Viserys's blood was washed away by morning.
Daenerys sat on the terrace divan, cradling the hatchling called Nightfang. The little thing slept deeply, black scales gleaming softly in the dawn light. The blood-red markings on its spine looked like unhealed scars.
With each breath, its tiny chest rose and fell. White wisps puffed from its nostrils.
Daenerys stroked it gently, feeling warmth and life beneath her palm.
She knew: this hatchling had cost her brother's life.
But she felt no grief. Only settled calm.
The old Targaryen was dead. Died in Viserys's madness and folly.
And she—with Lynn—would forge a new era.
"My queen." Missandei's voice came from behind, carrying a plate of sliced fruit and a bowl of warm goat's milk.
Daenerys turned. Smiled at her.
She'd grown used to the title. Since Lynn announced she'd handle Astapor's internal affairs, everyone—including Jorah Mormont—called her queen.
Everyone knew Lynn's ambitions. The title was inevitable.
She looked out the window.
The Plaza of Punishment—now the city's busiest place. Countless craftsmen sweated by forges, making new armor for the Unsullied. In the streets, freedmen lined up for food under Unsullied guidance, clearing war's rubble.
Everything orderly. Thriving.
Grey Worm, the new Unsullied commander, exceeded all expectations. Silent, but with iron will and stunning execution. Every order Lynn gave, he carried out flawlessly—or better.
He'd divided the eight thousand Unsullied into battalions. Some handled defense and patrols. Some maintained order. The most loyal were sent to the sugarcane plantations outside the city, expanding white sugar production.
Daenerys knew: all of this was Lynn's design. He'd planned everything for this city. She and Grey Worm just had to execute.
Then Jorah Mormont hurried in.
"My queen." He bowed first, then spoke gravely. "Magister Illyrio's fleet has departed. They'll arrive in about a month. Pentos and Meereen are now at each other's throats. But we won't worry about grain anymore."
Daenerys's heart skipped.
Other matters she needn't consider. But if the problem was solved, that meant—
She looked up instinctively toward the hall entrance.
Lynn emerged.
He'd changed into traveling gear. Black leather armor outlined his tall frame. The wolf-headed Valyrian steel sword hung at his waist, alongside the eerie Dark Sister. Behind him, two Unsullied. One carried a black-cloth-wrapped wooden box.
Daenerys's heart sank.
"So soon?" She stood.
"Illyrio's a smart merchant. He knows time is money." Lynn came to her. Tucked a windblown silver strand behind her ear.
"I have to go, Dany."
Though she'd expected it, hearing the words still made her eyes burn.
"Can't you... stay a few more days?"
She grabbed his sleeve, voice pleading.
"Westeros has matters waiting. And our sugar needs buyers. Fast."
"My lord." Jorah couldn't help speaking, face lined with worry. "Going back like this... it's too dangerous. You're King-Beyond-the-Wall. You let hundreds of thousands of wildlings through the Wall. That alone makes you a target for every lord in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Moreover—" Jorah glanced at Daenerys, then at Longclaw at Lynn's waist. Lowered his voice. "You now have Winter. The Unsullied legions. You even married a Targaryen. Westeros may not know what happened here yet. But once word spreads, you're in danger!"
"You're bringing Viserys's head back. Maybe that'll appease King Robert temporarily. But do you think he'll allow a vassal with power to overturn the entire kingdom to live long?"
Every word struck Daenerys's heart.
She realized: Lynn's position was a hundred times more dangerous than she'd imagined. He'd essentially placed himself in opposition to Westeros's entire noble class.
"Robert..." Lynn's face showed wry amusement. "He probably has no time for me. That old lion of House Lannister troubles him far more than this northern direwolf."
"As for danger—" Lynn's gaze swept Jorah. "Ser Jorah, what's more dangerous: swords or gold?"
Jorah blinked, confused.
"Swords only kill enemies. But gold? Gold turns enemies into friends." Lynn clapped his shoulder. "I'm not just going to see Robert. I'm going to do business. I'll put Astapor's white sugar on every table in the Seven Kingdoms. I'll make noble ladies fight over a small bag. I'll make great lords beg me for trade routes."
"When they can't live without my sugar, do you think they'll care whether I'm King-Beyond-the-Wall?"
Jorah's mind roared.
He looked at Lynn's calm face. This man's weapons weren't just the three-headed dragon. His mind was deadlier than dragonfire.
"And here..." Daenerys looked at him worriedly.
"Here, I leave to you." Lynn turned, hands on her shoulders, gazing into her eyes seriously.
