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Jon Flint
Jon woke with sunlight against his face, and for once, he didn't immediately stand up from his bed. Instead, he lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling beams, a stupid grin spreading across his face.
Dacey Mormont might kiss me later.
Last night replayed in his mind like a favorite song—walking through the godswood, their boots crunching on fallen leaves while the heart tree's face seemed to watch with amusement. Dacey had looked different in the moonlight, softer somehow despite the leather and mail she'd changed back into after the feast. They'd talked about nothing important—Bear Island's fishing traditions, Breakstone Hill's brutal winters, whether the old gods actually listened or just pretended to care.
Then he'd walked her back to the guest chambers, because that's what a lord's heir did, even if said lord's heir had no idea what he was doing. And at her door, she'd turned with that sharp grin of hers and asked, "So, Flint. You expecting a goodnight kiss?"
"I wouldn't mind one."
Dacey had laughed. "Maybe later. If you don't embarrass yourself too badly in the practice yard." Then she'd slipped inside, leaving Jon standing there like an idiot, heart hammering against his ribs.
Maybe later. Gods, what does 'later' mean? After the sparring? After the end of times?
Jon rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the cold stone floor. The autumn chill bit through the castle despite Winterfell's hot springs, and he dressed quickly—wool breeches, a leather jerkin over a linen shirt, his belt with the kukri sitting comfortably at his hip. He ran fingers through his shoulder-length curls, trying to tame them into something presentable and failing miserably.
Dacey's seen you with a sword. She's not going to care if your hair looks like a bird's nest.
Still, he tried. And failed again. Finally, he gave up and headed for the door.
The corridors of Winterfell were alive with people. Servants carried linens and breakfast trays, their breath misting in the cooler hallways away from the springs. Jon knew most of them by name now—had made it a point to learn them, the way Great Grandfather Flint had taught him.
"Good morning, Lord Jon," called Mira, one of the kitchen girls, balancing a tray of fresh bread.
"Morning, Mira." Jon stepped aside to let her pass. "That bread smells like heaven. Save me some before Arya eats it all?"
She giggled. "I'll try, my lord, but your sister's got the appetite of a direwolf."
Two guards nodded as he passed the armory. "Morning, Calon. Jacks."
"Lord Jon," they chorused, Calon adding, "Heard you're sparring with the Mormont girl today. Give her hell."
Jon grinned. "I'll give her something, at least."
Everyone knows. Of course, everyone knows. Winterfell's worse than a sewing circle for gossip.
The soldiers burst out laughing before walking away.
The Main Hall's great oak doors stood open, warm air and the smell of bacon and porridge spilling out. Jon's stomach growled. He'd been too nervous last night to eat much at the feast, too aware of Dacey watching him from across the table, too busy wondering what she was thinking.
Inside, the hall buzzed. The long tables were half-filled with household guards, servants grabbing quick meals between tasks, and the noble family scattered across the high table and nearby benches. Jon spotted Robb immediately—his brother sat near the middle, already eating, his auburn hair made him look like he was wearing fire in his head.
Jon slid onto the bench beside him. "Morning."
Robb looked up, swallowing a mouthful of bacon. "There he is. The brave warrior about to face his doom."
"It's a sparring match, Robb. Not a trial by combat."
"Oh, I know." Robb's grey eyes sparkled with mischief. "But that's not how they're telling it in the barracks. I heard three different sides this morning. In one, Dacey Mormont breaks your arm and you cry for Grandmother. In another, you fight for six hours straight and the Old Gods themselves come down to declare a draw. And in my personal favorite—" he leaned closer, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "—you defeat her, she falls madly in love with you, and you get married in the godswood by nightfall."
Jon felt his face heat. "That's ridiculous."
"Which part?"
"All of it. It's just two warriors testing each other. It's not about the future of the North or... or anything else."
"Right." Robb grabbed another piece of bacon, grinning like a fox. "That's why you've been smiling like an idiot since you walked in. Because it doesn't mean anything."
Damn him for knowing me too well.
