19-The New Hand of Winter

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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A.N: When I started this, I did not expect to hit 10k words, let alone 100k (Without the AN's, the total word count with this chapter is 101k). Thanks everyone for the support.

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Linktr!ee/gladiusx - Links to all my relevant stuff is now available here. (Replace the ! with a .)

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Daenerys Targaryen, Dragonstone

Her ancestral seat was held by a small Tyrell garrison. However, at the sight of dragons they quickly opened the gates and surrendered. She expected a much greater resistance, but if her stay in Westeros continued like this she would not complain. After the fortress was completely secured, Daenerys quickly headed to the top floor of the Stone Drum, where the legendary painted table resided. Soon, she was joined by all of her advisors.

"So, Lord Varys. Can you tell us the current situation of the Seven Kingdoms?"

News of Westeros had been scarce and slow to come in Slaver's Bay, and they could not get any during their time spent at sea. The last thing she heard was about how her supposed nephew had landed with the Golden Company in the Stormlands.

"It takes time to get in touch with my little birds, Your Grace," the eunuch spoke with that soft tone of his.

"Well, what are you waiting for? You're the master of whispers, get on with it!" she ordered with a scowl. As soon as Varys left the room she turned to Ser Barristan. "My Lord Hand, please send someone to keep an eye on our eunuch. I don't trust him."

"Wisely so, Your Grace. Though the eunuch is hard to track and will likely easily lose any man I send to shadow him," the old knight warned her.

She'd love to dismiss Varys, but creating an information network was something that took a considerable amount of time, something that she did not have right now. Despite her distrust, Varys would have to do for now. She could always dismiss and replace him once she won the war.

"Your Grace, you could mayhaps call the Maester of Dragonstone. He should be familiar with the latest events of the realm," proposed Archmaester Marwyn. She nodded and her Hand sent a few men to find and fetch the maester of the keep.

"The famed painted table. Westeros drawn without borders for the first time. Never thought I'd see it in person," Tyrion's eyes barely reached above the table. The imp hopped on a chair and was finally able to look at it from above. "Though it seems that it was made for men of greater stature than I."

Daenerys barely covered her snort with a cough. If the Lannister was not so good with money, she would have made him her court jester. She then turned her gaze to the large table itself and gently ran her hand through the varnished surface. Here, her ancestor Aegon and his wives planned the Conquest. This was where it all began.

A solemn man no older than five and twenty, dressed in robes and wearing a maester chain was escorted by two unsullied in the chamber.

"You called for me, Your Grace?" the man bowed.

"Yes, Maester...?"

"Pylos, Your Grace."

"Yes, Maester Pylos, we hoped that you could tell us what is happening in Westeros. News of the Seven Kingdoms is scarce in Slaver's Bay."

"Well, last we heard Aegon Targaryen had taken Harrenhal and was chasing Jaime Lannister west across the Riverlands," the young maester responded uncertainly. This nephew of hers was looking to be formidable. Mayhaps she should visit him soon.

"Why would they be fighting in the Riverlands? The Golden Company landed in the Rainwood. The only way that he'd get an army deep in the Riverlands is if he took over Storm's End and then King's Landing. How did the capital fall in his hands so quickly?" Ser Barristan questioned sharply. Daenerys watched on with confusion, as she had no idea what was wrong.

"You don't know...?" Pylos looked around and Daenerys could see beads of sweat trickling down his face.

"No, maester, we don't. Otherwise, we would not be asking," Tyrion snarked.

"Aegon did take Storm's End. And King's Landing is gone!"

"What do you mean gone?! A city with half a million people does not simply disappear into thin air!" Ser Barristan exclaimed and smacked his hand on the table.

"I mean it's destroyed, My Lord. It burned down by wildfire two moons ago, and only those from the Red Keep managed to escape the green flames through some secret passage. King Tommen's court has moved into Casterly Rock." The maester wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

"By the seven!" Ser Barristan gasped and slumped tiredly on one of the chairs around the table while the Archmaester of magic looked lost in thought.

"What of the Iron Throne?" demanded Tyrion.

"It's lost too. After the fires dispersed, a thick green mist appeared above the ruins of the capital. Rain and wind do nothing to it, and anyone who ventures inside dies after a few breaths. "

"And who started the fire?" Daenerys asked.

"Nobody knows, Your Grace. However, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister has blamed Aegon Targaryen for the fires."

Tyrion scowled and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'even the gods won't take my damned sister'.

