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Chapter 17 (Paths of the Eldians), Chapter 18 (Blood of the Dragon, Blood of the Wolf), Chapter 19 (Mismatched Eyes, Matched Blades), Chapter 20 (Dancing with Ghosts), Chapter 21 (Not Running Away), Chapter 22 (Two Eldians), Chapter 23 (Secrets in the Blood), and Chapter 24 (The Wolf, the Dragon, and the Huntress) are already available for Patrons.
The morning air bit sharp and cold as Jon Snow tightened the straps on his horse's saddle. Around him, the courtyard of Winterfell churned with activity - forty of his father's best men preparing for the journey south, their leather armor creaking and steel clinking with each movement. The scene was vastly different from their last departure, when they'd left for White Harbor with barely twenty men.
Jon's fingers paused on the buckle as memories surfaced unbidden. Wylla's face flashed through his mind, her green hair and warm smile making his chest tighten. He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away as he checked his sword belt for the third time.
"All those guards won't make the road any shorter," Theon's voice cut through his brooding. The Ironborn stood nearby, already mounted and wearing that familiar smirk. "Though I suppose after that bear, Lord Stark's taking no chances."
Jon kept his face carefully neutral, though his mismatched eyes - one purple, one green - narrowed slightly. The mention of the bear made his skin prickle with phantom steam. "Better too many guards than too few," he replied evenly, swinging himself into the saddle.
Across the yard, his father stood with Jory Cassel, pointing to various positions on a map while surrounded by his most experienced men-at-arms. Jon caught fragments of their conversation - discussions of watch rotations, scouting patterns, defensive formations.
"They act as if we're marching to war rather than a tourney," Robb observed, riding up beside Jon on his bay stallion. His brother wore fine leather riding gear trimmed with fur, every inch the heir to Winterfell.
"After White Harbor..." Jon began, then stopped himself. Robb's expression softened with understanding.
Their attention was drawn to the commotion near the keep's entrance, where Arya was arguing fiercely with their lady mother about riding clothes. The young girl had somehow managed to swap her riding dress for boy's breeches, much to Lady Catelyn's visible frustration. Sansa, who was wearing a dress of fine blue wool, rolled her eyes at her sister's behavior.
"Three wagons just for clothes and supplies," Jon mused, watching as servants loaded the last of their belongings. "We traveled lighter last time."
"Last time we weren't going to court," Robb reminded him. "Though I doubt even three wagons will be enough for Sansa's dresses."
The jest drew a small smile from Jon, though it faded as he watched more guards file into formation. Many were veterans of Robert's Rebellion, men who'd fought alongside their father against the Targaryens.
Finally, Lord Stark mounted his own horse, a powerful grey destrier. His face bore the solemn mask of the Lord of Winterfell, though Jon caught the gentle look he gave to Rickon, who was settled in the carriage with his nurse.
"Move out!" Jory's command rang across the courtyard. The column began to form - scouts riding ahead, guards flanking the family members, more warriors bringing up the rear. Jon found himself positioned between Robb and Theon, close enough to the main family group to be protected but not so close as to offend any Southern sensibilities about bastards.
Uncle Benjen and Maester Luwin said their goodbyes to the Stark family and watched as they started leaving.
As they passed under Winterfell's ancient gate, Jon glanced back at the only home he'd ever known. The massive granite walls rose against the grey morning sky, as they had for thousands of years. Steam rose from the hot springs, mixing with the smoke from the chimneys.
"Thinking of staying behind?" Robb asked, noticing his hesitation.
Jon shook his head, turning back to face the Kingsroad stretching south before them. "No," he said quietly. "Just wondering what we'll find at the end of this road."
.
.
The evening fires cast dancing shadows across the camp, their warmth a welcome respite from the cooling air. Jon sat among a group of soldiers, nursing a cup of hot soup as the flames crackled before them. His father had arranged the camp in a defensive circle, with the family tents at the center and guard posts stationed strategically around the perimeter.
"Tell us about the bear again, Lord Snow," Derrick, one of the younger guards, leaned forward eagerly. His chain mail clinked softly with the movement, reflecting orange firelight. "They say it was big as a house!"
Jon didn't like the name. 'Lord Snow' felt like a mockery of who he could be.
Jon shifted uncomfortably on his log seat, the rough bark catching at his wool tunic. "It wasn't that big," he muttered, though the memory of that day still brought a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. Steam and blood and screaming...