"Shut up and eat your breakfast," Jon muttered, reaching for the porridge.
Robb laughed, then his attention shifted across the hall. "Look at that. Arya's made a new friend."
Jon followed his gaze. Arya sat three tables down, animated and gesturing wildly while talking to a girl maybe a year or two older. The stranger had the Mormont look—dark hair, strong build, grey eyes. Both girls were bent over something on the table between them. Jon squinted.
Are those... knives?
"Who is she?"
"Lyanna Mormont," Robb said around a mouthful of bread. "Dacey's youngest sister. Well, youngest of the ones who came. I think there are more back on Bear Island, but Mother mentioned these four specifically. Alysane, Lyra, Jorelle, and Lyanna."
Jon watched Arya demonstrate what looked like a throwing technique using a butter knife and an apple. Lyanna watched with fierce concentration, then copied the grip exactly. "Lady Stark is going to lose her mind."
"Oh, she already has." Robb nodded toward the high table.
Lady Catelyn sat with perfect posture, smiling as she conversed with two other girls, Joanna Stark, Benjen's daughter, and the other had to be Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter. Sansa sat beside them, looking pleased and proper in a blue dress that matched her eyes.
But Lady Stark's smile didn't reach her eyes. Those flicked repeatedly toward Arya and Lyanna, and each time they did, the smile tightened into something that could cut glass.
"She's delighted our cousin is talking to Sansa about embroidery or whatever," Robb observed. "But Arya discussing weapons with another wild Northern girl? That's basically her nightmare."
"The Mormonts won't be here forever, three more days before we all ride towards the wall for my Climb," Jon said as he drank soup from his plate, and Robb coughed a little and helped it down with some wine.
"Speaking of the wall, I hope you are not thinking of joining the watch...I mean I am sure they will be delighted to have someone as pretty as you there, but I don't think grandma would be happy about it, and I don't think prettiness will stop the Wildlings," Robb said with a joking tone, and Jon chuckled.
"Who knows, there are stories that a wildling once seduced a Stark girl, and she had his children, so maybe, I will seduce their Princess, and we all will be joined by blood," Jon said humorously, and Robb almost choked on his bread.
"Wildlings don't have Princess, Jon," Robb reminded him.
"I heard they have a King, don't they? What was his....ohh...Mance Rayder. The King Beyond The Wall, so if they have a King, it only makes sense they have a Princess as well," Jon said with a big victory grin, and Robb looked slightly annoyed by said grin.
"Aren't you marrying Lady Dacey? I don't think she would be happy to share her bed with another woman...a Wildling Woman...you know how much Mormont hates the Wildlings, almost as much as the Greyjoys," Robb said with a quiet voice as one of the Mormont girls walked behind him, joining Sansa and Joanna.
Jon quickly looked around and noticed that Asha was not present, and he was a little relieved. "Well, we are lucky that Lady Kraken Princess is not here to spoil the fun..."
The hall doors opened again, and Jon cursed under his breath.
Asha Greyjoy walked in like she owned the place.
The Ironborn girl—woman, really, she had to be seventeen or eighteen, moved with the rolling gait of someone raised on ship decks despite not being in a ship for six years now. Her dark hair hung in a practical braid, and she wore leather and wool in the northern style, but everything about her screamed salt and sea and iron. Her eyes looked at the hall with arrogance as if everyone there was beneath her.
Every Mormont present—and Jon counted four at various tables, plus the guards wearing black bear sigils—turned to stare at Asha with expressions like she'd personally pissed in their ale. Lips curled. Hands drifted toward weapons. Even little Lyanna Mormont looked like she wanted to throw her butter knife at Asha's head.
Oh no.
Asha seemed to notice. Her lips curved into a smile that was all teeth and malice. She strolled toward the food tables, slowly, deliberately casual. "Morning, wolves. Lovely day for breaking fast, isn't it?"
Alysane Mormont—Jon recognized her from last night's feast, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting with two other Mormont girls who had to be Lyra and Jorelle, and with Sansa, Joanna Stark, and Jeyne—the three Mormont girls set down their cups with a sharp clack. "Smells better than it did a moment ago. Then again, most things smell better than dead fish and failure."
