptical, my lady," Jon replies smoothly. "Tales often grow in the telling. It was merely two opponents, and one was distracted by a particularly attractive serving girl."
Lady Wylla laughs. "How refreshingly modest. Most young men would have claimed it was four opponents, all giants besides."
"I leave the grand tales to the singers, my lady. Reality is usually impressive enough."
"Indeed?" She steps closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "And what reality would you share about your confrontation with Lady Stark? The servants have at least six different versions already."
Jon's smile doesn't waver, though he notes how quickly the story has spread. "I'm afraid that tale would bore you, my lady. A simple disagreement about seating arrangements. Hardly the stuff of songs."
"Perhaps." Her eyes sparkle with intelligence. "Though I notice Lord Karstark has been moved to a more prominent position. Sometimes the smallest battles have the most interesting outcomes."
Before Jon can respond, the musicians strike up the opening notes of the first dance. Lady Wylla touches his arm lightly.
"I believe you have a partner waiting, Lord Snow. But do save a dance for me later? I find myself curious about what other small battles you might win tonight."
She glides away, leaving Jon to wonder if every conversation tonight will carry hidden meanings. But then he catches sight of Alys making her way toward him through the crowd, and political complexities fade to background noise.
"My lady." He bows as she approaches. "You look radiant tonight."
"And you look like you've been fighting dragons." Her voice carries gentle teasing. "Surviving Lady Stark's temper qualifies, I suppose."
"You heard?"
"Jon, the entire North heard." She slips her hand into his offered arm. "Though I must say, you seem remarkably composed for someone who was called... what was it? 'That ugly word?'"
"My lady—"
"Will you dance with me, Jon Snow?" She interrupts, grey eyes serious despite her light tone. "Will you stand up with me before the entire hall and show them that birth doesn't determine worth?"
The challenge in her words is unmistakable. This isn't just about a dance anymore - it's about taking a stand, making a statement. Jon glances toward the high table where Catelyn watches with pursed lips, then back to Alys's expectant face.
"It would be my honor, Lady Alys."
They move onto the dance floor as other couples fall back to give them space. Jon is acutely aware of every eye in the hall, the weight of judgment and speculation. But then the music swells, Alys steps into his arms, and the world narrows to just the two of them.
She moves like water, graceful and sure, matching his steps perfectly. Jon silently thanks the dancing master who drilled proper forms into him despite his protests. They turn and glide in perfect synchronization, her green skirts swirling around them like a sea.
"You're full of surprises," Alys murmurs as he spins her. "Warrior, scholar, and now dancer. What other talents are you hiding?"
"A few," Jon admits, pulling her closer as the dance requires. "Though none as interesting as yours. Tell me, do all Karstark ladies learn to make political statements through partner choice, or is that particular to you?"
"You think this is political?" She arches an eyebrow as they move through a complex series of steps. "How disappointing. Here I thought you'd realized I simply enjoy your company."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He dips her slightly on the next turn, pleased when she laughs. "You can genuinely like someone and still use that liking to make a point."
"How cynical. And how very..." She pretends to consider. "Accurate. Though in my defense, the point needed making. That scene earlier was disgraceful."
"Alys—"
"No, let me finish." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "My father has served House Stark faithfully for twenty years. My brothers have bled for Winterfell's honor. And Lady Stark would seat us with merchants and hedge knights because it suits her southern sensibilities?"
Jon says nothing, but his grip on her hand tightens slightly in acknowledgment.
"You were right to speak up," she continues. "Someone needed to. And the fact that it was you - the bastard she tries so hard to diminish - makes it all the more delicious."
"You have a vengeful streak, my lady."
"I have a sense of justice." She smiles brilliantly as they execute a particularly showy turn. "Also, yes, a vengeful streak. Middle daughter of six brothers, remember? I've learned to fight back creatively."
The dance brings them close enough that Jon can smell her perfume - winter roses mixed with something uniquely her. "And is this part of fighting back? Dancing with the castle bastard?"
