The air atop the golden pyramid of Qaggaz of Yunkai was cool with the sun setting down. From the terrace, Daenerys Targaryen gazed down upon the sprawling streets, a labyrinth of sun-bleached houses and streets. The cries of free men and women drifted upward, a chorus of shouts and laughter as they had, by some miracle, finally found joy. They filled the plazas below, walking without chains, their bare feet no longer chafed by iron. The sculpted harpy statues that had once leered from walls had been torn down and broken, like the shattered power of their former masters.
For the first time in centuries, the city breathed free. And yet Daenerys felt a familiar weight pressing upon her as she leaned against the carved golden handrails, her silver hair shining like spun moonlight.
Behind her, Ser Jorah Mormont waited, as patient as ever. The bear of Bear Island, her most steadfast shield, stood with broad shoulders half in shadow in a silent vigil.
She did not turn when she asked it, her voice low, as if afraid the words themselves might shatter something precious building inside her. "Ser Jorah… do you think he is truly my nephew? The son of my brother Rhaegar?"
There was a long hesitation, long enough that she finally turned to look at him. His bearded face was grave, his eyes searching hers with a weary kindness.
"I think so, Your Grace," he said at last, the words slow and deliberate, as if he wanted her hear this truth. "There are things one cannot ignore. Lord Connington was known to be the staunchest supporters of Prince Rhaegar and regarded as prince's dearest friends. So its possible that newborn prince was saved from Kings Landing and left in his care considering the threat from the rebels. Moreover Rhaegal, he does not seem to take kindly to strangers. Yet with him…" Jorah paused, almost unwilling to name the man. "He responds and calms beneath his touch, almost as if he knows and remember the blood."
Daenerys' lips parted. The memory is sharp in her mind, the green dragon's rumbling thrill and the way Rhaegal had stretches his wings, not in fury but in playful way, when Aegon's hand brushed his scales. She had felt it too, standing there, as if the bond had formed between them, leaving a strange ache in her chest.
Her thoughts tangled, pressing forward, a knot of suspicion and possibility. "And his tie to the Golden Company?" she asked suddenly, needing to clear the thought of his nephew's close contact with Targaryen's biggest enemy, before it grew too dangerous to bear.
Jorah inclined his head continuing, his voice firm but cautious. "The Company is not what it once was, Your Grace. The captains that remain… few still cling to the old wars of Westeros. Most are weary men, their predecessor banished long ago. They crave return, not for glory, but to see their houses restored under a crown's grace. Such a prize would tempt any exile, no matter how seasoned. To them, he offers what none else could."
Daenerys studied him for a long heartbeat, her violet eyes piercing, seeking the truth behind his words. Something flickered in her expression hearing his words, a strange mixture of suspicion, curiosity and a desperate hope. At last, she gave a single, measured nod. The freedmen still roared below, but her thoughts were far away, across the vast sea, thinking of the ghost of a brother she had never known.
Far to the west, the banners of the direwolf and the trout stood above the camps near the Green Fork. Smoke curled into the sky from cookfires. The men were weary, their armor dented and scarred, their voices hoarse from the battle's roar. The ford had been won, but not without cost.
Inside the command tent, the air was thick with the scent of leather and wine. Brynden Tully leaned heavily against the table, his fingers tracing the maps with a grim scowl. Roose Bolton stood opposite him, his pale, unreadable eyes fixed on the parchment between them.
"Our losses are near equal to theirs," Brynden said, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. "It was victory, aye, but a costly one. The lions together with roses will not break so easily."
Robb Stark listened in silence, his face taut with the weight of command. He was young, yet already war's shadow had pressed its cold hand upon him. His hand rested absently on the hilt of his sword, his grey eyes flickering with a thousand thoughts.
That night, as the camp settled into the dull murmur of supper, Robb ate little. His mind replayed the battle again and again, the terrible cries of the dying and the river stained a bloody red. Olyvar Frey approached with careful steps, a sealed scroll in his hand.
"A raven from Riverrun, my lord," the boy said, bowing as he handed it over.
Robb broke the seal, his eyes scanning the words, his breath catching in his throat. He read it again, slower this time, the words a balm to his weary soul. Then he lowered the parchment, a genuine smile breaking across his tired face, brief but radiant one. "My mother writes… Arya Stark lives. She escaped King's Landing with the help of Yoren of the Night's Watch. She's at Riverrun now."
The lords near him stirred at the news, murmuring with a shared relief. Robb exhaled, long and low. "At least one of my sisters is safe." He thought of Jon at the Wall, and how his brother's eyes always softened when Arya was near. He knew Jon would be glad beyond words. For the first time in days, a flicker of warmth lit his chest.
He looked across the firelight at Theon Greyjoy, his friend since boyhood, who sat with a cocky grin and a cup of ale. The words of his earlier councel came back to him, he knew his future actions may help in countering westerlands and reach men.
"Theon," Robb said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.
The Greyjoy straightened, puzzled. "Aye?"
"Tomorrow, you'll ride for Seagard. Speak with your father and talk with him of the terms of our alliance."
Confusion clouded Theon's sharp features for a moment, but then he smirked knowingly, "Don't worry, Robb. I'll make him see sense. I'll have him agree."
Robb nodded, though doubt pricked at him like a thorn. He pushed it aside. They had been friends for a long time there shouldn't be a reason for uncertainty.
On the deep blue waters of the Narrow Sea, the moon cast a silver path across the restless waves. Hundreds of ships creaked and groaned as they cut through the dark. On the deck of one particular ship, stood a woman cloaked in black, her silver hair glinting faintly in the starlight. A mask of red covered her face, and from behind it gleamed two mismatched eyes, one a deep blue and other a vibrant green.
She watched the horizon with unblinking patience, as if looking for something against the darkness of the night. Then in a voice soft as silk, she spoke to the helmsman. "Turn the prow toward Dragonstone, and tell everyone of our new destination."
The sailor flinched hearing her voice but nodded with nervous motion, and turned the helm without question.
A young woman lingering behind her looked hesitant yet unable to control her curiosity asked in trembling voice, "Is he truly there, the one you seek?"
The masked woman turned, her strange eyes catching the moonlight, shining with an ecstatic gleam. For a moment she said nothing.
At last, she answered, each word filled with certainty. "He is not there yet. But he will be coming soon."
The young woman shivered, though whether from the bite of the night air or the chilling confidence in those words, she could not tell.