"Not that big?" Tommard, a grizzled veteran, scoffed from across the fire. "I heard from my cousin who served in that escort - says the beast's head alone was bigger than a war horse!"
"Aye," another guard chimed in, his face ruddy from both fire and ale. "And its claws were long as swords, they were! Ripped right through leather and mail like it was parchment!"
Jon took another sip of soup, trying to ignore how his hands tingled at the memory of that fight. The truth was strange enough without embellishment - a three-meter bear appearing from nowhere, moving with unnatural speed and strength. But now...
"How'd you kill it then, m'lord?" A fresh-faced guard asked, eyes wide with anticipation. "Did you really leap onto its back with just a dagger?"
Before Jon could correct him, Derrick jumped in. "No, no - he fought it face to face! Stood his ground while it charged, then stepped aside at the last moment and hamstrung it with his sword! Right clever move, that was!"
"That's not-" Jon started, but was cut off by another soldier.
"I heard he shot it through the eye with a bow at fifty paces!" This declaration brought a round of impressed murmurs from the newer recruits.
From a nearby fire, Jon could hear Theon regaling another group with his own version of events. "...and then Snow just stood there, shaking like a leaf, while I lined up the perfect shot..."
Jon's soup had grown cold in his hands. Across the camp, he could see his father deep in discussion with Jory, likely planning tomorrow's route. Robb was entertaining Bran and Rickon with stories in the family tent, while Sansa and Jeyne Poole whispered together, casting occasional nervous glances at the dark woods beyond the camp.
"But what I want to know," Tommard leaned forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "is why there ain't been no sign of such a beast before or since. Strange, that is. Almost like it appeared from nowhere, just to attack the party..."
The words hit too close to truths Jon couldn't explain. He stood abruptly, his movement sending shadows skittering across the gathered faces.
"Lord Snow?" Derrick looked up, concerned. "You haven't finished the story..."
"It was just a bear," Jon said quietly, setting down his untouched soup. "Nothing more."
He walked away from the firelight, into the shadows between the tents. Behind him, he could hear the stories continuing, growing more fantastic with each telling. A bear big as a giant, with eyes that glowed in the dark. A monster from Old Nan's tales, come south of the Wall.
If only they knew, Jon thought, flexing his hand in the darkness. If only they knew that the real monster wasn't the bear at all.
The midday sun hung high as their party made its way along the Kingsroad, the ground gradually softening as they moved further south. Jon rode slightly behind the main family group, close enough to hear their conversations but maintaining the respectful distance expected of his station. His horse's steady gait had become almost meditative over the past few days.
"When I lead the hunt," Theon announced loudly, adjusting his fine leather riding gloves, "I'll show you what a real bear looks like. Bigger than Jon's bear, I'd wager." He sat tall in his saddle, green cloak billowing dramatically as he gestured. "The bears on the mainland are nothing compared to the ones we hunt on the Iron Islands."
Sansa and Jeyne, who were sticking out their heads from the carriages, exchanged worried glances. "But we won't actually see any bears, will we?" Jeyne asked, clutching her reins tighter. "Not this close to the Kingsroad?"
"I hope we do!" Arya called out. She was bouncing in her saddle, much to Lady Catelyn's visible displeasure. Despite her mother's best efforts, Arya had managed to keep wearing her borrowed breeches. "Maybe we'll see the same one Jon fought! That would be amazing!"
"Arya," Lady Catelyn's voice carried the weary tone of someone who'd repeated the same corrections many times, "a proper lady does not wish for encounters with dangerous beasts."
"Then I won't be a proper lady," Arya declared, earning a snort of laughter from Robb that he quickly disguised as a cough under their mother's sharp look.
Jon couldn't help but smile at his little sister's defiance. She reminded him so much of himself sometimes - the one who didn't quite fit the mold they were supposed to fill.
"If any bears do come," Theon continued, patting the bow strapped to his saddle, "they'll meet my arrows before they get anywhere near the ladies." He flashed what he clearly thought was a gallant smile at Sansa and Jeyne.
Jon watched as Bran, riding beside Robb, looked between his siblings with barely contained excitement. "Jon," the boy called out, turning in his saddle, "could you teach me how to fight a bear?"
"No one is fighting any bears," Lady Catelyn interjected firmly. Her auburn hair was neatly braided, though wisps had escaped in the wind. "And I'll hear no more talk of it. Bran, sit properly in your saddle. Arya, stop fidgeting and it's time you started wearing a proper dress."