"No." Her expression softens. "This is me dancing with the most interesting person in Winterfell. The fact that it annoys certain people is merely a bonus."
The sincerity in her voice makes Jon's chest tight. "Alys..."
"Did you really tell her she'd always be a southern lady playing at being a wolf?"
Jon winces. "You heard that part too?"
"It's already becoming legend among the servants." She grins. "Lady Stark's face apparently turned three different shades of purple."
"It wasn't my finest moment."
"No?" They spin again, perfectly synchronized. "I disagree. Someone needed to say it. The North remembers, Jon Snow. And we remember those who stand for us, not just with us."
The music reaches its crescendo, and Jon makes a decision. Instead of the restrainted ending the dance calls for, he lifts Alys off her feet, spinning her in a circle that makes her laugh with delight. It's showy, improper for a bastard, and absolutely perfect.
When he sets her down, the hall erupts in applause. Not everyone - Jon can see Catelyn's frigid disapproval, some of the stuffier lords' frowns - but enough. More than enough.
"That was..." Alys is breathless, cheeks flushed with exertion and joy. "Unexpected."
"You said you liked surprises."
"I do." She squeezes his hand before propriety demands they separate. "Dance with me again later?"
"Every dance, if you'd let me."
"Careful." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Make promises like that and people might think you're trying to court me."
"Aren't I?"
The words slip out without thought, carried by the euphoria of the moment. Alys's eyes widen, and Jon immediately wants to take them back. But then she smiles - not her teasing grin or political smile, but something softer, more real.
"Are you?" she asks quietly.
"I..." Jon glances around, suddenly aware they're still the center of attention. "Perhaps we should—"
"Jon Snow!" Lord Karstark's booming voice cuts across the hall. The massive lord approaches with heavy steps, and Jon instinctively straightens, remembering Robb's warnings about protective fathers.
"Lord Karstark." Jon bows properly. "I hope you're enjoying the feast."
"More now than before." The older man's weathered face is unreadable. "That was quite the display. Where did a bastard learn to dance like that?"
Jon feels Alys tense beside him, but he keeps his voice level. "The same place I learned to read, my lord. Winterfell provides education to all Lord Stark's children."
"Hmm." Lord Karstark studies him with sharp eyes. "And do all Lord Stark's children make such... bold choices in the hall?"
"Father," Alys interjects, but he waves her to silence.
"I'm curious, boy. What makes you think you have the right to dance with my daughter? To spin her about like some tavern wench showing off?"
The hall has gone quiet around them, everyone sensing potential conflict. Jon can feel Catelyn's satisfaction from across the room, can see Robb starting to rise from his seat. But he doesn't back down.
"You're right, my lord. A bastard has no right to dance with Lady Alys." Jon meets the older man's gaze directly. "But a man who respects her intelligence, admires her wit, and values her company? That man might dare to ask, and hope she grants him the honor."
Lord Karstark's eyebrows rise. "Pretty words. You've got stones, boy, I'll give you that."
"Richard," Ned's voice carries across the space as Jon's father approaches. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem, Ned." Lord Karstark doesn't look away from Jon. "Just taking the measure of your boy here. Interesting evening you've provided."
"Indeed." Ned's tone is carefully neutral. "The musicians are starting another set. Perhaps—"
"Actually," Lord Karstark interrupts, "I was about to ask young Snow here about his thoughts on the White Harbor trade situation. My daughter tells me he has some innovative ideas about shipping routes."
Jon blinks, caught off-guard by the shift. "I... yes, my lord. I've been studying the seasonal patterns—"
"Good." The older lord claps a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder. "Find me later, we'll talk. And boy?" His voice drops low enough that only Jon and Alys can hear. "You ever embarrass my daughter with displays like that again, we'll have more than words. But..." A ghost of a smile crosses his stern features. "She hasn't looked that happy in months. Don't waste it."
He stomps away, leaving Jon slightly stunned. Beside him, Alys releases a breath she'd been holding.
"Well," she says shakily. "That went better than expected."
