19 18-Of Dreams and Doe Eyes

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Mirxae. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

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Melisandre of Asshai

Winterfell was an ancient and magical place, and Melisnadre basked in the feeling as she purposefully strode through its courtyard. She almost shuddered with pleasure when thinking of sacrificing the Heart Tree to R'hllor. It was a pity that it would not happen, as it would grant an immense boon. Melisandre was unable to influence Jon Stark, despite trying every trick in her book. His mind was as steady as a mountain and Azor Ahai had turned out to be incredibly powerful. He had somehow managed to remove the grey taint from Shireen Baratheon. Melisandre had seen it in the flames, regardless of what the stag princess claimed. But her stay here no longer served a purpose. Without the ability to attract worshippers or give offerings to the fire there was little she could do. And she did not dare defy Jon Stark's orders on this, lest her head rolled down next. Her main goals in coming to Westeros were finding the Prince that was Promised and bringing the Light of R'hllor to the sunset lands.

Azor Ahai had everything well at hand, and he would not need her help against the Great Other. Melisandre finally arrived at the stables where her faithful steed was waiting. Jon Stark only forbade her from preaching the one true faith in the North itself.

A dozen minutes later, she rode out of Winterfell through the south gate.

***

Shireen Baratheon

She looked at the big lake. On the shore, three young sentinel trees were tightly wrapped by the tentacles of a giant kraken. A massive direwolf jumped and tore off the menacing creature's limbs effortlessly. It then transformed into a giant dragon and set the boats on fire. Shireen blinked, and along a river a smaller dragon coloured crimson and obsidian was hurriedly chasing after a lame lion like a duck on his hind legs. Then a tall, shining tower appeared in the distance.

From the nearby bay, a human with a drowned crow on his shoulder and a driftwood crown nestled amongst his hairs emerged out of the stormy waters. He transformed into a giant malevolent mass of writhing tentacles. Red and black eyes furiously spun along their length.

The monster stopped its decisive stride towards the tower and slowly turned towards her, all its eyes staring straight into her soul. Suppressing a shiver, Shireen turned around and tried to run but stumbled over a rock and fell. She tried to get up, but the monster was upon her. Her leg was grabbed and as she turned, Shireen saw the horror up close and her blood froze. Maggots littered the half-rotten flesh, and gashes leaked pure darkness. The tentacle tried to pull her away but all of a sudden, it writhed and turned into dust.

Grey walls glowing with first men runes appeared around them. All the eyes along the tentacles squinted and suddenly darkness flooded out, drowning the shining runes. All the tentacles surged towards her and she wanted to scream yet nothing came out of her mouth. Time seemed to slow down as she saw them inch closer and closer. Shireen tried crawling backwards, but her limbs were heavy and did not listen.

Half a heartbeat before the tentacles would reach her, a giant white blur crashed into the monster and everything shattered to pieces by an unholy wail.

She awoke swimming in cold sweat, a scream on her lips. Seeing the familiar grey ceiling, her erratic heart began slowing its pace. She often had nightmares in the past, but none so vivid. Everything felt real and was seared in her memory as if it was reality and not a dream. Even the place on her leg where the tentacle had grabbed her felt itchy and swollen.

Shireen noticed Ghost crouching in front of her bed with his teeth bared in a quiet snarl at something in the distance. His tail was vibrating, his fur was standing up, and his red eyes were glowing balefully. A few moments passed as the direwolf slowly relaxed and lazily curled down in the middle of her floor. He appeared to be asleep, but his ears were twitching, one eye open and carefully scanning the room.

She wanted to tell herself that those were simply dreams, but Shireen knew that they were not a product of her imagination, especially since Ghost could sense whatever that monstrosity was too. She had no idea how the direwolf had entered her room as both the door and the shutter were closed but was very thankful for his presence. According to the maesters, direwolves were simple beasts, with nothing special other than their size. But Shireen knew it to be false. She silently bowed to Ghost. Shireen really wanted to pet him, and maybe play with him, but still felt hesitant because it was the King's direwolf. It was only proper to ask for permission first. Banishing the scary thoughts, she called a servant to draw her a bath.