"You should start explaining everything starting from the destruction of King's Landing, then,"Daenerys reminded the maester.

"Well… a large part of the Tyrell forces perished in the inferno, Your Grace. Queen Margaery and her father, Lord Tyrell died, together with a good part of the Reach nobility in the capital. Ever since, Dorne and most of the Crownlands have declared for Aegon, who is currently fighting Jaime Lannister in the Riverlands."

"It seems that my would-be nephew has mustered a lot of support under his name. Do you know how many men he leads?"

"About forty thousand, Your Grace."

"And what of the rest of the kingdoms, Maester Pylos?" Ser Barristan enquired tiredly, after finally regaining his bearing.

"Euron Greyjoy is said to have taken the Shield Isles and is harrying the shores of the Reach hard. Willas Tyrell refuses to send any men to support either Tommen or Aegon unless someone helps him deal with the Ironborn. The Vale is still neutral, while no news has come from the North after Stannis' death."

"Uncle Euron is as mad as he is dangerous. He has a giant horn that is said to control dragons," Asha Greyjoy cautioned. She had mentioned the horn before, but Daenerys did not believe it then, nor did she believe it now.

"So just like his elder brother, then?" Tyrion snarked.

"My father might have been foolish, Imp. But my uncle is a hundred times more dangerous. I dread to imagine what he could do if he had even a single dragon under his command!"

"A dragon is not a slave. People without Targaryen blood cannot hope to control them with some horn," Daenerys rolled her eyes.

"That hellish thing is not simple at all. I was there when it was blown during the kingsmoot. It was a terrible sound, as if a thousand souls screamed together in anguish, it made me feel as if my very bones were on fire!"

If dragons were easy to control, everyone would have one. Still, it was better to be cautious.

"Archmaester Marwyn, you are well versed in magic. Could this horn be a threat to my dragons?"

"With magic, many things are possible, Your Grace. Especially if you know how to pay the right price. But I can't rightly say until I see this horn in person." Daenerys felt a chill rise along her spine at the ominous words.

"First, I will meet with this so-called Aegon. If he's truly my nephew we will join together and defeat Tommen Waters. My Lord Hand, arrange a neutral meeting place. Second, send summons to the rest of the crownlands that have not declared. House Targaryen is back in Dragonstone!"

"It shall be done, My Queen," Ser Barristan bowed and left.

"And how would you know if Aegon is truly your nephew, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked curiously.

"You will see. I have my ways, Lord Lannister," she replied with a devious smile.

***

Jon Stark

"The...princess is fine. Her scar did not react too well to the cold or the stress, but other than that, after a good sleep, she will be as good as new, as long as she does not exert herself too much," Wolkan stated softly after entering the hallway.

"Rickard, make sure two guards are posted at her door at all times. When she's well enough to walk, bring her to the Great Hall for dinner. Otherwise, she's free to move around Winterfell, but must be escorted by at least two loyal men," Jon ordered. Rickard was the youngest of the Liddle brothers, five years his senior, and the Blackfish had appointed him captain of the guards.

He had plenty of work to do, so Jon headed back towards his solar.

"Grandfather, why did you not tell me that she was the princess?" Wylla Manderly hissed, thinking that only Lord Wyman could hear her. Unfortunately for her, Jon had excellent sensing and managed to overhear her even though he was almost at the end of the hallway.

"Dear Wylla, if more than two people know a secret, it would not be a secret anymore. You genuinely made fast friends-" was the last thing he could hear before he moved too far away. Lord Manderly was quite cunning, it seemed.

He nodded at Torghen, who was one of the new household guards, and entered his solar and sat on his chair with a small sigh.

Ghost paddled next to him and lazily curled on the floor. Thankfully his desk was finally clean, as he had read everything of importance. Now his main job was to manage the lords and ladies and delegate everything else to trustworthy and capable people.

He finally had time. Jon still hadn't explored the magical defences of Winterfell, nor attempted to make his own wand yet. Every day he spared an hour to train his body and practise his magic, though he preferred to do the latter in the pools of the godswood, where the risk of burning anything or being seen was minimal. He also had to check up on his dragons.

Yesterday, Maege had reached the Dreadfort and the Castellan had instantly surrendered. Stormstrider was already flying back to Winterfell.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Your Grace, your sisters are here to see you," the guard said through the opened door.

"Let them in."

Sansa and Arya entered and closed the door. The bronze direwolf brooches atop their breast brought a smile to his face.