"He threatened me," Jon points out.
"Only a little. And he basically gave permission for..." She gestures vaguely between them. "Whatever this is."
"Is that what he did?"
"You clearly don't speak fluent Northern lord." She takes his arm again. "Come, introduce me to your sister. I have a feeling Arya and I will get along splendidly."
As they make their way through the crowd, Jon catches sight of Catelyn again. Her expression could freeze flame. The bastard she tried to diminish has become the evening's focal point, earning approval from one of their principal bannermen.
Your move, my lady, Jon thinks again. But this time, it feels less like defiance and more like prophecy.
The game has changed, and everyone in the hall knows it.
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys watches the legendary knight settle into their pitiful room's only chair.
"You claim Lord Stark wounded you," Viserys says, still clutching his cheap sword like a talisman. "Yet here you stand, very much alive."
Arthur's violet eyes - dragon eyes like ours - carry old pain as he answers. "Eddard Stark is many things, Your Grace. But he is not what King Robert believes him to be..." He touches his side again, an unconscious gesture. "He could have finished me easily. Should have, by all rights. Instead, he had his men tend my wounds."
"Why?" Viserys demands. "Why spare a Kingsguard?"
"Because of what I was guarding." Arthur's voice drops lower. "Because sometimes mercy serves better than justice. Because Eddard Stark understood that some secrets..." He pauses, seeming to reconsider his words. "Some secrets require living men to keep them."
He's not telling us everything, Dany realizes with the instinct that has kept them alive through years of running. But then, they're not telling him everything either. The game of secrets is one every exile learns to play.
"If you wanted us dead," she says quietly, drawing both men's attention, "we would be dead already. The Usurper's dog doesn't send legendary knights to talk. He sends sellswords with poisoned blades."
Arthur studies her with those impossible eyes, and Dany sees something like approval in his expression. "Wisdom beyond your years, Princess. Your mother would be proud."
The mention of their mother makes something twist in Dany's chest. She had never known her, and Viserys had told her in his anger that she had killed her when she came to this world.
"I've spent years searching for you," Arthur continues. "Following rumors and whispers across the Free Cities. Always arriving too late, finding only cold trails and abandoned rooms." His expression darkens. "Where is Ser Willem? He should have been with you."
The silence that follows is heavy as lead. Dany feels tears prick at her eyes, remembering the old knight's kindness, the way he'd called her "little princess" even when they had nothing left but memories of royalty.
"He died," she whispers. "Three years past. The wasting sickness took him."
Arthur goes very still. When he speaks again, his voice is rough with emotion. "Three years. You've been alone for three years?"
"We've managed," Viserys says defensively, but Dany can hear the exhaustion beneath his pride. They've more than managed - they've survived assassination attempts, starvation, the slow selling of every valuable thing they owned. But at what cost?
"Children," Arthur breathes, and for the first time, he looks every one of his years. "You were children, alone in the world with nothing but your names and enemies on every side." He rises abruptly, pacing to the narrow window. "Willem was a good man. He deserved better than dying in exile. You deserved better than..." He gestures at their squalid surroundings.
"We are dragons," Viserys says with forced hauteur. "We endure."
"You shouldn't have had to." Arthur turns back to them, resolution written in every line of his body. "But that ends now. Come with me. I have a ship waiting in the harbor, provisioned and ready. My men—"
Both Targaryens tense immediately. Dany's hand finds Viserys's arm as her brother's fingers tighten on his sword. They've heard this before - promises of ships, of safety, always with a price.
Arthur notices their reaction immediately. "You think I mean to deliver you to Robert Baratheon?"
"Others have tried," Viserys says flatly. "The Archon of Tyrosh promised us an army, then attempted to ransom us to the Iron Throne."
"I am not them." Arthur said. "But I understand your caution. This place..." He looks around with disgust. "This is no fit dwelling for Targaryen royalty. My ship offers better accommodation. Clean beds, proper food, safety from prying eyes."