Half an hour later, Shireen was on her way to the Great Hall for breakfast. Ever since her greyscale was gone, people stopped avoiding her. The weary looks were gone too. None of the wildlings were outright hostile to her anymore. Even the blonde beauty Val kept throwing curious glances at her but still kept her distance. Shireen's left cheek and parts of the neck were still marred, but instead of a scaly grey, it was similar to a normal scar. After Maester Wolkan had treated the open wound, it had become a reddish scab. Three days later it fell off, revealing a silvery blemish underneath, half the size of the greyscale. Shireen was still marked, but she didn't mind. She could feel her cheek again, and the scar didn't even look that ugly.

A brown-haired girl with grey eyes was sitting next to Sansa Stark on the high table. She was garbed in grey silken doublet, woollen breeches and carried a small slender sword on her hip. Shireen had missed her arrival yesterday, but based on the description, this could only be Arya Stark. Shireen joined the Stark sisters silently.

"Princess Sansa, Princess Arya," Shireen curtsied before sitting. Arya's face scrunched as if she ate a lemon and Shireen couldn't help but wonder if she had somehow offended the younger princess.

The food was just brought in and Shireen eagerly dug in the kidney pie.

Arya opened her mouth to say something, but after a sharp look from her elder sister, she simply sighed, defeated.

Ever since Jon Stark had left for Torrhen's Square, Sansa would invite her to sew together for a few hours every day. Beneath her cold exterior, the princess was very warm and caring. It was a peaceful and pleasant time, where they had started chatting about many things. Sansa was very knowledgeable about everything from myths, legends, and ancient history, to the current situation of the North. She joined Sansa every morning to break their fast together, where Shireen was introduced to every lord and lady staying in Winterfell. Most were reticent and suspicious around her. Shireen found it ironic that, with the greyscale gone, people did not recognise her or did not believe she was Stannis' daughter. Thankfully, the word of Sansa was more than enough to convince them.

"Arya, this is Shireen Baratheon"

"Weren't you supposed to have greyscale?" Shireen almost choked at the younger princess' direct question. Sansa just sighed and rubbed her face tiredly.

"I indeed had greyscale, princess Arya. But after I woke up from a nap, it was gone," she swallowed her food carefully and gave the excuse that Jon Stark had proposed. She had been asked before, but nobody was too curious. They merely asked out of politeness. A story she had heard from some of the servants was that the maester had a silver hand and could cure any illness. Wolkan was indeed very good at healing, but not that good. Arya did not look convinced at that explanation, not even one bit. Shireen wondered if she could resist the princess' sharp stare and inquisitive eyes for long.

"A blessing from the old gods, I'm sure," Sansa spoke pointedly and threw her a tiny, but knowing smile. The princess definitely knew or heavily suspected what exactly had healed Shireen. It would only make sense that the King would confide in his sister. The younger Stark daughter snorted quietly but decided to let it go and focused on stabbing the kidney pie with her fork.

Just as Shireen was enjoying another bite, the Maester hurriedly approached the elder princess, whispered something in her ear and handed over a small scroll. Sansa hurriedly read through the contents, banged her cup on the table, and then swiftly stood up to address the hall. "My Lords and Ladies, I just received great news. Last night my brother, King Jon Stark, freed Torrhen's Square from the ironmen and put all the reavers to the sword!"

"To House Stark and the North!", a booming voice broke the silence almost instantly. At the end of the table, an impossibly tall, greying man raised a tankard full of ale before downing it in a single breath.

"Hear, hear!" The rest of the lords and ladies followed his example and soon the whole hall was toasting. Shireen too filled a cup of ale and sipped curiously. A strong mix of sweetness and sourness warred in her throat, but it felt good. Looking at the surroundings, she took a braver gulp this time. The atmosphere was rowdy but pleasant. Smiling, she looked around the hall. Shireen felt more at home here than she ever did back on Dragonstone.

***

Sansa Stark

Five days had passed since they got the news from Torrhen's Square. The door opened and Arya rushed in with excitement. "Sansa, Jon has finally been sighted! He'll be here any moment. Do you think he'll let me ride one of the dragons?"

