It was clear that Ned was torn between worry at his children – the older ones – wanting to leave and absolute relief at them leaving and taking their chaos with them. Word had trickled out already – there was nothing for it – and he had been receiving ravens from his bannermen with all sorts of strange questions:
Did your future children really appear at the base of the weirwoods north of the wall? Are they really your children? Are they Starks?
What age are they? Is your eldest daughter ready to be wed?
Will the older Robb now inherit Winterfell? Where do they fall in the line of succession? Will they be fostered, Ned? I'd be happy to take them! Just say when!
What knowledge do they have of the future, and will you make use of it?
Blessed are your children and the Starks, my Lord! They are blessed by the Gods for where they arrived – in a Godswood! We should pray and give thanks.
V
The North was ripe with stories of magic and grumpkins and snarks and Others and wights – and the idea of his children... time travelling... seemed to be taken in stride by his bannermen, although the ravens Luwin was fielding from the Citadel were a bit more hysterical. He was sure it was only a matter of time before his goodfather in Riverrun or his foster father down in King's Landing would send their inquiries and he was already dreading it, the headache a steady presence since Jon opened his mouth and said, 'Hello, Uncle.'
Benjen seemed fine with them leaving.
"It's for the best, Ned," he had said when Ned confronted him for his shrug and well wishes when his children greeted him and Catelyn the next day from that disastrous dinner – at lunch. The bleary eyes and pale pallor to their skin, as well as the kitchen staff informing him of some missing wineskins, was all too clear what they had gotten up to after the meal.
Ned wanted to rail. He wanted to wrap his children in wool and the safety of Winterfell's walls. Catelyn was no better – although she wasn't quite speaking to him after he finally confessed the truth of Jon's parentage. That, along with Sansa's scars, Robb's crown, Bran's inability to walk, and the distant way Rickon and Arya had treated her, had temporarily shut down all thought, leaving her wandering Winterfell's halls as she came to terms with the newfound information.
Of course, it was Alliser Thorne who reminded Ned that Jon – as the eldest of the returned – was four-and-twenty, and Ned himself was only one-and-thirty, and there were only seven years between them. Jon would not be coddled; Sansa was one-and-twenty; Arya and Robb were now the same age and nine-and-ten; Bran was seven-and-ten, and Rickon three-and-ten. Even at Rickon's age, he would refuse to be coddled and swaddled in the ways he and Catelyn wanted to desperately do, even if he hadn't been raised elsewhere and failed to recognize them.
What's worse, was that they were leaving, and it felt like bitterness on Ned's tongue that he and Jon had failed to really reach one another. Their conversation about why Ned kept quiet about his heritage seemed circular, going nowhere, and now they were leaving, and Ned felt things were still unresolved. But what else could he say?
"Where will you go first?" he asked by Winterfell's East Gate. He, Catelyn, and Luwin were cloaked and furred in the early morning light, frost clinging to the roofs and overhangs of the walkways and buildings. A few snowflakes were falling in the weak sunlight.
His children all had the horses and carts that the Night's Watch had allowed them to take – and Ned had compensated Benjen and Alliser appropriately with the gold coin to replace the horses or swapped the animals out with his own to give to his children. They stood by their steads' sides, Jon absently petting his horse's nose.
Robb was the designated speaker. "We'll head to White Harbour first, and book passage on a ship."
"Where to?" asked Catelyn, worrying her hands in her cloak as she twisted the material. They twitched, like she wanted to reach out and touch her oldest son.
Robb glanced back over his shoulder at Jon, Arya. Sansa smoothly stepped forward and answered. "We're going to Braavos first."
"Braavos?" echoed Ned, blinking in shock. "Whatever for?"
Sansa's lips twitched into a small smile. "We can't rely on your generosity forever, Father. We need to find our own coin to make our way."
"By doing what?" protested Catelyn, her voice rising shrilly. "Please tell me you are not selling yourselves as sellswords! Robb!"
Robb stifled a laugh. "We're not going to be sellswords, Mother. Bran was the one who suggested Braavos be our first stop."
Ned goggled. Bran?
"We need to visit the Iron Bank," added Bran solemnly, his dark eyes holding Ned's gaze as he
spoke.
Alarm shot through Ned. "The Iron Bank?" he repeated, eyes swinging toward Jon. "Please tell me you are not going to announce yourself to them to access any Targaryen funds!"
Jon grumbled, "Fine, I won't tell you," at the same time Arya burst out, "You're worried about Jon announcing his heritage when Robb's been the one walking around with a bloody crown on his head?"
Robb shot Arya a wounded look. "I thought we already discussed this, Arya!" She shrugged, unrepentant.