"How are my two favourite princesses doing today?" he asked merrily.

Arya groaned tiredly.

"You should get used to it, little sister. With a king for a brother, you'll be called a princess for the rest of your life," Sansa chuckled and sat on one of the chairs near the hearth.

"Easy for you to say," Arya huffed and joined her sister next to the fireplace.

"So, what brought you two to my solar?"

"Jon, Winterfell's larders barely have enough food for two years and with winter on our doorstep there will be no more harvests," Sansa said worriedly. His cousin...or maybe better said sister, had been of great help managing things. She had gotten Winterfell's household in order and had started bringing any issues that might have slipped his attention.

"Don't worry too much, Sansa. Two years is more than enough time to find a new source of food, even during winter."

"Mayhaps you can use magic, brother?" Arya fidgeted. After the revelation of his parentage in the crypts, she had hesitantly told them a chilling tale of her perilous journey from King's Landing to Winterfell, afraid that he or Sansa would reject or avoid her for what she had become. Naturally, neither of them gave a rat's ass about Arya training to be an assassin or murdering Freys and the such. She was back home, and that was enough.

"Magic cannot conjure edible food out of thin air," his younger sister pouted at his explanation. Though, there were maybe a few tricks with runic magic that could maybe be of help. "Sansa, have you made a list of eligible brides?"

"Yes- "

"Wait, wait, wait! You're going to marry?" Arya asked incredulously.

"Well, yes Arya. Since neither you nor Sansa intends to wed, it falls to me to make the next generation of Starks. A king needs a queen and an heir," he explained patiently. Both his sisters had the decency to look ashamed. If it was any other man in his shoes, they'd both be married off quickly. The marriage he had in his previous life was also one of obligation but love did come in time. While he did not look forward to it, he did not dread it either.

Sansa coughed in embarrassment. "Jorelle Mormont- "

"She's very fat! Jon deserves someone nice looking," Arya scowled.

"Weight can be lost. Though, I would indeed prefer if my bride would be easy on the eyes. And Arya, do not interrupt your sister," he threw her a stern glare at which she sighed and bowed her head in apology. Jon rubbed his face tiredly. He could only hope that none of his future children would be as troublesome as Arya.

"Eddara Tallhart, Lady of Torrhen's Square."

"Not this one, marrying her can create problems with succession," he declined. Though, considering how the girl was trying to flirt with him, she'd gladly accept the title of Queen even if it meant giving her rights to Torrhen's Square away.

"Argelle Mazin, daughter of Lord Mazin."

"House Mazin already got rewarded more than enough for their loyalty," Jon declined quickly.

"Alys Karstark, daughter of the late Lord Rickard Karstark."

"The man that Robb executed?" he asked curiously and Sansa nodded. Next to him, Ghost got up with a yawn and moved towards the fireplace between his sisters. Arya, looking bored from the conversation, turned all of her attention to the direwolf and started scratching under his neck.

Sansa looked forlornly at his direwolf being spoiled for a whole minute before hesitantly joining. "The only other ones are Wylla Manderly, Shireen and Myrcella Baratheon. The rest are from small houses of no importance, or simply too young."

"Myrcella comes with connections that would only drag us in some southern war again. Sansa, observe Wylla and Alys Karstark once she arrives. I'd like to know everything possible about each one of them before I come to a decision. Anything else?"

"Yes, the nobles have begun inquiring subtly about who would be the new Lords of Barrowton, Hornwood, and the Dreadfort," she sourly spat out the last word.

"Easy there, Sansa. The castle hasn't done anything wrong. And if they keep asking, say that I will announce once the last northern Lord has arrived in Winterfell," Jon rubbed his brow. Now he had to look up succession laws, old marriages, relatives and claims.

"Also, brother, have you commissioned a crown from the blacksmith yet?"

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"Your Grace" Lord Manderly had just entered his solar. "Your brother entrusted me with a task before he went south."

"And what task would that be?"

"King Robb bade me build a new Northern Fleet. So far, we constructed sixty five galleys and another twenty cogs from before," Manderly proudly stated.

A small smile appeared on Jon's face. Not only was this a big surprise, but a very much welcome one. This fleet could help his food problem. Because of the war and weather, most of the harvests couldn't even be gathered. And it most probably was not just Winterfell with such a problem.