Sansa's lips twitched in amusement and she put down the direwolf embroidery she was working on. Next to her, Shireen huffed in annoyance, as Arya's abrupt entry had made her ruin the current stitch. Originally her sister did not believe that Jon had dragons, but after everyone kept telling her the same story she finally accepted it.

It was good to see Arya acting wildly again. When she came, her sister had been overly serious and glum, but just after a few days, she started returning to her usual behaviour. There were some differences though. Arya was much sharper than before and showed a measure of restraint when necessary. She did not seek confrontations and was content to just stand and watch from afar most of the time.

"I'm not sure they're big enough to be ridden just yet, Arya. And you supposedly need Valyrian blood for it," her sister pouted at her response.

"Jon is a Stark just like me!"

"Yes, but his mother had Valyrian blood, otherwise he would not be able to bond with the dragons," Shireen explained quietly. Arya spluttered and turned to the other girl, finally realising Sansa was not alone in the room.

"Come, let's go out and greet Jon," Sansa got up. Shireen and Arya quickly followed her towards the courtyard. As soon as Sansa exited the room, Brienne shadowed after them quietly. There was no regret left in her mind about taking her as a sworn shield now. The Tarth heiress was exceptional in her duties and did not overstep. The only problem was that, as the heiress of Tarth, Brienne eventually had to go back to the Stormlands.

The news of Jon's return seemed to have gathered everyone of importance in the snowy courtyard. Yesterday morning, snow began to fall. Thankfully, it was less than a few inches and had already begun to melt under the scarce rays of the winter sun. The newly arrived northern lords, the mountain clan heads, and the wildling chieftains were all outside, waiting for the king, unbothered by the cold.

A few minutes later, Jon rode in, followed by Larence Snow, a young girl and two men, wearing the three sentinel trees of House Tallhart. After a short jog of her memory, Sansa realised that they could only be Eddara Tallhart, the future lady of Torrhen's Square, and her cousins, Brandon and Beren.

Sansa kneeled, and the whole courtyard followed her example. Even the wildlings.

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," she said clearly.

"Rise!" Jon's voice was clear. Sansa carefully got up and saw her cousin looking at Arya. She was surprised that her little sister had managed to resist jumping on top of Jon in public. Suddenly, both she and Arya got pulled into a strong embrace and she couldn't help but notice the scent of pine and something sweet. "Arya, I'm glad that you managed to come back," he murmured, so only they could hear.

"When the snows fall and the white wind blows -" her sister began, "-the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," the three of them finished together.

"Jon, we need to talk..." Sansa spoke quietly after Jon released them from the hug. She had decided. Arya looked at them suspiciously.

"After dinner in the crypts then?"

Sansa nodded. "Arya, you can come too, if you want," she addressed her sister who was rapidly looking between the two of them.

"Alright," Arya answered hesitantly.

Sansa noticed that Lord Umber and Lord Reed were approaching her cousin. The greying tall man kneeled directly in front of Jon and placed his hand over his heart. "I, Lord Jon of House Umber, do swear by the old gods my and mine's loyalty to the Starks of Winterfell. Our swords and pikes we give to your name, and your justice we accept!"

If the king felt any surprise, none of it showed on his face, as he accepted the heartfelt oath of fealty and raised Greatjon effortlessly. The Umber Lord had been very conflicted about the news of Rickon's fate and Hother's support of House Bolton. Now, Sansa could only see open gratitude and loyalty brimming in the Lord's eyes.

"To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater. Hearth and harvest we yield up to you, My King. Our swords, spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire!"

The oath of fealty of the Reeds was ancient and dark. Sansa trembled at the end. The words had power. Jon graciously accepted once again, looking at Howland Reed with a strange gleam in his eyes.

The three living wildling chieftains also approached bravely. The whole courtyard was now watching with rapt attention, as they kneeled and laid down their weapons at Jon's feet and swore a simple, yet archaic oath of fealty.