"It'll be fine, Father," sighed Sansa. She looked weary and tired of the bickering, sitting on top of her dapple-grey horse, her furs blending into the colours of the horse's flank. "We have a plan."
Ned looked skeptical, and Catelyn outright dubious, although for clearly different reasons: Ned knew these older versions could handle themselves – but to Catelyn, they were her children, and she hadn't yet disassociated the two.
"No one who doesn't need to know about Jon will know," said Bran, interrupting Robb and Arya's quiet bickering, and drawing everyone else's attention – except Rickon, he was just staring out down the dirt road toward Wintertown with longing.
"You can't promise that Bran," muttered Ned, worry creasing his forehead.
But Bran turned his eyes to his father. They were deep, dark, and much older than they should have been when he stated, "Oh, can't I?"
Immediately, Sansa and Jon swung their heads toward him. Although Bran was sitting in the back of the cart with as much dignity as he could previously, there was a different mien to him now when he spoke, a casual lounging and grace.
"Bran," warbled Sansa, eyes wide.
Jon slowly moved from his horse's side, eyes intent on their little brother, his hand moving to his side, where a dagger was strapped and hidden under his cloak's folds.
Bran caught the movement and his lips twisted downward into a wry mockery of a smile. "Don't worry, Jon, I'm still me."
"But—"
"Parts of Bloodraven didn't bleed into me after all those years under his tutelage," he said quietly, "And I've noticed it when I use greensight."
Those at the East Gate all looked down at the small, potted weirwood sapling that Bran and Ned
had painstakingly drew from the heart tree in their Godswood yesterday, the bone-white branch sticking straight up from the soil with already a few unfurling red leaves swaying in the gentle breeze.
Bran couldn't stay in Winterfell – his siblings made that clear – and he only wanted to stay because of the weirwood. A compromise was made that a weirwood would go with them, and Jon and Sansa quietly hoped that it was too small, too insignificant to sweep Bran away, returning him to the Three-Eyed Raven.
"You've... you've seen things, my Lord?" asked Luwin carefully, brows furrowed, rheumy eyes darting to the potted plant.
Bran inclined his head. "Not as much as I used to – but..." he caught the glance Jon was sending him. "It's better now. Muted, in a way, but I can still see. I'm not swept along as I used to be."
Jon exhaled in relief, his tense shoulders drooping. "That's – that's good to know, Bran." Bran nodded and turned back to his parents. "So, I've seen it. We will be fine."
"And we'll write!" chimed in Arya, a gleam in her eyes even as her horse skittered. She wanted to be gone, already off on their adventure. "Each time we arrive somewhere, so you can track us."
Ned shot Arya an unamused glance at her words. "We must go," stressed Robb, quietly. "Please."
The plea broke Ned's resolve, and he sighed – long and loud, a resigned expression on his long face. "Go. I will not keep you here."
Six bright faces greeted him, with ranging depths: Arya and Rickon had the widest smiles, happy to leave; Sansa, Jon, and Robb fell somewhere in the middle, pleased to leave; and Bran was despondent about leaving the Godswood, but nodded, as he, of course, knew it was time.
"But remember—" began Ned, his rough brogue rumbling, "The lone wolf dies—"
"But the pack survives," chorused the time-travelling Starks, bringing a smile to Ned's face and an amused chortle from Luwin. Catelyn, at Ned's elbow, stifled a sob and clutched at his cloak.
Jon helped Sansa up onto her horse and then mounted his, Robb a pace ahead of him. With everyone on horses, or in Bran's case, in a cart behind Jon's, the Stark children were ready to go – no matter Ned or Catelyn's feelings on the matter.
"Safe travels," said Ned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked up at them. "And know that you are always welcomed in Winterfell. Always."
"We know," said Jon, looking down at him. He paused, and then said, quietly, "Father."
And as they rode away, down toward Wintertown and further to White Harbour, Ned felt like Jon's final word was the greatest gift of all – and his heart felt thrice the size it should be, filled with wonder, love, and appreciation for his sister's son, the one he raised as his own (mistakes and all).
"Come," murmured Ned, wrapping an arm around Catelyn as she sniffed and tried to hold back tears. "They'll be fine. We raised them, after all."
House Manderly was one of the Stark's most loyal houses – in both times – and Wyman Manderly
continued to demonstrate that by not asking any questions about how the second set of Starks appeared – significantly older as well – and ensuring that they had privacy from those who were curious.
Wylis found them a ship; Wendel ensured they had appropriate clothing and initial funds for Braavos, and within two moon's turns since they left Winterfell, they were on a ship heading east- south-east toward Braavos, with the Manderly's well wishes behind them.
Although south of the North, as the ship sailed into Braavos between the legs of the giant titan standing guard, the air was warmer and held less of a bite. Arya and Sansa, who had spent more time in the south, and Robb, seemed to handle the increase of humidity and warmth better than Rickon, whose curls had fluffed up and remained in a perpetual flushed state.