He carefully looked at the Lord of White Harbour. Wyman Manderly was old, and fat and presented a gluttonous and amiable front, which made a lot of people underestimate him. But in truth, Jon easily recognized the cunning old fox underneath. Thankfully, he was loyal. Jon suspected that the only reason that Manderly had not answered his call was that White Harbour was almost as far away from Winterfell as Castle Black was, and an army could not sneak unseen through hundreds of miles of Bolton and Dustin-controlled territory. And most importantly, Ghost liked Lord Manderly. His direwolf had always been a good judge of character with his sharp senses, even more so after amplifying them with the rituals.

"Wine?" Jon offered. At Wyman's nod, he placed a pitcher of Arbor Gold and generously filled a goblet for each of them. He didn't care much for drinking alcohol in either life and now he could not even get drunk with this body. But it was only proper to drink together with the guest after offering wine.

"Keep a third of the fleet as a fishing fleet near White Harbour. Send the rest to Braavos and Pentos to trade for grain and foodstuff that can last for at least three years. House Stark can send down lumber, iron, and furs through the White Knife. Lord Cerwyn would most probably be agreeable to this venture too. If you have trouble finding more resources, ask the Houses that have access to the eastern shore or its waterways."

"It will be done, My King!" the fat old lord nodded deeply.

"Jorelle Mormont has garrisoned Moat Cailin and began working on restoring it to its former glory. Send masons, free hands, stone and timber to the Moat and aid in its construction in every way possible," Jon said after taking a sip. Arbor Gold was so sweet it almost felt like fruit juice. A very expensive fruit juice.

"My son Wylis will oversee the efforts." Manderly promised, before taking a generous gulp from his goblet. "Your grace...there are some...outlandish rumours going around Winterfell."

"Oh, and what rumours have you so worried, Lord Manderly?"

"I've heard that you have...dragons? And that there is some sort of trouble that drove the wildlings south of the Wall..."

"Trouble? I suppose one could call it trouble. I will reveal more of it when all the northern Lords gather here," the hesitance on Wyman Manderly's face gave way to seriousness." As for the dragons, I do have three of them. They usually sleep in the godswood during the day and hunt in the wolfswood during the night, so they're hard to see unless you're lucky."

"Your grace, If I may be so bold to ask, how did the dragons come about? I thought you needed to be...a Targaryen to hatch and control one. And no matter what was tried, none could be hatched for a hundred and fifty years!"

"The dragons hatched on the funeral pyre of...Maester Aemon and instantly climbed over me," Jon explained after a short pause.

"Aemon? I thought that all the Targaryens in Westeros were long dead?" Manderly asked incredulously. So did everyone else, but there were two Aemons stashed in the North. One forgotten, one hidden.

"No, Maester Aemon was the brother of Aegon the Unlikely. The man that chose to join the Watch over taking the kingship. He was forgotten long before House Baratheon came into power. Aemon died at the age of five and one hundred," Jon recalled sadly and carefully looked at the Lord in front of him.

"By the gods, I did not know men could live so long!" Lord Wyman exclaimed in surprise.

An idea quickly formed in Jon's head. He was already looking for people to delegate some of his duties to, and the man in front of him was reasonably loyal and capable.

"Lord Wyman Manderly, I would name you Hand of the king! Do you accept?"

The fat old lord was flabbergasted for nearly a minute before he managed to find his voice. "Yes, yes, Your Grace. It is an honour!"

"We won't have a full small council like the southern crown did. Look for suitable candidates for the position of Justiciar and possible spymaster. More can be added later if necessary," he said, barely containing his happiness.

"Your Grace, may I speak…frankly?" Manderly asked hesitantly.

"Yes, my Lord, I expect you to be direct and truthful with me in all things, otherwise I would have not appointed you."

"It takes years to set up a spy network, Your Grace. Whoever takes this position of…spymaster will probably be of no use for years," the new Hand took another generous sip from his goblet.

"I am well aware, but we cannot remain blind to the happenings of the south. The sooner we find someone, the sooner he can start," Jon explained and they fell into a thoughtful silence.

A few minutes later a knock on the door was heard. "Your Grace, Lord Reed is here to see you."

"Lord Hand, we will speak more on the morrow, please tell Lord Howland Reed to enter," Jon said.

"Yes, Your Grace," Wyman Manderly drained the rest of his cup in one go, bowed, and left the solar. A short thin man with hazelnut hair and green eyes entered a few moments later.

"Lord Reed, you wanted to see me?" He couldn't think what the crannogman would request of him. His people were notoriously secluded, and Jon was surprised the man even left the Neck.