"You fought for me in an hour of need. True friends can be seen on the battlefield. You shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. Arise as clansmen of the North!" Jon's voice boomed. While they might not be liked, with oaths publicly sworn and knees bent, they would be accepted in the North, albeit grudgingly. Sansa noticed that Jon did not outright elevate them into nobility, but named them clansmen, similar to the mountain clansmen who were not considered nobility, despite their chieftains being called Lords out of respect.

***

"Gods, look at them! Before barely any even deigned to look his way and now they're all making doe eyes at our brother," Arya snickered with amusement. All the lords and ladies had gathered in the Great Hall for dinner. Talia Forrester, Eddara Tallhart, and a few of the mountain lords' granddaughters were doing their best to attract Jon's attention but with little success. They were barely Arya's age and looked more like girls instead of women grown. Her cousin showed absolutely no interest in them.

"Your brother is very comely, though. Strong and kind and just. King or not, there's little to dislike in him," Shireen muttered as she drank from her cup of ale. A tinge of redness sprawled across her cheeks. She rarely spoke out like this, but the two cups of ale she drank had loosened her tongue. Arya turned around and looked at her with an open mouth.

"You like him!" Arya pointed at Stannis' daughter accusingly. Shireen blushed red with embarrassment. A sly smile appeared on her sister's face. "Maybe you should go and ask him for a dance! "

Shireen looked completely mortified at that proposition and buried her face in her arms.

The rest of the dinner went in a similar vein, and her sister kept throwing teasing smiles at the former princess. Shortly afterwards Sansa, Arya, and Jon were standing in front of the statue of her father, Lord Eddard Stark. A few yards away stood two new half-finished statues.

"This looks nothing like father," her sister frowned.

"This is all that is left of him," Sansa sighed. "His bones never arrived in Winterfell. Nobody knows what happened to mother's body, and Robb's and Rickon's remains were both lost. We also have no word of Bran..."

All the torches flickered suddenly. For a moment, she thought Arya's face had contorted in a savage grimace, but after blinking, her sister's face was blank.

For a sennight after the last meeting at the crypts, Sansa had been wracked by terrible indecision. She always thought that being a mother and a wife was her duty and a core part of her future. That's what a noblewoman was supposed to be. A wife and a mother. Her whole childhood and education had been based on that thought. Even after all the terror, she had been through, she still looked forward to it.

"You wanted to speak, Sansa. Here we are," after a few moments, Jon's voice broke the silence. Sansa sighed.

"You were right, Jon. I still do like you a lot, but I think I'd rather not be Queen!" she sighed.

"What are you talking about?" Her sister was looking at both of them in confusion.

After some contemplation away from Jon, Sansa had realised that while she did like her cousin, her desire had been greatly diminished now that the option to remain unmarried was there. The fact that the more she thought about Queenship, the longer the potential list of downsides became also helped her to come to a decision. Naturally, if Sansa was to wed, it made sense in her head that it would be to someone, brave, gentle, and strong. Someone that could protect her. And in her eyes, only Jon fit those criteria. But now, she could reap all the benefits associated with marriage, without having to pay any of the costs. The idea of freedom was new, wild and...refreshing. And she got to keep the name Stark and live in Winterfell. The only downside was that she would have no children. While she was free to marry or even bed anyone, Sansa doubted she could entrust her body or well-being ever again to anyone other than Jon.

"You're sure? This is your final decision?" she carefully nodded at his question.

It was as if a weight was lifted from her shoulders. It was strange, feeling free and unburdened now that she finally gave her answer. Sansa even felt guilty, over abandoning her duty to House Stark. She was not the only one. After the revelation of her deeds in the Twins, Sansa knew that Arya would never be married against her will either. Even if they found a lord who was willing to marry a girl who killed a whole keep full of people. Arya was always Jon's favourite. If Sansa got permission not to marry, her younger sister would get the same. This only made her cousin's marriage all the more important.

"Stupid! Can you two stop ignoring me and speaking as if you're Lannisters or Targaryens?!" Arya broke the silence and furiously pinched them both. Sansa winced but ignored the pain. Her sister looked ready to bite off her head.

"I'm sorry sweet sister. That's the thing, I am a Targaryen. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen, and my mother–Lyanna Stark," Jon gently explained.

