Disclaimer: I had a disclaimer this time I promise. He promised me that he'd show up right after he was finished at this blasted wedding he was going to at the Twins... I still haven't heard why he is delayed though.

Chapter 2.

Jon:

Jon opened his eyes with a gasp, he had been betrayed. A Septon, a-a holy man had betrayed him. There he'd been, helpful and kind, willing, if somewhat reluctantly to show him and his acolytes, Septons in training no doubt that Winterfell and the North was far more than just an empty wasteland inhabited by nothing but barbarians and he'd been clubbed over the head for it and taken to the Seven knows where.

The moment he thought about it was the moment his eyes widened in shock, where was he? Gazing around he felt faint. There was no place like this in all the world, he would have heard about it if it was. Wide streets of smooth black polished stone. Everywhere he turned his eyes he could see tall open topped towers with arched pavilion like roofs with gleaming golden spires. Every wall and surface was as the street. Seamless polished stone in all the colours of the rainbow while sphinxes gargoyles, dragons and all manner of creatures decorated everything, in the form of statues, or part of the very wall, not painted on top, but part of the stonework itself.

All of it was lit up in softly glowing red, yellow and orange hues from rivers that were not, he noted, of water but of molten rock. The very night sky itself was cast aglow by the slowly flowing rivers of lava and he could even, to his marvel glimpse dragons in the sky. Beast the size of horses all the way up to the size of castles glided majestically through the air, or rested atop the multitude of towers. At first he thought he had stepped into one of his dreams… one of his nightmares but this was nothing but wondrous, absent-mindedly he wiped away the tears that had accumulated in his eyes. This was no nightmare, no half remembered scene of pain, death and violence, or glimpse of burning infernos and beating wings, this… was paradise.

"Marvelous is it not?"

Jon spun around at the voice, the voice that was so familiar, often whispering words to him when his dreams and nights were darkest. He was greeted to the sight of a short thin man, hair and skin both pale as snow and with a single world weary red eye. Clad all in black save for a white dragon upon his chest. "Who-who are you?" Jon asked trembling, he was so confused.

The man gave a sad smile at Jon. "Brynden my brothers called me," he said as he laid a comforting arm around Jon's shoulders and started to lead him slowly through the marvelous streets. "Though most called me Bloodraven, friend and foe alike."

Jon gasped. "The Brynden Bloodraven? Hand of the King? The leader of the Raven's Teeth?"

"You've heard of me I see," Brynden said with a small chuckle.

"Of course," Jon said, excitement creeping into his voice for the first time. "You slew Daemon Blackfyre and two of his sons on the Redgrass Field."

"I did," Brynden said sadly, regret marking his face as he did. "I slew my own brother and two of my nephews, boys I once cherished, and the man who taught me to wield a sword, I became a kinslayer that day boy."

Jon swallowed. "Accursed is the kinslayer," he whispered.

"I'd say that is superstition," Brynden countered. "But I wonder if there may not be some truth to it."

"How are you here?" Jon asked suddenly, "And why? For that matter, where is here?"

Brynden gave him a shrew glance. "The proper question might be why are you here. I am a greenseer, capable of casting my mind and soul adrift on the eddies of time and space, you boy are not capable of such?"

Jon gasped. "Th-there's no such thing," he denied. "The Seven Pointed Star-" he denials were cut short as Bloodraven's hand landed harshly on his cheek with a smack.

"Speak not to me of the Seven Pointed Star boy" he said venomously. "If you knew but a fraction of what I know of the Faith and what has been done in its name you'd wish death upon all who preach it."

Angered, and insulted Jon stopped and crossed his arms while glaring balefully at Bloodraven.

"You wish the truth lad?" he asked, "Once you learn, it cannot be unlearned."

Jon narrowed his eyes at the bait. "I do not believe you," he said stubbornly.

Brynden threw back his head and laughed. "And if I were to tell you that the Faith is in large part responsible for the woes of the Realm? Maegor's cruelty, the death of dragons, the near extinction of two entire species as intelligent if not more so than men? Or perhaps the utter corruption and constant struggles amongst southerners… oh no boy, the coming of the Andals and the spread of their religion has brought nothing but pain to Westeros."

Jon shook his head while trying to hold back his tears, each accusation accompanied by a deluge of images that pounded at his mind like hammers. He saw with his own eyes, heard with his own ears how the High Septon and his Most Devout plotted to seat his own niece upon the Iron Throne by wedding her to Maegor while at the same time use the Grand Maester, a most devout man to poison Aenys.