Asha's smile sharpened. "Funny. I was just thinking how it reeked of desperation and bear shit in here."
Jorelle, younger than Alysane but with the same warrior's build, leaned forward. "That's rich coming from a squid. Tell me, Greyjoy—do you still dream about the ships your family lost? I hear burning longships make such pretty lights."
"Almost as pretty as Bear Island women trying to look feminine," Asha shot back, loading her plate with bacon. "Though I suppose when you're built like a man, you have to embrace it."
Lyra Mormont stood up. She looked maybe fifteen, still growing into her frame, but the fury in her grey eyes was that of her mother. "At least we can hold a sword without dropping it. How many of your brothers died squealing in the water, kraken?"
The hall went silent. Servants froze mid-step.
Asha's face went cold, all pretense of humor vanishing. "How many of your lords bent the knee after we raped Bear Island's shores? Oh wait—you don't have lords. Just a collection of she-bears who can't find husbands."
Alysane moved fast, crossing the distance between tables in three strides. She loomed over Asha, and despite the Ironborn girl's cocky attitude, Jon saw her flinch slightly. Alysane was big.
"Say that again," Alysane said quietly. "I dare you. I will cut out your pretty tongue and send it back to your coward father. Or maybe I'll feed it to pigs. They eat garbage."
Asha's hand dropped to her belt, but she wore no weapon. None of them did in the hall—Winterfell law. Her jaw clenched. "You want to threaten me, she-bear? I'm a hostage, not a—"
"You're a prisoner," Alysane corrected, leaning down until they were nose to nose. "A kraken's whelp who's only alive because you're worth more breathing than worm food. Don't forget which one of us is actually free."
This is about to get bloody.
Jon started to rise, but Robb caught his arm. "Wait."
"ALYSANE."
The voice cracked through the hall like a whip. Every head turned.
Dacey Mormont stood in the doorway, and somehow she filled the entire space despite being smaller than her sister. She wore fighting leathers, her sword strapped across her back, and her grey eyes promised violence if anyone was stupid enough to test her.
She looked at Alysane. Just looked. But something in that gaze made the bigger woman step back from Asha, jaw clenched with obvious frustration.
"Sit down," Dacey said quietly. "Now."
Alysane hesitated, then moved back to her table. Lyra and Jorelle followed, though all three looked like they wanted to argue.
Dacey's gaze shifted to Asha. "And you. Stay down. Keep your mouth shut. You're a kraken with no water, Greyjoy. A prisoner in a wolf's den. Maybe remember that before you provoke bears that could tear you apart."
Asha's smile returned, but it was uglier now, desperate. "Is that a threat, Mormont? Does Bear Island speak for Winterfell now? Because last I checked—" she glanced toward the high table where Lord Stark sat, watching with cold eyes, "—the Starks run this castle. Not the she-bears who couldn't defend their own shores."
Oh, that was stupid. That was really, really stupid.
Dacey's hand moved to her sword hilt. Not drawing it. Just resting there. "We defended our shores better than you attacked them. Which is why you're here wearing a collar, and I'm here as an honored guest. Know the difference?"
"I know you're all so desperate for relevance that you have to pick fights with prisoners," Asha said, but Jon heard the quaver underneath. "Tell me, does it make you feel powerful? Threatening someone who can't fight back?"
"You started this," Lyanna Mormont piped up from across the hall, her young voice clear and sharp. "You insulted us. You insulted our house. We're just returning the favor."
"ENOUGH."
Lord Stark rose from the high table, and the hall went silent again. His grey eyes swept across everyone involved, and Jon watched his father's expression shift into something carved from winter itself.
"Lady Dacey." Ned's voice was quiet, but it carried. "You are a guest in Winterfell. I appreciate your intervention. But remember where you stand."
Dacey quickly stepped back and looked apologetic. "Of course, Lord Stark. My apologies for the disruption."
Ned's gaze shifted to Asha. "Asha Greyjoy. You will apologize to House Mormont. Now."