Arya looked carefully at him and myriad emotions ran through her face. Denial was quickly replaced by confusion and conflict, which gave way to resigned acceptance. Her sister looked ready to burst into tears at any moment. For the first time, Arya was not putting up a strong front. Sansa simply wrapped her hands around her and gently enveloped her in a hug. A heartbeat later, Jon once again embraced both of them.

"You're still a Stark to me!" Arya muttered quietly from her bosom.

"Aye, I care not for Rhaegar. I know only one father and his name is Eddard Stark. The man who took me in and raised me as his own. The man who forsook his honour, risked his life, and lied to the realm just to protect me. Whoever my parents were, I was raised in Winterfell and Robb granted me the name Stark. It is who I am. Blood or not, I will always be a brother to both of you."

"Then what was that with Sansa speaking as if she wanted to marry you?"

Sansa's face flushed with shame, while Jon chuckled.

***

Myrcella Baratheon

The last two moons had been… different. The ship she took at King's Landing ended up arriving in White Harbour. When it stopped by Gulltown, Myrcella had been contemplating how to return. Rumours of the destruction of the capital had left her indecisive, so she simply stayed on the ship. At the North, no captains were departing for a sennight as a furious autumn storm was raging across the Bite. The ship she was on barely managed to arrive before the storm hit.

Myrcella didn't have any option but to buy a room in some inn. She hesitated as to what to do. If King's Landing was in ruins, her only options were to return to Lannisport or Sunspear. But the rumours of pirates infesting the Stormlands did not bode well, and apparently, the ironborn had started reaving along the Reach, so the sea route was too dangerous, even without the storms. She could go to the Manderlys and ask for assistance, but Myrcella knew that the Lannisters and Baratheons were not popular within the North, especially after the last war. Her brother had beheaded Lord Eddard Stark, which started the whole bloody conflict.

On the second day, while she was still feeling indecisive about her future, half a dozen guardsmen politely invited her to New Castle, the seat of House Manderly. Ever since then she had been a guest, under the name Ella Waters. Myrcella was not stupid. She knew that she was a hostage now, and had not much choice but to comply. It was not even known if her mother or brother survived the destruction of the capital. Lord Wyman Manderly had kindly explained to her that it was for her safety, as her mother and father were ill-liked in the north.

She was assigned as the new handmaiden to the Lord's younger granddaughter Wylla, together with two guards, who were both keeping an eye on her and the Manderly granddaughter. It was then, that she finally heard the rumours and understood why Lord Wyman had passed her off as a Waters. Supposedly, neither she nor her brothers had any drop of Baratheon blood and were not Robert's children, but Jaime Lannister's. It was suspiciously handy that Stannis, who was the next in line, was the source of those rumours.

She inwardly refuted it with a scoff. Her mother was proud, not stupid. And uncle Jaime might have had a forlorn expression while guarding her, but he had always been gentle and kind, not the kind of monster they were making him out to be. It was perfectly natural to look like her mother. After all, four out of five of Lord Stark's children had their mother's colouring. Did Lady Stark cuckold her husband with her brother too?

Thankfully, other than that, her stay in White Harbour had been pleasant. Wylla treated her well and as a dear friend, despite her supposed baseborn status. The sole northern city was much cleaner and more orderly than both Sunspear and King's Landing. While it couldn't compare to the Water Gardens, the lack of smell and the whitewashed stones made for a friendly and calm atmosphere. Until ravens came and she was on her way to Winterfell. Supposedly, Jon Snow had been legitimised by King Robb Stark and had retaken the high seat of the North.

"They say that the King slew ten Bolton men with a single swing of his blade!" Wylla Manderly pulled her green braid with excitement as the wheelhouse was finally nearing Winterfell. Wylla was an ardent supporter of all things Stark, and right now there was nothing more Stark than the new King in the North. A king who was also unmarried. Her new friend was fancying herself the new queen. Her chances were pretty good, considering House Manderly was one of the strongest vassals of the Starks.