He could feel his own mouth speak the words at a Grand Conclave containing the Most Devout and the highest Lords of the Realm as they agreed to this or that decree. With naught more than a few words, he spoke the very words and put them to paper that made people like him, bastards into creatures spawned of sin and lust, forever tainted through no fault of their own, and he put it onto law as firm as Valyrian steel itself for naught more than three chests of gold and a pair of pretty maidens for his bed.

With horror, he witnessed, helpless to act as his own hand accepted a torch from a man clad in the links of the Citadel and lowered it to a small green puddle in the dark of the night. The wildfire, for what else could it be? Ignited and raced towards an opulent palace, seconds later a detonation of heat and flame tore much of the Palace into rubble, while hungry flames started to consume everything inside, just moment before he had been one of the seven Septons inside, praying over seven dragon eggs while the Royal family was in attendance, what was worse, he could feel the anger, the sheer fury and disappointment that the highly pregnant Princess Rhaella and her husband Aerys had not been in attendance when the fire broke out, having left for safety mere moments before to deliver her babe.

On and on Bloodraven bombarded him, tearing away his walls, stripping him of everything he had held dear and noble. "Please," he begged as he rocked back and forth on his knees, hands holding onto his head. "No more, no more I beg of you."

Blessedly the Bloodraven seemed to realize he had gone too far and stopped, kneeling down he cradled Jon to him, and for all that Jon absolutely hated the man now, he latched onto him like a dying man, his form heaving as he sobbed. "I am sorry child," Brynden whispered, "But you needed to know, to understand."

"Why?" Jon whispered, his voice cracking with pain. "So you can survive, you are perhaps the last hope of our House, the last hope to bring order to Westeros, to prepare it all for what is coming."

"What?" Jon asked, "I don't understand."

"The Long Night is coming," Brynden said, pushing Jon away so that he could look him in the eye. Jon had never seen such a serious look in his entire life. "It may come today, or a year, ten years of mayhap a hundred from now," Brynden admitted. "But the Long Night is approaching, and it will be here soon, if not in your lifetime then in your sons or grandsons."

"But why me?"

Brynden gave a pained smile. "Because you are the best hope, of what is left of our House."

Jon whimpered, "So its t-true?" he asked, his eyes red and puffy. "I had hoped you know, that it was just nightmares… but I saw her," Jon hiccuped. "I saw m-my own mother die, I saw how my father… died too." Jon's eyes were glassy, his mind a thousand leagues away. "When I close my eyes I can feel it," he said as his right hand drifted up to the centre of his chest. "Right here," he tapped his chest twice, "right here is where Robert's hammer took my father's life, it's over two years since I had the dream… vision, and I can still remember the pain, the panic as his life ebbed away."

"I know lad," Brynden said as he softly stroked Jon's hair. "And I'm sorry, so sorry. If I could take it all back I would, but it is too late now," he closed his red eye and gave a long sigh, seemingly aging a hundred years before Jon's eyes. "Mine is the fault of why you see these things, when you lay dying from the pox I tried to save you… to keep you strong, all I did it seems was to unlatch your gifts." Now it was Brynden whose gaze was far away. "Given time you would have come into them on your own, you would have learnt to control them, if they had ever awakened at all, and now, all thanks to me they are running wild, and you are alone and helpless to control them."

"I have help," Jon admitted after a moment of thought. The admission had chased away his despair, and once more he could feel his rage, like furious dragonfire course through him, revitalizing him. "For all you've done… your words, I hear them every night I dream, they keep me going be strong you tell me, remember your strength… those words have kept my sanity."

"No more Jon," Bloodraven said. "You have such tremendous strength, only now, as you lay in a cabin on some ship, almost comatose from sweetmilk am I able to speak to you properly… face to face as it were. If you are to learn to control this gift you must be stronger, you must learn control, I cannot aid you forever, another is already in need of my protection, his talents greater than mine ever were, and yet so unfocused due to his age, it is all I can to keep his dreams safe, I cannot continue with both you and him."

Jon searched Bloodraven's face, he wanted to kill him, he truly did. But as much as he disliked him, for all he had done to him, he saw the regret, the desire to right the situation. "How?" Jon asked through gritted teeth. "How will I do this?"

"It will be painful," Bloodraven admitted as Jon gave a contemptuous snort. "In order to truly learn control you must accept what you are, cast aside any notions of faith helping you. The things you have seen, the gifts you know you have, you cannot deny them any longer. They are part of you. All the pain and death you've seen in your dreams, the hound whose mind you inhabited when it killed a rabbit. It was you. You did those things."