"And who waits on this ship?" Dany asks, her voice steadier than her racing heart. "More sellswords? More people who see us as commodities to be traded?"
"Seven men who served your family faithfully before the Rebellion. Two members of the Company of the Rose - exiles like yourselves who remember what loyalty means. And Septa Maegelle."
"Pretty words," Viserys says, but Dany can see him wavering. The promise of loyal men, of people who remember their family with honor rather than hatred, calls to something deep in her brother's wounded soul. "But why should we trust you?"
In answer, Arthur draws a dagger from his belt - castle-forged steel with a ruby in the pommel. He reverses it smoothly, offering the hilt to Viserys.
"Your current blade is cheap steel, poorly balanced and duller than it should be," he observes. "This dagger is sharp enough to shave with, perfectly weighted for throwing or close work. Take it."
Viserys accepts the weapon warily, testing its balance. Even Dany can see the difference - this is a weapon for a prince, not a beggar.
"My life is in your hands now, Your Grace," Arthur says simply. "If at any point you doubt my loyalty, that blade will find my heart easily enough. I swear by the old gods and the new, by the vows I swore to your father, that no harm will come to you under my protection."
He's giving Viserys power, Dany realizes. Real power, not just the illusion of it. It's a clever move - her brother responds better to strength freely given than demanded.
"You could stay here if you prefer," Arthur continues. "If so, I'll send word to my men to join us. We'll make what improvements we can to this place. But..." He reaches into his pouch, drawing something out. "Before you decide, there's something else."
The ring catches the dim light, silver and amethyst winking like trapped stars. Dany gasps, recognizing it immediately - one of their mother's rings, sold two years ago to a fat merchant for barely enough coin to eat for a month.
Viserys snatches it from Arthur's palm, examining it desperatly. His fingers trace the delicate engraving, the tiny dragon worked into the band. When he brings it to his lips, Dany sees tears in his violet eyes.
"Where?" Her brother's voice cracks. "Where did you find this?"
"In the markets of Pentos, eight months past. I was searching for traces of your passage when I saw it in a jeweler's stall." Arthur's expression is gentle. "I knew it immediately - I stood guard often enough while Queen Rhaella wore it. The merchant didn't want to sell, but..." A ghost of a smile. "I can be persuasive when necessary."
Dany watches her brother clutch the ring like a lifeline. They'd sold nine of them over the years, each sale another piece of their mother lost. To have even one returned...
"She wore this to court," Viserys whispers. "When Father was in good moods,"
He could be lying, Dany thinks. This could be an elaborate trap. But the ring is real, the sword Dawn is real, and Arthur Dayne's patience feels genuine in a way their previous "protectors" never did.
"We'll come," Viserys decides suddenly, sliding the ring onto his smallest finger where it hangs loose but precious. "But if this is a trap, Ser Arthur, I'll use this pretty dagger to cut out your heart myself."
"I would expect nothing less, Your Grace." Arthur bows formally. "Gather what you wish to bring. We leave within the hour - the harbor masters change shift at sunset, and I'd rather avoid unnecessary attention."
As they pack their few possessions - mostly rags and broken dreams, as Dany thinks of them - she watches Arthur from the corner of her eye. He stands guard at the door without being asked, hand resting casually on Dawn's pommel. It's such a natural stance, protective without being overbearing.
"Ready?" Arthur asks when they've finished. Viserys clutches their small bundle of possessions, the ruby-hilted dagger prominent at his belt. Dany carries only a few dirty clothes.
"Ready," Viserys confirms, trying to sound regal despite the tremor in his voice.
As they follow Arthur Dayne into the Lysene twilight, Dany allows herself a tiny flower of hope. Perhaps this time will be different. Perhaps this protector will keep his promises.
And if not... well, dragons have survived worse betrayals.
But as Arthur places himself between them and the street crowds, as his hand guides them through the safest paths, Dany thinks that maybe - just maybe - they've finally found what they've been searching for.
Not just safety or comfort, but someone who sees them as more than coins to be traded.
Someone who remembers what it means to serve.
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