This carriage was not as big and slow as the one Myrcella rode the last time she came North. Like all things northern, it was designed with practicality in mind, and the road from White Harbour to Winterfell had been fast and smooth. She was to become a guest of House Stark now. Her only hope was that they would treat her better than Joffrey had treated Sansa.

"There seem to be many a rumour about his Grace. There must be more to him than his martial prowess. You were both raised here in the North, haven't you met him before?" Myrcella asked carefully and absentmindedly lifted her hand to where her left ear used to be. Alas, it was long gone now, and she settled for playing with one of her golden locks. It would be good if she could mentally prepare herself beforehand. She knew of Lord Eddard Stark's bastard but had never actually seen him during her visit to the seat of House Stark. Her mother would never allow her to associate with baseborn, son of a high lord or not. But now things seem to have turned around. He was the royalty, and she- the bastard.

"I've seen him during a harvest feast, but Jon Stark always stood to the side and watched from a distance. A few maidens had tried to coax him for a dance, but none were successful. They were way more interested in Robb Stark instead..." Wylla finished sombrely. Myrcella strongly suspected that she was one of those that had paid the king no mind before. Her friend's chances suddenly looked a bit smaller. "My father offered to foster the king in White Harbour. But Lord Stark has always kept his children close. All offers of fostering were declined. I remember grandfather considering him as a potential Lord Consort for Wynafryd. But he went to join the Night's Watch before Grandfather could even speak to Lord Stark about it."

Myrcella sighed quietly. It seemed that her new friend knew nothing of importance about the new king. It didn't matter, she would find out soon firsthand anyway. The gates of Winterfell were looming ahead, with the grey direwolf banner proudly dancing in the wind. As they neared, she saw rows of heads impaled upon the spikes of the battlements. Her stomach twisted and dread rose within. House Stark lost a lot to her family. Would her head be adorning the gates too?

The air outside the carriage was frigid and Myrcella shuddered under her furs. Their party was welcomed by a greying man clad in heavy plate. He had a craggy face and wore a black fish for a sigil. She knew of only one person who used black trout as a sigil in Westeros.

"Ser Brynden, it is good to see you hale and hearty. Last we heard, you were slain during the fall of Riverrun," Lord Manderly had a wide smile on his face.

"The news of my death is greatly exaggerated. I escaped by swimming in the river, Lord Manderly," Wyman chortled in amusement, and the Blackfish chuckled along. "I came North hearing rumours about my grandniece. After defeating the Boltons, the King generously offered me the position of Master-at-Arms and Castellan of Winterfell and I accepted. His Grace is expecting you in his Solar."

Thankfully, the inside was warm. After a walk through the hallways of the Great Keep, they finally arrived at the King's Solar. A guardsman announced their arrival and opened the door.

As soon as she entered, her gaze was drawn to a pair of red eyes near the fireplace that were looking intently at her. They belonged to an enormous white direwolf. She had seen the small pups during her first visit to the North but did not think they would grow this big. As Lord Manderly was swearing fealty to his king, the direwolf stood up and silently approached her.

Myrcella froze in terror and she could feel her heart beating hard, trying to escape her chest. The direwolf was larger than a horse and was looming over her. She tried to stay still as the large head came and sniffed at her. Her head was pulsing and all she could hear was her heart beating like a drum. She closed her eyes and silently prayed to whatever gods could hear her to make the beast go away.

The gods must have answered because when she finally opened them, the direwolf was no longer there. It had sat down next to the king, who was scratching the beast under its ear absentmindedly. The direwolf had its eyes closed in pleasure and its tongue lolled out and one could almost mistake it for a harmless puppy if its teeth were not the size of small daggers. Her heart finally stopped racing and she focused on the conversation that was happening in the room.

"-This is my granddaughter, Wylla, Your Grace," her friend curtsied and Myrcella finally focused on the king. He was tall, with long dark curly hair with broad shoulders. He had a long, sharp face that was clean-shaven and adorned with piercing purple eyes. There was an old scar over his right eye, but it only made him look even more comely. "And this is someone who you might find very useful. Princess Myrcella Baratheon!"

When the purple eyes focused on her, she felt head pulsing and face heating up. She buckled her knees to curtsy, and then the world spun around and faded into darkness.