Jon shook his head. "I'm just a bastard," Jon disagreed, "I never burned people alive inside their castle."

"Ah yes, Harrenhal," Brynden said drily. "Did you not speak the words with your own mouth as you unleashed Balerion's fires on flesh and stone?"

"Well yes but,"

"No buts," Brynden said. "You saw it with your own eyes, you were the one who did it in the first place." Brynden shook his head. "I've not seen the like before, you are not a greenseer boy, you can not consciously skim through the history of the world, nor do you have true dragon dreams, the measly flashes you've seen are too vague for that… you are something else, and it is only by embracing what you see, what you learn that you can master this gift."

Brynden smiled sadly at Jon. "I know it is painful lad," he said as he watched despair battle with rage on Jon's face. "But the sooner you accept these dreams and visions, the sooner you make them your own, the better. Every night you dream, your mind strengthens, have the dreams and visions not become clearer?" Jon nodded. "And do they not also occur much more rarely?" Again Jon nodded.

"Then you are already progressing. But a year ago I could enter your mind and search through your deepest and darkest of secrets, not I can barely whisper a few words before you push me out."

"Any other...advice?" Jon asked sarcastically, as if he wasn't already trying to constantly sort through what he saw, and forget it for that matter.

"Perhaps..." Brynden said slowly. "A technique used by the old Dragonlords called the flame and void," Brynden said. "Imagine a void and a single flame, and feed it. All your thoughts and doubts, hopes and dreams, pain and joy, feed it all to the flame."

Jon raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that lad," Brynden huffed, "If you require proof as to its effectiveness, you need but take another look around to see what the flame and void enabled the Dragonlords to do."

Jon did so, it was still night, and they were still inside the large city. What few inhabitants out at this time of night, all of them dressed in fine silks, with purple eyes and long manes of gold or silver hair, and none of them saw either Jon or Brynden, one even walked right through Jon as if he wasn't even there. "Is this truly Valyria?" Jon asked.

"Aye," Brynden said. "I've visited this place more often than I can count, the birthplace of our ancestors. We were the greatest civilization in the entire history of the world once, and yet our greatness led to our ruin. We warred, and eventually conquered the Ghizcari and when we did, we took their vile practice of slavery with them… but even the Ghiscari I think would have been horrified as to the depth of cruelty and depravity we forced our slaves to."

"The Doom was our punishment lad, it almost broke us beyond repair, but it's not too late, Valyria can be reborn, or rather, Valyria as it should have been can be forged into being. It will require pain, hard work and sacrifice, and you are the best chance."

Jon shook his head, "I'm still a bastard," he protested. "A bastard with no name, armies or dragons, and yet you want me to rebuild Valyria? A shattered wasteland AND stop the Long Night while I am at it?"

Brynden let out a hollow laugh. "Your claim to the Iron Throne or even Valyria is as strong as the claims of Daenerys or Viserys Targaryen across the sea."

Jon blinked. "What?"

"Did you ever hear the tale of how Aemon the Dragonknight defended Queen Naerys' honour when she was confronted about her infidelity?" Jon nodded, of course he'd heard the tale. There wasn't a boy in the Seven Kingdoms who hadn't heard the tale, none who wanted to become a great Knight or warrior at any rate. "And if I were to tell you that the charges were true?" Brynden said, "she confessed it to me shortly before she died you know," Brynden said hollowly, "how Daeron and Daenerys were her children by Ser Aemon."

Jon gaped, "But if that were true..."

"Then every Targaryen spawned from her line has no legal right to even call themselves a Targaryen. I hid the truth, foolishly believing that a war could be averted, and yet a few years later my brother Daemon, who was by all rights the true heir to the Throne the moment our father legitimized him was pushed into rebellion after all."

"How can you be so sure?" Jon asked.

"History might not remember my brother fondly," Brynden said. "But you must remember, he was my brother, long before his rebellion, and as history is written by the victor, seldom is the victor kind to his defeated foe when the tales are written down."

"But, to take the Iron Throne..." Jon paused, try as he might he could not help himself a brief moment of indulgence as he pictured himself sitting on a giant throne made of swords, for once it was him who gave the orders, who decided how things should be.

"You can see it can't you? Even here, right in front of me, after all you seen and heard, you want it. And why shouldn't you take it?" Brynden spoke harshly. "Robert Baratheon took the Throne by climbing over the bodies of young children, and he rewarded the man who ordered the deed by taking Tywin Lannister's daughter to wife. Across the sea Viserys begs, pleads and curses, without talent, or the will to gain it through hard work to even attempt to regain the Throne. Daenerys… a sweet girl with a good heart, yet she will falter. Each and every time she must make the truly hard decisions she will falter. You have as much right to the throne as any whoreson from Flea Bottom."