"You're my wife. And Astapor's mistress. Grey Worm will obey you. Eight thousand Unsullied are your sword. Ser Jorah will assist you. Illyrio will be your most reliable ally."
Daenerys looked into Lynn's dark eyes—full of trust and expectation. Strength surged from her heart.
She nodded hard. Tears fell anyway.
"I will. I'll guard our city. Wait for you."
Lynn smiled. Bent down. Kissed her lips lightly. No passion. Only promise.
"Grey Worm."
"Yes, my lord."
"Protect her."
"With my life." Grey Worm's answer was brief. Solemn.
Lynn said no more. Turned. Strode toward the port. Didn't look back.
Daenerys stood on the terrace, watching the black figure grow distant. Finally disappear at the city's edge.
The sea wind dried her tears. Blew away the last softness in her heart.
Half a month later.
Winter's massive wings cut through clouds. Below: the vast Narrow Sea. Two weeks of nonstop flight—even for a dragon, a huge drain. All three heads looked listless. Only perked up when hunting fish.
Finally, Westeros's familiar coastline appeared on the horizon.
Lynn didn't fly straight to King's Landing. The "king" in the Red Keep wouldn't welcome a dragon that could freeze him and his castle solid.
He landed on an uninhabited island outside Blackwater Bay.
"Stay here. Wait for me. Hunt if you're hungry. Don't make too much noise."
Lynn patted Winter's massive head. Winter rumbled low. Nuzzled Lynn.
Lynn changed into ordinary traveler's clothes. Caught a passing fishing boat. Slipped into King's Landing.
King's Landing hadn't changed. The air still reeked of piss, horse shit, and rotting fish. Streets crowded. Beggars and whores everywhere. Gold Cloaks patrolling.
Everything as he'd left it.
Lynn didn't go to the Red Keep. Didn't seek Varys or Sansa. He wandered the city. Through Flea Bottom's filthy alleys. Past Steel Street's clanging smithies.
Finally, Lynn stopped at a bustling market.
His gaze caught on a figure.
A girl.
She wore a clean deep blue dress, hem embroidered with delicate flowers. Her black hair—no longer a messy bird's nest—was tied back with a silver ribbon. Neat. Fresh.
She stood before a stall selling Lysene lace. Awkwardly mimicking noble ladies, holding up a piece of lace to the sunlight. Examining it carefully.
Sunlight filtered through the lace's gaps, falling on her face—no longer childish, now defined. Her skin: northern pale. Her grey eyes: still wolf-alert, wolf-sharp. But the corners held a girl's softness now.
Arya Stark.
She'd grown taller. And... prettier.
Lynn watched her try to act like a lady while clearly uncomfortable. He couldn't help smiling.
He slipped up behind her.
"Nice fabric."
A familiar voice in her ear.
Arya's body went rigid. Her fingers clenched the lace. Her other hand instinctively reached for her waist. Empty.
Slowly, she turned.
When she saw the familiar face, her wolf-wary grey eyes went wide as moons. Her mouth opened. No sound came.
Shock. Confusion. Disbelief... Countless emotions flickered across her face.
Finally, they all became a scalding flood. Surging to her eyes.
"You—"
One word. Already choked with tears.
Next second, she threw herself at him. Crashed into Lynn's chest.
"Bastard!"
She buried her face against him. Pounded his chest with all her strength. Harder than it looked.
"You finally came back! Do you know... do you know..."
Her words dissolved into incoherence. Tears soaked Lynn's shirt.
Lynn didn't speak. Just let her vent. He could feel: every punch carried so much longing. So much hurt.
Passersby and vendors stared at the odd pair. Murmuring.
Arya realized the attention. Jerked her head up. Scrubbed her face with her sleeve, trying to look fierce again.
But her red-rimmed eyes and nose betrayed her.
Lynn looked at her—trying to act casual while looking utterly wronged—and finally laughed. Reached out. Ruffled her hair like before.
"Alright. Your makeup's ruined."
Arya's face flushed crimson. From cheeks to ears.
"Who—who's wearing makeup?!" She protested stubbornly. "And don't touch my hair!"
But she didn't dodge.
Lynn withdrew his hand. Looked at her new dress. Feigned surprise, examining her up and down.
"Well, well. Winterfell's little she-wolf knows how to wear dresses now? King's Landing's food must be good. You've grown... hmm, almost womanly."
"You're talking nonsense!" Arya, embarrassed and angry, tried to stomp his foot. He dodged easily.
She looked at his infuriating smile. At the familiar warmth and indulgence in his eyes. The hurt surged back up. Her lips trembled. Eyes reddened again.
"Come on." Lynn took her wrist. "Let's go back. And let me see if your sword's gotten rusty."
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