"I'm not wearing a riding skirt," Arya pointed out helpfully.
"Yes," her mother replied dryly, "I had noticed."
Jon caught Robb's eye and they shared a knowing look. Their father rode at the head of the column with Jory.
"When we reach King's Landing," Sansa said dreamily, clearly trying to change the subject, "we'll see real knights and princes. They'll be much more interesting than bears."
"Knights are boring," Arya declared. "I'd rather see the bear."
"You can't dance with a bear at the feast," Jeyne pointed out, then paused. "Well, I suppose you could try..."
The mental image of Arya dancing with a bear set both Robb and Jon laughing, while Theon tried unsuccessfully to steer the conversation back to his supposed hunting prowess. Even Lady Catelyn's lips twitched slightly, though she quickly resumed her stern expression.
"Jon!" Arya's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Tell Sansa that bears are more interesting than princes!"
He smiled, spurring his horse forward slightly. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose it depends on the prince... and the bear."
Lady Catelyn's sigh could probably be heard all the way back in Winterfell.
Nine Days Later
The ancient towers of Moat Cailin rose before them like broken teeth against the morning sky, their weathered stones black with age and moss. Jon pulled his cloak tighter as their party approached the ruins, though the air was notably warmer than it had been days ago. The Neck's swampy terrain stretched out around them, the ground becoming softer and less certain with each league they traveled south.
Three of the fortress's original twenty towers still stood sentinel over the causeway: the Drunkard's Tower, leaning precariously to the northwest; the Children's Tower, its ancient stones etched with mysterious runes; and the foreboding Gatehouse Tower, still proud despite its crumbling battlements. Jon studied them with quiet fascination, remembering Old Nan's tales of how the fortress had held back southern invaders for thousands of years.
"It looks haunted," Bran breathed from his pony, eyes wide with wonder.
"It's just old," Theon scoffed, though Jon noticed how he kept his horse well away from the towers' shadows.
Their father had called a brief halt to allow the horses to rest and the men to check the wagons before they entered the more treacherous terrain of the Neck. As the soldiers went about their tasks, Jon watched Sansa approach Lord Stark.
"Father," she began, smoothing her dress, "since we're so close to White Harbor, couldn't we stop there for a few days? It's not that far, and-"
"No." His father's response was gentle but firm. "We'll make better time staying on the Kingsroad."
Jon felt his shoulders relax, tension he hadn't realized he was carrying seeping away. The mere mention of White Harbor made his chest tighten, memories of Wylla - her laugh, her green hair, the way her blood had looked against the snow...
"But Father," Sansa persisted, "surely a proper rest would-"
"The answer is no, Sansa," Lady Catelyn intervened, her tone brooking no argument. She shot a quick glance at Jon, so brief he almost missed it, before turning back to her daughter. "We have a schedule to keep."
Around them, the landscape was changing subtly but noticeably. The hardy pines and ironwoods of the North were giving way to wider varieties of trees. The air carried new scents - the damp earthiness of the swamps ahead, mixed with unfamiliar flowers that managed to grow in the marshy soil.
"Look!" Arya called out, pointing to a patch of bright purple flowers growing improbably from between the ancient stones. "I've never seen those before."
"Southern flowers," Robb observed, reaching down from his horse to pluck one. "The maesters say all sorts of strange things grow in the Neck's climate."
Jon watched as his brother presented the flower to their little sister with an exaggerated bow, making her giggle.
"The crannogmen say these ruins are protected by old magics," Bran announced, clearly reciting something he'd read in his books. "They say the Children of the Forest helped build it, and their spells are woven into the stones."
"Magic isn't real," Sansa said firmly.
Jon flexed his hand unconsciously, thinking of steam and healing flesh. If only she knew.
"Mount up!" Lord Stark's command carried across the causeway. "We'll want to make good progress before nightfall."
As the party reformed their column, Jon found himself riding beside his father for a moment. "The ruins are impressive," he said quietly, "even after all these years."
Ned nodded, his grey eyes scanning the ancient fortifications. "Aye. It was the first real stronghold of the First Men. Some say it's as old as Winterfell itself." He paused, studying Jon's face. "Are you well? After the mention of White Harbor..."
"I'm fine," Jon replied quickly - too quickly, perhaps. He forced himself to add, "It's better that we stay on the Kingsroad."