Asha's face went red, then pale. "My lord, I was merely responding to—"
"Now."
The word cracked like ice breaking. Asha closed her mouth, swallowed hard, then turned to face the Mormont tables. Her eyes found Dacey specifically, and something ugly flickered across her expression.
"Lady Dacey. My sincerest apologies." The words dripped with false sweetness. "I spoke rashly. Clearly, I underestimated how... sensitive Bear Island women are to simple observations. I would never intentionally wound someone so easily provoked. Please, forgive my thoughtless tongue."
Jon watched Dacey's face go very still, that dangerous kind of still that came right before violence. Her hand tightened on her sword hilt until her knuckles went white.
Alysane half-rose from her seat. "You fucking—"
"Alysane." Dacey didn't look at her sister, didn't take her eyes off Asha. "Sit."
It wasn't a request. Alysane sat, but she looked ready to flip the entire table.
Ned's voice went cold as the Wall. "That was an apology, was it, Asha Greyjoy?"
Asha's smile faltered. "I... yes, my lord. I apologized as instructed."
"No." Ned stood slowly, and every eye in the hall fixed on him. "That was an insult wrapped in courtesy. Try again. And this time, remember that my patience has limits, and stable duty can easily become the cells if you continue to test me."
Asha's face went pale. Her jaw worked for a moment, pride warring with self-preservation. Finally, she looked at Dacey again, and this time the mockery was gone, replaced by something harder.
"I apologize for my words. They were unworthy and disrespectful to House Mormont."
It still wasn't sincere—Jon could hear the resentment underneath—but at least it wasn't actively insulting.
Ned looked to Dacey. "Lady Dacey, do you speak for House Mormont in this?"
Dacey glanced at her sisters, then back to Ned. "I do, my lord...The apology is... accepted."
"Then the matter is settled." Ned's expression didn't warm at all. "Asha Greyjoy, you will also spend the next two weeks on stable duty. Perhaps shoveling horse shit will remind you that actions have consequences."
Asha's face went bright red. "My lord—"
"Do you wish to make it three weeks?"
"...No, my lord."
"Good. Now sit down and eat in silence, or remove yourself from this hall."
Asha grabbed her plate and stalked to a corner table, alone, her shoulders rigid with humiliation and fury.
Dacey remained standing for a moment longer, then seemed to remember where she was. She moved toward the high table, passing Jon's bench on the way. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
Then she was past, taking a seat near her mother, and the hall slowly returned to normal volume as conversations resumed.
Jon realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly.
"Well," Robb said quietly beside him. "That was exciting. Think they'll try to kill each other before the day's out?"
"Probably." Jon watched Asha eat alone. Then he looked at the Mormont sisters, clustered together, still radiating hostility. "Though if I were Asha, I'd be more worried about Alysane catching her alone somewhere."
"She threatened to cut out her tongue."
"And meant it." Jon finally reached for food. "The Greyjoys raided Bear Island during the rebellion. Killed people, burned villages. They're not going to forget that."
"Neither will Asha. She lost brothers in that rebellion." Robb's voice was thoughtful. "Father says hatred breeds hatred. This is what it looks like."
Jon thought about the wildling woman he'd killed. About Bella's death. About the cold fury that had driven him to refuse her burial. "Yeah. I know exactly what it looks like."
They ate in silence for a while, the hall's noise washing over them. Jon's eyes kept drifting to the high table, where Dacey sat talking with her mother and Lord Stark. She looked composed now, but he'd seen the fire in her eyes when she'd confronted Asha.
She would've fought her. Right there, in the middle of breakfast. If Father hadn't stopped it.
The thought should've been concerning. Instead, Jon found it... interesting. Dacey Mormont didn't back down. Didn't simper or apologize or hide behind diplomacy. She faced things head-on, consequences be damned.
Maybe later, she'd said last night.
Jon took a bite of bacon and let himself smile again, just a little.
Later couldn't come fast enough.