The ship docked at Ragman's Harbour, with Arya almost leaning entirely off the railing as she stared across the masts, rigging, and bobbing vessels, over red-tiled roofs and pale brown and yellow buildings – some with glass domes and others with tiled domes – separated by not roads, but murky canals.
As soon as they all left the ship, thanking its captain, Robb turned to Arya. "Lead the way."
She grinned at him, turning to face the buildings, some appearing on top of one another in how close they were squished in, built tall instead of out with fabric hanging from windows and wrought-iron balconies overlooking water paths. She took a deep breath in, the scent of salt, dirty water, and the mingling fish, spices, and goods as they were inspected and moved off ships came together as a unique Braavos smell.
"This way," she said, coming back to herself and leading her family through a series of winding paths – some narrow streets where Robb and Jon's shoulders brushed the walls on either side, others wide enough to walk three abreast even with market stalls and people shouting at them in Low Valyrian – or any other dialect – and even over crumbling bridges and sturdy ones until Rickon was panting and whining, "Are we there yet?"
"Oh, shut it," muttered Bran, who was forced to piggyback with Jon, who grunted and hefted the teenager higher up.
"Aye, you're not as light as you once were, Bran," grumbled Jon.
"We're nearly there," called back Arya. "We've just crossed the Canal of Heroes and are heading toward the Sealord's manse. The Iron Bank is right near it."
The bridge they crossed gave them an uninterrupted view of a series of islands, with several buildings in different colours and roof tiles, as well as shapes, on them.
"What are those?" asked Robb, pointing to those buildings, even as the siblings slowed to stare with him. "They're different to everything else here."
Arya pursed her lips, eyes darting toward Robb and then back to one building. Her eyes lingered on the black roof. "That's the Isle of the Gods. Braavos practices religious tolerance, so anyone can worship anything. The temples for those religions can be found there."
Robb goggled. "So there's a Sept and a Godswood together? Like, at home?"
Arya shook her head, turning her back on her old home. "The Old Gods aren't here." "And that black building?" asked Jon quietly, eyes slightly narrowed.
Arya paused but then answered, "The House of Black and White." Collectively, the siblings turned back to look at it and shivered. "Let's continue," suggested Sansa quietly.
They continued northeast, quickly, until they stood before a large circular fountain and a tall, four- storey building. It had a cream exterior, with intricate building reliefs and designs on the outside; some windows were framed with columns, others were arched with designs etched into the glass.
Robb tilted his head back and gave a low whistle, impressed. "Come on," muttered Arya. "And... be polite."
The group moved inside, Rickon openly gaping at the vaulted ceiling, the long, rectangular lobby of shiny marble floors as their boots squeaked across.
Arya took the lead, approaching a low-ranking representative who caught their eye. "We're here to speak with a banker."
The man's eyes roved over the large group. He remained silent but nodded, waving for them to follow him. They were led down several equally stunning hallways of bright marble and arched windows, up and down stairs (some wide and grand, others narrow and rickety), until they reached a meeting room. It wasn't the largest, but it wasn't small either; rectangular, with large, mullioned windows overlooking the Moon Pool.
There was a table at one end of the room with a few heavy-looking chairs behind it and two benches before the table. The symbol of the Iron Bank was inlaid above a double door behind the table, indicating at whose leisure they were dependent. There a few other chairs spread out for clients to sit on while they waited.
And they waited.
Eventually, the doors opened, and three men – all swarthy looking with thick black hair and hooded eyes – stepped through in the dull, dark colours the nobility of Braavos preferred. In a synchronized move, they sat as one in their chairs.
By the expression on Robb's face, he was mildly, albeit, grudgingly, impressed.
"Welcome to the Iron Bank," the man in the middle greeted them, a mask of polite civility.
At Jon's side, Arya gave a tiny, near inaudible sigh of pleasure at hearing the cadence. She then shook herself a little and gave a tiny bow. As she rose, she murmured, "valar morghūlis," to the men.
They didn't move, but somehow, Jon thought they were now watching Arya carefully. The man in the middle inclined his head, the tiniest amount. "Valar dohaeris, friend. Please – sit."
The Starks did so, arranging themselves to the liking with Arya and Bran at her right side, in between the two benches and directly opposite the man in the middle. Jon sat next to Bran on the other bench, with Sansa at his side with Rickon standing by her, leaving Robb to take Arya's free bench.
"What can the Bank do for you, Lady...?" the man in the middle trailed off, eyes narrowing. "Stark, is it?"
Arya's pleasant smile was sharp. "Aye. And my siblings."