"My children, Jojen and Meera were in Winterfell before it was sacked by Ramsay, My King. I asked around, but nobody could tell me anything. I wonder if you have any word about their fate?" asked Howland hopefully.

"Sorry, my lord, but we have no idea. Even my brother Bran is missing, probably dead," Jon sighed and the crannoglord looked devastated. "Though, until a body is found we can never know. They might just have scattered far away, out of our reach. You escorted my little sister that was presumed dead for five years. Don't lose faith, my lord."

His words of consolation sounded empty even in his ears, but a spark of hope appeared in the eyes of the small lord. His crippled brother's chances of survival for years in the northern wilderness were so small that they were practically non-existent. Nobody had heard or seen Bran, unlike Arya. Jon was ashamed to admit it, but he had inwardly given up on finding him long ago.

"Thank you for the kind words, Your Grace," the crannogman gave him a wet smile, before wiping his eyes. "Did Lord Stark ever tell you about your mother?"

Jon stilled. Of course, how could he forget the tales told by the guards and servants in Winterfell? Seven men went south to retrieve Lyanna Stark, but only two survived. Howland Reed and Eddard Stark. If anyone knew for certain of his parentage, it was the small man before him.

"No... he died before he could tell me," Jon replied carefully.

The crannoglord sighed.

"You've heard of what happened at the Tower of Joy, I take it?" At his nod, Howland continued slowly. "After all three members of the kingsguard lay dead, Ned and I rushed into the tower. At the top, Lyanna lay in a bed of blood, holding a babe in her arms. Before dying, she handed the babe to her brother and extracted a promise. A promise that he'll protect the child, no matter what."

A pang of anger rose within Jon. Did Eddard Stark take him in only because of a promise? But he quickly squashed it. Words were wind. Vow or not, the man raised him, providing care and affection as if he was his son. Howland Reed had stopped, hesitant on how to continue.

"That babe was me, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Howland confirmed quietly.

"I had suspected that already. But do you know what exactly happened? Was she taken by force? Or did she go voluntarily?"

"I know not, My King. Your mother was barely clinging to her life, and managed to linger long enough only to take that promise before passing away."

Jon sighed and stared at the cup of wine in front of him for half a minute before downing it all in one go, wishing he could get drunk.

It seemed that he'd never know what had happened. Especially since every time he tried to summon the Hallows, he got an unchanging dull response. He began to suspect that they had been physically destroyed together with his body and the link he felt was simply the connection to the concept of Death that the items carried. If nothing else he could take solace in the fact that Lyanna loved him dearly, no matter how he was conceived.

"All these years and you did not tell a single soul. Why?" he found himself asking.

"Ned made me swear. But even if he hadn't, I would have kept silent. I owed Lady Lyanna a debt for saving me."

"Oh, how did my mother manage to save you?" Jon asked curiously and shuffled closer.

"It all began at the Tourney of Harrenhal..."

***

Edwyn Frey, The Crossing

"Please, please spare me! I am your kin! I'll take the black!" Steffon Frey pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears.

"You dared usurp my position as Lord of the Crossing. What did you expect?" Edwyn smiled cruelly. This was the last idiotic relative left that tried to steal his birthright. The others had already met a bloody end. "Hang him!"

He watched with satisfaction as Steffon was dragged to the gallows and a noose placed upon his neck. Soon his cousin was flailing around while choking to death. In less than a minute, the last pretender stopped twitching. He had killed another five on the way here. They had united together, wanting to kill him first through an ambush and then fight it out between each other. As the heir to the Crossing, Edwyn was in command of the largest Frey force, so he easily smashed them. Then when he arrived at the Crossing, Steffon Frey had already taken it, but could not hold it with barely twenty men to his name.

As for being a kinslayer? That was hardly anything new after breaking Guest Right. Half the Riverlands was related to House Frey and the Red Wedding made kinslayers of them all.

Whoever had killed everyone in the Twins had done him a great favour because Edwyn doubted that he'd get to become the Lord in his life otherwise. And most of his numerous and troublesome cousins were gone, making this place peacefully quiet.

Anticipation rose in his breast as he rushed towards the Lord's Solar. Success tasted so sweet in his mouth.

Edwyn was taking three steps at a time in excitement. He did not notice that his shadow, made by the flames of the nearby brazier, was dancing ominously. At the last stair, he slipped and fell back down with a shout. The final thing Edwyn Frey ever saw was the ceiling moving further and further away.