Rhaenys Targaryen (17)
The afternoon sun hammered down on Sunspear's training yard like a blacksmith's anvil, turning the sand to copper and making the air shimmer with heat. Rhaenys Targaryen—though everyone here knew her as Rhae Sand—circled her opponent like a snake, a training spear balanced perfectly in her hands.
Across from her, Nymeria Sand grinned like a cat with a mouse in its teeth. "Getting tired, cousin? Your form's slipping."
"My form is perfect," Rhaenys shot back, and thrust forward in a blur of motion.
Nymeria barely parried, wood cracking against wood with a sharp clack. The older woman twisted away, but Rhaenys was already moving. She swept low, going for Nymeria's legs, forcing her to leap back.
"Better," Nymeria admitted, breathing harder now. Sweat darkened her pale yellow training shirt, making it cling to her curves. "But still predictable."
Rhaenys didn't respond. Words were wasted breath, and she'd learned years ago that Nymeria loved to talk during fights because it distracted opponents. Instead, she pressed forward with a combination Uncle Oberyn high thrust, low sweep, spinning strike that came from an unexpected angle.
As she was fighting, her stupid mind went to a place she did not want to go.
Always attack from where they're not looking, Jon's voice whispered in her memory. Make them defend something they didn't know needed defending.
She shoved the memory down savagely. Jon was gone. Had been gone for six years, ever since the dreams stopped. Thinking about him was pointless, stupid, weak.
Even if she still heard his singing sometimes when she closed her eyes. Even if his voice still sounded like—
Nymeria's spear cracked against her ribs, hard enough to bruise through the padded training leather.
"Point," Nymeria announced, stepping back. "You were thinking too much. I could see it in your eyes."
Rhaenys lowered her spear, chest heaving. The impact throbbed along her side, a reminder that distraction meant pain. "Again."
"No." Nymeria planted her spear in the sand. "You're not focused, and I'm not interested in beating you when you're fighting ghosts instead of me. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." Nymeria's dark eyes studied her. "You've been strange all week. Distant. Even Arianne noticed, and she's been so caught up in her own schemes lately that she barely sees past her own nose."
Six years ago. Why can't I forget him?
"Rhaenys." Nymeria's voice softened slightly. "Talk to me."
Before Rhaenys could answer—before she could figure out what to say that wouldn't sound insane—footsteps crunched across the sand behind her.
"My lady." The voice was young, nervous. "Forgiveness for the interruption."
Rhaenys turned. A boy of maybe eight stood at the edge of the training yard, one of her sparrows—the children who comprised her information network throughout Sunspear. This one was called Tam, thin as a whip and twice as clever.
"What is it?" She kept her voice neutral, aware of Nymeria listening.
Tam glanced at Nymeria, then back to Rhaenys. The message was clear: Private.
Nymeria sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I'll be in the baths if you need me." She collected her spear and sauntered toward the palace, hips swaying.
Once she was out of earshot, Rhaenys crouched down to Tam's level. "Report."
The boy leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper. "The Norvoshi merchants met again with Lady Mellario. Third time this month. They brought chests—heavy ones, carried by four men each."
Rhaenys's pulse quickened. "How many chests?"
"Three. The merchants looked nervous. Kept touching their sword hilts like they expected trouble."
"And Lady Mellario?"
"Scared. She was crying when they left. Tad followed her to the sept. She prayed for two hours."
Still praying. Still afraid. Six years since Quentyn was sent to Yronwood, and she's still terrified of something.
"Good work." Rhaenys pressed two copper stars into Tam's palm. "Keep watching. If those merchants return, I want to know immediately."
Tam nodded and vanished back into the palace shadows like smoke.
Rhaenys stood slowly, mind racing. The Norvoshi connection bothered her. Had bothered her for years, ever since she'd first noticed Lady Mellario's unusual interest in merchants from her homeland. Norvos was across the Narrow Sea, far from Dorne's concerns. Why would Prince Doran's estranged wife maintain such close contact with them?
Because she's planning something. Or hiding something. Or both.
The pieces were there, scattered like broken glass across sand. She just couldn't see the pattern yet.