"Forgive me, my Lady," the man on the left interrupted, "But I am under the impression that the offspring of Lord Eddard Stark are children or babes. Not... grown adults."
"You are correct," answered Sansa primly, sitting with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She did not offer anything else.
The man on the left frowned. "Then, how can you also be Lord Starks' children?"
"We are here due to the Old Gods," answered Bran in a monotonous voice, sounding more like his self from before their deaths. Both Jon and Sansa glanced at him, but Sansa quickly schooled her face to wipe any concern from it.
"I see." The middle banker narrowed his eyes. "Braavos does not interfere or argue with the Gods – any of them," he finished with a sharp glance when Robb went to open his mouth. "Now, how may the Iron Bank be of service?"
Arya demurred and turned to look at Bran, who was evenly staring at the man in the middle, meeting his gaze. After a long moment where the two gazes clashed, the man in the middle darted his eyes away.
Sansa caught the tiny quirk of Bran's lips, but it was gone just a quickly, especially when he spoke. "There is an account that Jon would like to access."
The man's eyes shrewdly looked over the Starks in front of him before trailing back to Bran. "Which account is that?"
"Viserys Targaryen's."
Only the barest details were shared with his siblings, so Bran was unsurprised when Robb shifted uneasily on his bench, but it was nothing compared to the mirth on the banker's faces.
"Viserys Targaryen is known as the Beggar King for a reason, my Lord," the central man said. "He has no account with us."
"Aye," replied Bran, "But Viserys the Second did."
The mood immediately tensed, and Jon kept a careful watch on the bankers and their stillness.
Bran continued, like a wolf cornering his prey, although his explanation was more a history lesson for the benefit of what he said. "Viserys the Second may have loved his Lyseni wife, Larra Rogare, but after she left him, he was hardly going to entrust his goodfamily with his coin."
"And they had a rival bank at the time," breathed Arya as she began connecting the dots.
Bran inclined his head. "He was the Hand to the king, and then king himself for a short awhile until his son: Aegon the Unworthy."
Jon snorted. "Very unworthy."
The banker's mouth twitched, but they all remained silent, content to listen to Bran's story as he
wove connections and a legacy that tied one particular Stark to the vault in question.
"By the time Viserys was king, his son already had several bastards and was known to indulge. Would you give your son access to coin if he was like that?" questioned Bran rhetorically, turning
back to the bankers. "Viserys' brother may have trusted him, but he only had Aegon, who became king; a daughter he married to his son; and another who became—"
"The Dragonknight," gasped Robb, remembering all the times they would play as the great knight as children.
"Nerys and Aemon would have no reason to access the coin, so the vault in question has been sitting, untouched since around 167 AC," continued Bran. "Just sitting, not being used, gathering interest on various investments Viserys set up with the Iron Bank before his death."
"You are remarkably well-informed, my Lord," said the banker idly, although there was a tension revealed in the tightness around his eyes. "Although the Bank does not discuss its clients' vaults to outsiders."
Bran's returning smile was equally tight but hard. "Viserys the Second established House Targaryen. A Targaryen with knowledge of the account can claim the vault. Is this not so?"
"I see no Targaryen amongst you," replied the banker, his tone even as he sat back in his chair, pleased with the direction the conversation turned. "The Beggar King is unaware of the account and is unlikely to ever specifically ask about it."
His eyes were shrewd as he surveyed the Starks. "And I highly doubt any Northerners would tell him such, given your families were on opposite sides of your recent war that deposed of the Targaryens."
"Aye," agreed Robb cheerfully, although there was an undercurrent of something meaner, "That's true enough."
"But if you need proof," continued Bran, eyes narrowed, "Then we can present it." "Oh?" the banker queried, in a polite, if disinterested, tone.
"Of course, we would expect the Iron Bank to uphold its reputation for discretion," added Sansa with a cold stare.
The banker's eyes narrowed as well, darting from Robb to Bran, to Sansa. "The reputation of the Iron Bank is well-earned. Discretion between client and bank is sacrosanct."
"Can we hurry this up?" whined Rickon from behind Sansa. He fidgeted. "I'm getting hungry."
"Well – you heard him," goaded Arya, turning to Jon, who had been sitting still as his siblings began to speak.
All eyes turned to Jon – including the banker and his associates on either side – and Jon sighed, rising from the bench.
He involuntarily clenched his hands in a nervous gesture but turned on his heel and made for the standing torch, designed similarly to the room in a tall obelisk shape. At the top was a shallow bowl filled with oil and a continuous flame, unnecessary due to the light coming from the large windows. He stopped beside the obelisk and gave his siblings a long, dry look that screamed his annoyance and displeasure.