His father's expression softened with understanding. "Some wounds take longer to heal than others, son."
Jon couldn't help but think of how quickly his wounds actually healed now, steam rising from torn flesh. But the ache in his chest when he thought of Wylla - that seemed to heal at a painfully normal pace.
Three Days Later
The scouts returned just before midday, their horses' hooves kicking up soft dirt from the increasingly humid ground. Jon watched as they approached his father at the head of the column, their leather armor marked with travel dust.
"My lord," the lead scout called out, "we've spotted several Northern banners approaching from the east - House Mormont's bear, House Glover's mailed fist, and..." he hesitated briefly, "the flayed man of Bolton."
Jon noticed his father's almost imperceptible tension at the last name. Even among Northern houses, the Boltons carried a reputation.
Banners began appearing on the horizon - the black bear of House Mormont prominent among them, standing proud on its field of green. Behind it came the silver mailed fist of House Glover on scarlet, and the infamous flayed man of House Bolton on pink.
"I didn't expect to see the Mormonts this far south," Theon remarked, adjusting his position to better see the approaching parties. "Bear Island's not exactly known for tournament knights."
"Ladies from House Mormont are as fierce as any knight," Arya declared proudly, earning another weary look from Lady Catelyn.
The parties converged on a wider section of the road, where the ground was firm enough to support their numbers. Jon watched as Lady Maege Mormont rode forward to greet his father - a stout, grey-haired woman in ringmail rather than a dress, a mace hanging at her side. But it was the young woman riding beside her that caught Jon's eye.
She sat her horse with easy grace, wearing riding leathers that did nothing to hide her athletic figure. Her long dark hair was braided simply but elegantly, and her face... Jon found himself studying her features before catching himself and looking away. After Wylla, he had no business noticing pretty girls.
"Lord Stark," Lady Mormont's voice carried clearly, "we didn't expect to find you on the road south. Bear Island's ravens brought no word of Winterfell attending the tournament."
"A recent decision," his father replied warmly. "It's good to see the North will be well represented."
"Aye," she gestured to the young woman beside her, "my eldest, Dacey, insisted we show these southron knights that bear blood runs as true as any other."
Jon risked another glance at Dacey Mormont. She carried herself with the confidence of a warrior.
More introductions followed as House Glover joined them, Galbart Glover exchanging greetings with Lord Stark. Then came the Boltons, led by Lord Roose himself - a pale man with equally pale eyes, the man seemed more like a corpse someone forgot to bury. Beside him rode his son, Domeric, whom Jon had heard was fostered in the Vale.
"The King will be surprised," Roose Bolton observed in his soft voice, "to see so many Northern houses making the journey."
"Surprised and pleased, I should think," Lord Stark responded diplomatically.
As the leaders discussed travel arrangements, Jon found himself drifting closer to where the Mormont soldiers had gathered. Dacey Mormont was talking with her younger sisters, her laugh carrying across the space between them.
"See something interesting, Snow?" Theon's voice made Jon start slightly.
"Just wondering how many of us will compete in the tournament," Jon replied quickly, though he could feel his ears growing warm.
"I heard the Mormont women fight with axes," Bran piped up excitedly, having edged his pony closer.
"Maces, actually," a new voice joined them. Jon turned to find Dacey Mormont herself had approached, a hint of amusement in her dark eyes. "Though my sister Alysane prefers an axe."
Up close, Jon could see the subtle scars on her hands.
"Will you be competing, my lady?" Bran asked eagerly.
Dacey's smile widened. "In the melee, yes."
"My brother Jon's an excellent swordsman," Arya announced proudly, appearing as if from nowhere. "He killed a massive bear all by himself!"
Jon felt his face heat as Dacey's curious gaze turned to him. "Did you now? We have quite a few bears on Bear Island, but I've never heard of one man taking one alone."
"I didn't, my lady. Soldiers of my father helped to kill the bear." Jon said almost too quickly, before riding away.
Night
Jon sat near one of the many campfires scattered across their temporary settlement, trying to stay away from the curious glances of the other Northern houses. The plan failed when Dacey Mormont approached, carrying two bowls of stew.
"You look like you could use some food," she said, offering him one of the bowls. Her practical leather armor creaked slightly as she sat beside him, maintaining a respectful distance.
"Thank you, my lady," Jon replied automatically, accepting the bowl.