"Spying again, little cousin?"
Rhaenys didn't jump. She'd heard Tyene approaching—the soft whisper of silk against stone, the faint scent of honeyed wine. Tyene Sand moved like a viper through tall grass, beautiful and deadly.
"Gathering information," Rhaenys corrected, turning. "Not the same thing."
Tyene laughed. At sixteen, she'd blossomed into something almost obscenely lovely—golden hair, blue eyes, dimples that made men stupid. She wore a modest septa's robe that somehow made her look more seductive rather than less.
"Of course. Silly me." Tyene linked her arm through Rhaenys's, steering her toward the palace. "Come. Arianne wants you. Something about a meeting with Father."
Rhaenys's stomach tightened. Uncle Oberyn rarely called formal meetings unless something important had happened. "Did she say what it's about?"
"No, but she looked excited. You know that gleam she gets when she's planning something deliciously scandalous."
They walked through the palace corridors. Rhaenys had grown up in these halls, spent eleven years mastering their secrets. She knew which floors creaked, which servants could be bribed, which guards gossiped with kitchen girls who told chambermaids who whispered to stable boys who reported to her.
Her network had grown beyond even her own expectations. Forty-three children now, scattered throughout Sunspear and the shadow city beyond. They watched, listened, reported. Coins and kind words bought loyalty, and Rhaenys had learned to be generous with both.
If I can't find out who killed Ashara Dayne through force, I'll find out through patience and information.
Six years of searching. Six years of dead ends and whispered rumors and half-truths that led nowhere. The only certainty was that Ashara hadn't jumped from that tower—she'd been pushed. Shiera Seastar had told her that much in a dream years ago, before the dreams stopped coming.
Before Jon stopped coming.
She shoved the thought away again, but it clung like cobwebs.
They reached Arianne's chambers. Tyene knocked twice, then pushed the door open without waiting for permission.
Arianne Martell reclined on cushions near the window, her black hair unbound and flowing over bare shoulders. She wore a silk robe the color of sunset—orange and pink and gold—that left little to the imagination. At twenty, she'd grown into her beauty like a sword being forged, dangerous and impossible to ignore.
Their eyes met, and Arianne's lips curved into a seductive smile.
"There you are." Arianne rose. "I was starting to think Nymeria had actually managed to kill you in the training yard."
"She tried." Rhaenys moved closer, aware of Tyene watching with knowing amusement. "Tam said you wanted to see me?"
"Father wants to see you. I'm just the messenger." Arianne's fingers traced along Rhaenys's arm, and Rhaenys had to admit that she felt a spark. After all, her cousin was beautiful, a beautiful body with her large breasts, and her beautiful skin. Rhaenys would lie if she said she had not imagined what it would feel like to touch her and kiss those full lips. Rhaenys was a grown woman, and she had never shared a bed with anyone, during night, her only companion were her fingers, and those were getting old, and Rhaenys sometimes wanted to feel more than just her own fingers.
"I had reports to review," Rhaenys said, keeping her voice steady. "The Norvoshi merchants—"
"Are still mysterious and concerning, yes, yes." Arianne waved a hand dismissively. "You can tell me about your spy games later. Right now, Father's waiting in his solar, and he hates being kept waiting."
Tyene giggled. "She means Uncle is waiting. Honestly, Arianne, you're going to give people ideas."
"Good. I like giving people ideas." But Arianne released Rhaenys and stepped back, suddenly serious. "Whatever he wants to discuss, it's important. He had that look—the one where he's planning something that will change everything."
"Did he say anything?"
"Only that it concerns your future. And that I should fetch you immediately." Arianne's expression softened slightly. "Don't look so worried, cousin. I doubt he's planning to marry you off to some fat lordling. He knows better than to try."
Does he? Rhaenys wondered. She was seventeen now—old enough to be married, old enough to be used as a political piece. The only reason Prince Doran hadn't already arranged something was because Oberyn had argued against it, claiming Rhaenys needed more time to "develop her potential."
Whatever that meant.
"I should go," Rhaenys said.