He then turned his eyes on the bankers and once he met them, he plunged his hand into the flame. The bankers were remarkably resilient, with the only show of fear, or worry, or concern, or
whatever it was, being a thick swallow of the middle banker's throat as his Adam's apple bobbed.
As Jon stood there, unconcerned with the passing of time – and the lack of burning flesh and its accompanying smell – the bankers turned back to Bran. The middle one said, "Well," and faltered.
Having proved his point, Jon withdrew his hand and sat back on the bench, showing the men the pink but unburned skin.
"May I present Jon, the son of Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Lyanna of House Stark?" said Bran, his voice oozing smugness.
None of the bankers spoke, staring instead at Jon.
"So," began Arya with an all-teeth grin, "About that vault..."
The Starks remained in Braavos for only a couple of months, but long enough for Jon to learn of the enormity of the funds he now had access to (less than the Lannisters and Tyrells, of course, but for the wartime frugality of Jon and Sansa, it was a lot), even after he used a portion to purchase a manse for the Starks at the north end of Braavos, not quite near the Purple Harbour or the Sealord's property, but close enough that the building was three storeys, c-shaped with a garden courtyard and a low wall that overlooked the northern bay.
Arya immediately claimed a room on the ground floor, nearest to the stairs that led to the servants' quarters as that was where she felt most comfortable. No one pointed out it was also her room that anyone coming through the front would approach first, making Arya their first line of defence in a city she knew best.
Robb and Jon, given their histories, both unsurprisingly took the most defensible rooms on the next floor up: both only had a single door and window as entry points, and both windows overlooked the wide canal and neighbouring buildings opposite theirs.
Sansa took the room between theirs, larger and wider with an equally wide, wooden double door and a sitting room. Her room consisted of several windows, framed by Braavosi-designed columns and a central balcony. But with Robb and Jon on either side of her, Sansa felt confident with her choice.
Unimpressed with his siblings, Rickon called them all craven and claimed the third-floor grand bedroom that overlooked the bay and choppy mountainous terrain of the islands that surrounded Braavos' floating city, appreciating the balconies and numerous windows that offered the spectacular view. He threw himself on the bed, his dirty boots leaving a streak of brown against the beautiful light blue silks. Once, Sansa would have shrieked at the mess; now, she just smiled fondly at her brother and ruffled his hair.
And limited by his wheelchair, Bran decided that a parlour room with wooden latticed doors that opened to the garden courtyard would be converted into his bedroom, leaving two others (one on Bran's floor, and the other on Robb, Jon, and Sansa's) for any future guests, if they ever received them.
"But aren't you worried if someone tries to attack you?" asked Robb, frowning as he looked around Bran's new room, eyes lingering on the flimsy wooden doors.
"It's not like you can run away," added Rickon carelessly, both eyebrows hidden underneath his curly hair.
Bran levelled a disappointed stare on his brothers. "Oh, aye, I can't run away. But if someone is stupid enough to attack me, I'll just skinchange into their body and use their own knife to slit their throat."
Silence followed Bran's remark, and perturbed, Robb hastily blurted, "Did anyone catch that fight near the Moon Pool last eve?"
Jon rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, stalking from Bran's room.
Life in Braavos was simple for the Starks: they hired a small number of servants to manage their home, mostly Northerners: a young woman who came to Braavos looking for her husband but not finding him and happily eager to work for the Starks to avoid making coin by joining a brothel; another, older Braavosi woman whose children were all grown and sailors and had left her behind but made the most delicious lemon tarts; a bastard Snow who had been a sailor but lost his hand during a storm and was cast from the crew; and a distant Manderly cousin so far removed from the main family who had set out to make something of himself only to lose all his coin at the infamous Braavosi brothels and was unable to barter passage home.
The Starks themselves were novelties for the Braavosi, but rated interesting, but unassuming and therefore boring (as they rarely ventured out and when they did so, they were unfailingly polite with only one of the siblings speaking Low Valaryian). They were never invited to the Sealord's, and while several courtesans tried their hands at seducing Robb and Jon into their houses, neither went, both too caught up in their past loves.
Eventually, the months passed, and Jon asked if the others were ready to move on. While Arya had yet to find Syrio Forel, she recognized the futility in locating the First Sword of Braavos (or, more likely, she was aware he was working with the Sealord and unavailable) and only the tiniest part of her was interested in tracking down Jaqen – but sensing Jon and Sansa's growing unease the longer they remained in Braavos, and near the location of her unmaking as a Faceless Man – Arya agreed it was time to go. The manse would remain open, with the staff working it and being paid from Jon's Targaryen account, waiting for them to return.
"Where to?" asked Robb curiously.
And Jon replied, in his usual grim way, "Summerhall."