She snorted. "Dacey is fine. 'My lady' makes me sound like one of those Southern flowers we'll meet in King's Landing."
Despite himself, Jon felt his lips twitch. The comment reminded him of something Wylla might have said. The familiar ache in his chest returned at the thought of her green hair and defiant smile.
"Lost in thought?" Dacey asked, breaking into his reverie.
"Just... remembering," he said quietly, turning his attention to the stew.
Their quiet meal was interrupted by Domeric Bolton's arrival.
"Snow," Domeric greeted, settling across from them. "I hope you don't mind, but I've been dying to ask - is it true what they say about the bear? That it was the size of a house?"
Jon stirred his stew, considering his words carefully. "No, if it really were that size, we all would be dead right now. It was about three meters tall, perhaps a bit more."
"Three meters?" Dacey leaned forward, her interest evident. "That's still massive for a bear."
"It attacked us near White Harbor, almost three months ago," Jon continued, keeping his voice level. "I was just the one who delivered the final blow, nothing more."
A familiar snort came from behind them. Robb approached the fire, grinning. "Just the final blow? Brother, you're too modest." He sat down beside Domeric, his auburn hair looking almost red in the firelight. "Jon threw a spear that went so deep into the bear's neck it nearly came out the other side."
Jon shifted uncomfortably. The last thing he needed was for everyone to know about it, but as he gave it a second thought, he realized that sooner or later, they all would be told either by the guards or his siblings, so he figured he might as well get it over with, but a bear the size of a house, who came up with that lie?
"It was already wounded by then."
"A spear throw?" Dacey's eyebrows rose. "Through a bear's neck? That would take incredible strength."
Jon noticed Domeric studying him with new interest, his pale eyes more calculating than before. "The angle was fortunate," Jon deflected. "And the bear was focused on the injured men."
"Still," Domeric said softly, "to drive a spear through a bear's neck... that's no small feat, Snow."
"Tell them about how it came charging out of nowhere," Robb urged, clearly enjoying the chance to tell the tale.
"We were resting after riding for the whole day," Jon began reluctantly, aware of their rapt attention. "The bear just appeared, larger than any I'd seen before. It just attacked us without any provocation,"
"Five men were injured," Robb added. "Would have been worse if Jon hadn't acted so quickly."
Dacey was watching Jon with growing interest. "We have bears on Bear Island, of course, but none that size. Was it old? Sometimes they keep growing..."
"I couldn't say," Jon replied. "Everything happened too fast."
"You'll have to show me that spear throw sometime," Dacey said, a challenging glint in her eye. "We Mormonts are always eager to learn new ways to deal with bears."
Jon thought of Wylla again, how she'd been impressed by his martial skills too, before... He stood abruptly. "Excuse me, I should check on my horse."
As he walked away, he could hear Robb continuing the story, describing details about that night, at the very least, he wasn't the type to add things that never happened.
The night air was cool against his face as he made his way between the camps, nodding respectfully to the various houseguards he passed.
"Snow!" Dacey's voice called out behind him. He turned to find her following, her long stride easily catching up to him. "You left before finishing your stew."
"I wasn't very hungry," he said apologetically.
She studied his face in the moonlight. "You know, when someone leaves that quickly, it usually means they're running from something. Or someone."
Jon met her direct gaze, appreciating her straightforward approach. "Not running. Just... remembering."
Dacey was quiet for a moment; she seemed as if she wanted to ask for more details, but thankfully, she didn't. Instead, she asked something else. "Will you join us for training tomorrow?" she asked, changing the subject. "Domeric claims to be quite skilled with a sword, and I'd like to see if the bear-killer of Winterfell can match him."
"I'm not sure that's wise," Jon started, but she cut him off.
"Because you're a bastard? Please. On Bear Island, we judge warriors by their skill, not their names."
For a moment, Jon was tempted. It would be good to train with someone new, someone who didn't know his patterns. But the risk of injury, of his unusual healing being noticed...
"Perhaps another time," he said finally. "We should all rest well tonight if we're to make good time tomorrow."
Dacey shrugged, accepting his decision without protest. "The offer still stands, Snow."
She turned and walked away, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.
Looking up at the stars, Jon wondered what Wylla would make of all this - the journey south, the tournament ahead, his continued attempts to hide what he was. She had accepted him, bastard name and all. Would she have accepted this other strangeness, too?
The answer died with her, he thought bitterly, and walked on into the night, leaving the warmth of the fires behind.