"We'll come with you." Tyene linked arms with her again. "Moral support."
They made their way through the palace to Prince Oberyn's solar—a room filled with books, weapons. Oberyn himself stood by the window, staring out at the water gardens visible in the distance. He wore silk the color of rust, his dark hair streaked with silver that somehow made him look more dangerous rather than old.
He turned as they entered, and his black eyes swept over all three of them before settling on Rhaenys. "Girls. Thank you for coming."
"Uncle." Arianne settled gracefully onto a cushioned bench. "You're being mysterious. I hate when you're mysterious."
"You love when I'm mysterious," Oberyn corrected, but his tone was indulgent. He gestured for Rhaenys to sit. "I have news. House Tyrell is hosting a grand tournament at Highgarden in two months' time. Lords from all seven kingdoms will attend—it's meant to celebrate young Willas Tyrell's nameday and to show the realm that the Reach remains strong and prosperous."
It took two weeks for him.
Rhaenys settled onto cushions. "And you want me to attend."
"I want you to shine." Oberyn moved closer, his gaze intense. "You're seventeen, Rhaenys. Beautiful, intelligent, trained in combat and courtly arts. It's time the realm saw what Dorne has to offer."
"You mean it's time to parade me in front of potential husbands," Rhaenys said flatly.
"I mean it's time to remind the great houses that Dorne produces more than sun and sand." Oberyn crouched down so they were eye-level. "You don't have to marry anyone. But you need to be seen. Need to make connections, gather information, understand how power moves in the other kingdoms."
Tyene leaned forward. "Will we all go?"
"Yes. The Sand Snakes will accompany Rhaenys, along with Arianne and myself. Doran will remain here but he's given his blessing." Oberyn's smile turned sharp. "We'll show these northern and western lords what Dornish women are truly capable of."
Rhaenys's eyes widened a little. Highgarden. The Reach. Lords from all seven kingdoms, which meant...
Northern lords.
Her heart clenched. She always tried to think of Jon as little as possible; he had most likely forgotten about her, just a strange girl he saw in his dreams. But suddenly the possibility crashed over her like a wave: what if he was there? What if the Starks sent representatives? What if after six years of silence, of wondering, of aching for answers she couldn't name, she finally saw him again?
Don't be stupid. You don't even know if he was real. Dreams are just dreams.
But his voice had sounded like Father's. She remembered that still. A seven-year-old boy with purple eyes and dark curls, singing in a dream with Rhaegar Targaryen's voice pouring from his throat.
Why? Why did he sound like that?
"Rhaenys?" Arianne's voice pulled her back. "You look strange. Are you alright?"
"Fine." Rhaenys forced herself to focus. "When do we leave?"
"Six weeks. That gives us time to prepare, to gather intelligence on who will attend, and—" Oberyn's smile turned wicked, "—to ensure you have dresses that will make every lord in Westeros fall at your feet."
"I'd rather make them fear me than desire me," Rhaenys said.
"Why not both?" Oberyn straightened. "You're a Targaryen, little viper. Even if the world doesn't know it yet. Make them see fire and blood in your eyes. Make them wonder. Make them remember."
The words settled into Rhaenys's chest like coals. She'd spent years hiding, spying, gathering secrets in shadow. Maybe it was time to step into the light.
Maybe it was time to remind the realm what House Targaryen truly meant.
And maybe—just maybe—she'd finally find answers to questions that had haunted her for six years.
She met Oberyn's gaze and smiled. "When do we start preparing?"
"Now." He offered his hand, pulling her to her feet. "Welcome to the game of thrones, Rhaenys. Let's make sure you win."
That night, Rhaenys stood on her balcony overlooking Sunspear. Below, the city sprawled in darkness punctuated by torchlight. Somewhere out there, her sparrows watched and listened, gathering the threads of information she'd weave into understanding.
But tonight, her mind wandered north.
To a boy who'd sung to her in dreams. To a voice that sounded like her father's. To purple eyes she'd never forgotten.
Will you be there? she wondered. Will I finally understand why I can't let you go?
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