Half a moon's turn later, the six Starks were in a row, their horses still under their legs as they stared at the overgrown, algae-filled lake and the caved-in ruined palace on its opposite bank, only accessible by a wide, dirty white stone bridge. Moss and low-lying creeping vines inched from the banks of the lake, rolling over fallen waterlogged trees, covering the ground with a patchwork quilt of green, brown, and grey.
The surrounding shore of the lake may have once been manicured and trimmed, but nature had reclaimed the land in the years since humans had last spent any significant time there. Thick trees with sweeping, low-hanging branches dipped into the lake or obscured entire swaths of the shoreline. Bristly bushes obscured hidden dangers or presented illusions of solid earth; cattails and water plants poked out from underneath bushes or between branches, denoting water over dirt.
Even from where they viewed the landscape, high above through a seldom-used Red Mountain pass that provided a natural chokepoint for visitors, they could hear the chirps from birds, the few croaks of frogs as they called back and forth, and then the background hum of insects. There was a scent of decay in the air, of rotten leaves and a pungent stink from the algae, but there was also the electrifying scent that occurred just before a thunderstorm – and given they had barely crossed into
the Stormlands, it was apt.
Robb's upper lip curled in distaste, his blue eyes narrowing on the mud and mosquitos at the base of the mountain where rock gave away to earth and mud and the marshes, and the uneven, rotted wooden planks that once served as a path to the palace. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Jon, his eyes fixated further, past the lake, on the broken remnants of Targaryen madness, gave a sharp nod. "I need to learn what he did. Why he would come here and what answers he found."
Bran, on top of his horse and tightly buckled in with a modified version of Tyrion's saddle design, sighed. "Then we should continue."
Jon gave a gentle nudge to his horse, and led the siblings down the winding, overgrown path, his horse carefully picking its steps.
Robb followed, with Bran next. Rickon, Arya, and Sansa remained behind a moment longer, with Arya giving her own sigh as her sharp eyes swept the desolate, quiet scene. "Well. Welcome to Summerhell."
Rickon barely held in a snort. Sansa refused to comment, clicking her tongue, and encouraging her own horse to follow her brothers, with Arya and Rickon taking the rear of their party.
It took them thirty minutes to make their way down the mountain and to the marshes, and all of them turned their noses up at the stench as their horses kicked up mud and picked their way around the wooden planks, sinking into the water and soaking the bottom of Sansa's dress.
But as they made their way through darkened recesses of leaf-covered canopies, swatting at buzzing insects and slapping their hands against the back of their necks from the bloodsuckers, they emerged at the shore of the lake and stared in open-mouth wonder.
"It must have been beautiful before the fire," breathed Sansa, eyes wide.
An entire wing was blackened and collapsed inward, leaving nothing but charred and melted stone and some archways. Rubble collected at the base of what could have been a tower, overlooking the lake, but was now reclaimed by nature. What was once white stone was stained brown with debris and time, and green moss clung to any protruding lips or edges, trimming the stones, and bringing a sharp contrast in colour.
The other end of the palace was still intact, although all the windows had been smashed in or destroyed (whether by time or bandits), and while the white stone was also dirtied and moss-lined, the construction of its smooth walls and sweeping arches and decorative dragon motifs remained visible, including its dragon gargoyles, although some extended stone wings were chipped.
There were two towers, one much higher than the other, that finished with the remnants of a domed roof. The shorter tower was just as round, but its roof was shingle and peaked. Tiny slits for windows and a few larger ones with curved edges overlooked the marsh. At the base of the towers were two curtainwalls, and the outer wall included a separate building and pass-through entrance, which Jon led them toward as they made their way around the lake and toward a stone bridge.
They were silent as their horses trotted over, the hooves clacking against the stone as the only noise as the hum from the insects fell away as they moved from stone to grass before Summerhall.
Jon continued to lead, seemingly knowing where to go as they moved across the grassy lawn and toward the curtainwall. The pass-through held as they went under, the portcullis missing entirely. The courtyard between the two curtainwalls wasn't large but roomy enough for their horses. There
was even a wooden trough, filled with rainwater, near a wooden fence for them. They shared a look, and Rickon ventured, "I thought Summerhall was abandoned?"
"Rhaegar came here. He must have come with his kingsguard, too," muttered Jon, eyes darting around the space as the high walls from the first curtainwall's building boxed them in. He felt like there were eyes on him – and maybe, there were. Summerhall was filled with ghosts.
"You know," began Robb with false cheer as he slipped from his horse and led it to the post, "This reminds me of all those times we dared each other to spend an entire night in the crypts."
"Are you planning on dumping flour on yourself to scare me silly, Robb?" asked Sansa with a glare at her brother as she too dismounted, leading her horse to the trough. "Going to go looking for some sheets to pretend to be a ghost?"