Sunspear
The rhythmic clash of steel against steel echoed through the secluded corner of the Water Gardens. Rhae Sand moved like flowing water, her twin short swords dancing in the morning light as she worked through the forms her father had taught her. Each strike precise, each movement calculated - nothing wasted, nothing given away.
Sweat trickled down her olive skin despite the early hour, her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid that whipped through the air as she spun. The private courtyard was her sanctuary, hidden behind orange trees and climbing vines, where she could let her careful mask slip just a fraction.
Three cuts to disable, one to kill. Her father's voice echoed in her mind as she moved through the sequence. Never make it personal, never make it linger. But everything about King's Landing was personal. Fifteen years of memories she wasn't supposed to have, of screams she wasn't supposed to remember, of a mother's desperate last embrace as she hid her daughter away...
"Your footwork is getting sloppy, little snake."
Rhae didn't break her rhythm as Oberyn Martell emerged from the shadows of the orange trees.
"I was wondering when you'd stop lurking," she replied, completing her sequence with a flourish. "You've been watching since dawn."
Oberyn's smile was sharp as a blade. "And you've been aware of me since dawn. Good." He drew his own blade, settling into a ready stance. "Show me what's really on your mind."
Their dance began anew, steel singing against steel. Where Rhae was water, Oberyn was wind - unpredictable, dangerous, impossible to pin down. They had done this countless times over the years, speaking through blade work what could never be said aloud.
"Your uncle's letter arrived this morning," Oberyn said between exchanges. "The usurper is holding quite the tournament."
Rhae's blades moved faster, her strikes carrying more force. "Fifteen years on the throne," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Quite the achievement."
"Indeed." Oberyn parried her attack, countering with a swift riposte. "Fifteen years since the Lannisters proved themselves such gracious guests in King's Landing."
The memory of screaming filled her head - running through dark corridors that seemed endless, the smell of blood and smoke... Rhae channeled it into her movements, her twin blades becoming silver blurs.
"The entire realm will be there," she said, ducking under Oberyn's slash. "Every major house sending representatives."
"Including the North, I hear." Oberyn's dark eyes studied her as they circled each other. "The Starks ride south for the first time since the rebellion."
Before Rhae could respond, footsteps approached the courtyard. In an instant, her intensity vanished behind a casual smile, her stance shifting to something more playful as Arianne Martell appeared around the corner.
"Cousin!" Rhae called out warmly, though her grip on her swords never loosened. "Come to join our morning practice?"
Arianne's full lips curved in amusement. "Some of us prefer to break our fast with actual food rather than steel, dear Rhae." She turned to Oberyn. "Uncle, Father requests your presence. Something about our... arrangements for the tournament."
"Of course he does," Oberyn sighed, sheathing his blade. He gave Rhae a meaningful look. "We'll continue this discussion later."
As he left, Rhae began working through her cooling exercises, aware of Arianne's thoughtful gaze. Her cousin was too clever by half, and too ambitious not to recognize ambition in others.
"You mean to go, don't you?" Arianne asked finally. "To King's Landing."
Rhae sheathed her swords with deliberate care. "Why wouldn't I? I'm just another Sand Snake, after all. No one looks too closely at bastards." The lie tasted familiar on her tongue, practiced over years. Her dark purple eyes were the only sign of her Targaryen heritage.
"The entire realm will be watching this tournament," she continued, letting some of her real enthusiasm show. "Every major house, every power player in the Seven Kingdoms, all gathered in one place. The perfect opportunity to... observe."
"Observe what, exactly?" Arianne's voice carried a hint of suspicion.
Rhae smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "The future, cousin. After fifteen years, it's time to see how the game is played outside of Dorne." She paused, then added carefully, "Besides, I hear the North is joining the festivities. Perhaps it's time we all got a closer look at our northern neighbors."
Arianne studied her for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I'll help convince Father," she said finally. "But Rhae? Be careful. The capitol has a way of uncovering secrets."
"I'm counting on it," Rhae murmured as her cousin left, too quietly for anyone to hear. She touched the hilt of one of her swords, feeling the scaled pattern worked into the grip. Dragons hidden in plain sight, just like her.
King's Landing awaited, and with it, all the ghosts of her past. But Rhae Sand was not the scared little princess who had fled in the night. Let them watch the bastard girl from Dorne - they would never see the dragon underneath.
Not until it was time.
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