Nervously, Jon said, "I don't think we're going to need sheets for ghosts."
Arya, who had been peering up at the windows that overlooked the courtyard with a hand on her hilt, pursed her lips. "You feel it, too?"
"Feel what?" echoed Rickon, his voice rising a bit in nerves.
"We're not alone," answered Bran as Robb unbuckled him from his horse. Robb paused, glancing
up, but Bran shook his head. "No, not – not like that. We're the only people here, certainly. But..." As he trailed off, Jon took up finishing that sentence. "But it feels like there are others here."
As one, the Starks shivered.
They were quiet as they removed sacks and bags from their horses; Bran's collapsible wheelchair moved with difficulty across the weedy courtyard even as he approached the second, inner curtainwall, leading the siblings through rotted wooden doors and into the muted and cool interior of the old Targaryan palace.
The stone floor was cracked and uneven with weeds growing through the stones, leaving Bran's chair to rock and jolt as he moved forward into the large entrance hall. Behind him, the Starks' booted feet were eerily loud as they trooped in behind their brother, barely spreading out and instead keeping within touching distance as they looked around the main entrance. It smelled like decay, rotted leaves, and bird feces.
Thick square columns lined the hall, with smooth stone arches between each rise. Along the columns, halfway up, were edged building reliefs and tiny dragon motifs, barely visible. Some dragons were nesting places for birds, their wings used as support for their twig nests. Most were worn from erosion or covered in dirt, soot, or lichen.
Opposite the main door, they entered through, at the far end of the hall, was a semi-circular, tiled dais. There were several chairs – thrones – but other than the central one, the rest failed to withstand time and the elements. Several were rotted completely away, with mouldy and tattered fabric on the lopsided remains of chair legs, or only the seat remained, or just the wooden back as a large panel.
Light filtered into the entrance hall but only near the dais, where above a large glass dome with broken panels and glass shards littered the entrance hall floor. It framed the circular dais and was the focal piece of the hall. In the middle of the weak light on the floor, before the dais, were the remains of a fire pit, neatly stacked wood, and ashes. On either side of the fire pit, were two, long
recessed corridors where light seemed to be swallowed whole.
Jon meandered down toward the corridor on the right, peering into the darkness nervously. "Do you see anything?" asked Arya from where she stood near the fire pit.
"Not without a torch," replied Jon, easing back, and returning to the group.
"It's best if we stay here," suggested Robb, trying to issue a command by steeling his voice, although his shook and his blue eyes kept moving around the long entrance hall. "With the thrones behind us, we at least have our backs against something."
There were murmurs of agreement, and Rickon, Robb, and Jon began unpacking the bedrolls while Sansa looked after their food and equipment with Bran overseeing. Arya roamed the edges of the entrance hall, keeping in sight, but poking around at the walls.
"What are you doing?" called Jon, standing from unrolling Sansa's bed.
"Looking for secret passages!" called back Arya from halfway down the hall, peering over her shoulder. "Targaryens liked to build 'em, didn't they? I'd reckon that Summerhall would have them, too."
Robb and Jon shared a nervous look, and Arya continued her search and finding nothing in the entrance hall. She peered down the opposite corridor Jon looked at, hands on her hips and a frown on her face until Sansa called her back to the group for food.
They sat around a cheerful flame, refusing to let it go too far down even if it was midafternoon, quietly eating bread and apples and sharing slivers of cheese.
"Well Jon," began Robb, "Now that we're here – what did you want to do?"
Jon swallowed the last of his apple, a frown on his face as he contemplated his answer. Finally, he said, slowly, "I think... I think I need to see what happened that night."
"What night?" asked Rickon, completely relaxed and reclining on his elbows with his legs stretched out in front of him – and with his back to the entrance door.
"The night Summerhall burned," finished Jon.
"Whatever for?" spat Arya. "We all know what happened: another Targaryen went mad trying to
birth dragons with wildfire. And the ones who survived were the ones who shouldn't." Sansa cringed. "Arya... that's still Jon's family. His great-great-grandfather, and—"
"And if Aegon the fifth wasn't so bloody obsessed like the rest of them, then maybe he would've been around longer to beat sense into Jaehaerys to stop him from fucking his sister—"
"They were already married by then," muttered Bran, rolling his eyes at Arya's dramatics.
She ignored him and continued blithely on, "And then maybe would've stopped Aerys from being the shit he was, or forcing Aerys and Rhaella to marry, and then Rhaegar—"
"Would never have been born," finished Sansa sharply. "And neither would Jon."
"But there wouldn't have been war," finished Jon quietly, looking down at his hands. "At least, maybe not the same that became Robert's Rebellion, but..."
"Don't think that way," argued Sansa, leaning forward to look intently at Jon. "Do not, Jon. You matter."
Silently, Robb reached out and clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder, nodding along in agreement with Sansa's words.
"I didn't mean that Jon shouldn't exist," said Arya, cringing when she thought back on her words. She flushed in embarrassment.
"I know," soothed Jon, sending Arya a smile. She returned it, tightly.
"If only Aegon allowed Duncan to remain in line for the throne," groaned Rickon, laying flat on the stone. He crossed his ankles. "Things would have been so different."
Arya snorted, crossed her arms, and stared into the fire.
Bran peered at Jon from his side of the fire, between Robb and Arya. He was on the floor, surrounded by a cocoon of blankets, with his wheelchair barely an arm's distance away. "I can show you, if you like."
"Show me?" echoed Jon, looking at him.
"Like how I saw Father at the Tower of Joy," explained Bran. "Bloodraven showed me how to look into the past."
"Don't you need a weirwood to connect to?" asked Robb curiously. "And you left the sapling behind in Braavos at our house there."
"You did what?" gaped Rickon, sitting up.
Flushing a little, Bran curled in on himself – his equivalent of squirming. "Well, I uh – I just thought – that planting a weirwood in Braavos was the right thing to do. Besides, the tree grew about three feet by the time we were ready to leave. I couldn't carry a huge pot with us, could I?"
Arya's second snort was less derision and more amusement, now. "Does that mean you can see what's happening in Braavos? Are you our spymaster, Bran?"
Bran scowled at Arya. "Yes, I can see Braavos if I want to. And no, I'm not a spy."
"Shame," sighed Robb, causing Bran to whip his head toward his brother, who was staring dreamily into the fire. "Between your weirwood greensight, and skinchanging, and our warging, we'd be the most effective spies and knowledgeable people in all of Westeros."
"Let's return to that later," offered Sansa, an interested gleam in her eyes, "And clarify how Bran's supposed to show Jon the tragedy that happened here without a weirwood."
"Well..." Bran trailed off. "I never said I didn't have a weirwood, did I?" "Bran?" inquired Jon politely, although there was a hint of steel in his voice.
Sheepishly, Bran threw his arm out toward his wheelchair and caught the edges with his fingertips, drawing it closer. He reached into his own bag and withdrew a small pot – his original one from Winterfell. In the dirt was another weirwood sapling, a sliver cut from the other tree he had that was now planted in their garden in Braavos. Cradled in his hands, Bran peered over the top, where
a small collection of red leaves sprouted like Rickon's mop of curls, leaving bare white bark elsewhere.
"So?" Bran offered with a tiny grin.
Jon sighed. "Very well—"
"Not alone, surely!" protested Robb, glancing between the two.
Jon paused. "Do you... do you want to see it, too?"
Robb nodded, eagerly. "You've all had such interesting experiences with magic. It's my turn!"
"Then Sansa should come too," said Jon, glancing at her. "You might notice something that we miss."
"The four of us, then?" confirmed Sansa, turning to Bran. "Arya and Rickon can keep watch."
Those two murmured their agreements, keen eyes on Bran as he motioned for the elder Starks to huddle around Bran, all of them laying a single finger on the weirwood's thin trunk.
"Ready?" asked Bran, although he gave them no time to answer.
One moment, Jon was pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Robb and Sansa, hovering over Bran's useless legs and awkwardly touching the weirwood sapling, and the next it was like the chill from the palace was swept away with a summer's haze, shimmering, and twisting the dull colours of the ruins until all light from the dome and fire faded away to black—
Jon's eyes snapped open. He stood, Robb and Sansa on either side of him, and Bran standing on his own opposite them, dark eyes already focused on the dais behind them.
Jon spun, mouth dropping open as he took in the faces of Targaryens he had never seen but knew the stories of: dark-haired Prince Duncan and his wife Jenny; another young, fey-looking woman at Jenny's side; a pale-haired, pregnant, and unhappy young woman in a resplendent red dress who could only be Rhaella; a Maester in grey robes; a giant of a man, standing beside a throne with a white cloak that must have been Ser Duncan the Tall; and a long-haired man with an equally long, but handsome, face with large eyes on the throne. Peeking out from between strands of pale golden hair was a circlet of yellow gold, simple and unadorned: it was Aegon.
There were others milling around the Summerhall court, but Jon couldn't tear his eyes from the man on the throne – the man who had the same large, dark eyes that he himself had – eyes so dark that many believed Jon had dark grey, but he knew... he knew that the moment the light hit them right, they were the darkest of Targaryen purple.
"Jon, Robb, Sansa," began Bran, sounding different – confident and sure of himself – as he swept an arm toward the man on the throne, "May I present Aegon the Unlikely, on the day of Summerhall's tragedy?"
TBC...