"But why should I even attempt it then?" Jon countered angrily.

"Because there is one right that sits above all others," Brynden shot back. "The right of might." Fire burned in Brynden's sole eye. "Did our ancestor Aegon take flight on his dragon's to conquer Westeros because he had any right to it? No. He did because he could, you can do the same. You can fight for the Throne because it is your Gods given right to fight for anything you want in life."

"Perhaps you don't want to, but at the same time you do. You can tell yourself that Robert is a better King than Aerys, but at the same time, why should you bend the knee to some King who spend his time doing naught else but fucking boars and hunting whores, or however the saying goes." Brynden grasped Jon's shoulder in a tight grip. "Put aside the bastard Jon Snow, and become the King you have the potential to be, become the man, who, with the right partner can change the very world we live in..."

Jon blinked at the sudden darkness, and the throbbing pain at the back of his head. His body felt heavy and sluggish and it was an effort just to reach his arm back to feel the hefty bump at the back of his head. Shaking his head to try and get rid of the sudden haze he found himself in he felt his stomach lurch and soon he was bent over and vomiting messily onto the floor.

"You are awake I see."

That voice! It was of course the voice of the Septon who had attacked him, for that matter, he was on a ship, not in Valyria as it was during its golden age. "You" Jon snarled as intimidatingly his nine year old voice could manage, which considering how sick he felt at the moment must not be intimidating at all.

"I apologize for the manner in which I took you," he said, his voice far more effeminate than the voice Jon had heard in Winterfell, for that matter the man himself was very much changed as well. While still plump, his previous size was almost twice his current one, and the beard he had once sported was missing, as was his hair if one were to go by hairless dome on his head, for that matter, where was his own hair? Jon raked his hand over his head, and feeling nothing but smooth skin he glared twice as harsh at the plump man.

"Ah yes," he said as if he had just remembered that he or one of his men had shaved Jon as bald as an eggshell. "your hair is quite distinctive, even if the colour itself is not too rare in the North, it had to go I'm afraid."

"It's strange," Jon grumbled. "Every time you open your mouth I'm more and more tempted to look for a sword."

"And a sword you'll have one day my lad, but not today." He studied Jon closely, as if trying to decipher the glint in Jon's eyes. Angry and stubborn as he was, Jon knew that in his current situation it was far better to think with a clear head and with some effort he reigned in his temper. The man was pleased if anything else, if Jon interpreted the look on the man's face.

"Who are you?" Jon asked.

"I'm Varys, the King's spymaster."

Jon felt sweat break out, and his body tensed, he was under no illusion about what would happen to him if King Robert knew the truth, Robert's hatred of Targaryens was well known. "And why have you taken me? With force and deception I might add."

"To save your life," Varys replied. "You're in danger, grave danger," Varys leant back in the chair he was seated in. "I remember it as if it was only yesterday that you was brought to King's Landing, along with the body of Lyanna Stark. I was the only one to see the truth then, but how much longer?"

"The truth that I am the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen I assume?"

Varys smiled and gave Jon an impressed nod. "How long have you known?" he asked curiously.

Jon shrugged and decide to give a little information. "It seems as if I've always known, how Lord Stark never called me his son, my talent with the harp."

"Yes," Varys agreed. "Just one of many things about you that makes people talk, it's not so bad now, but in a few years, the elder you get the more you are liable to look like your sire I'm afraid, and while not many in the North would remember or even know how Rhaegar looked when he was at your age," Varys shrugged helplessly, "Were you to come to court I'd give you ten minutes at most before the King would have you before him with his hands around your neck, twenty minutes perhaps, if the number of courtiers and petitioners was especially numerous at the time."

"And so you've decided to spare me out of the 'goodness' of your heart is that correct?"

Varys tittered. "You're smart boy, you tell me?"

Jon stared at the man, trying in vain to decipher anything about him but to no avail. "No doubt you have something in mind for me."

"I do," Varys nodded. "I was the one who spirited Daenerys and Viserys away to safety, just as I am the one who protect them even now."

"To what end?" Jon asked, "Surely you cannot mean to put them back on the Throne?"

"Oh?" Varys asked. "What makes you say that?"

"Because… you would already have done it, wouldn't you?"

"Oh my lad," Varys laughed. "I am afraid you overestimate my reach. I am no more able to place Viserys on the Throne than I am to depose Robert, but by keeping Viserys and Daenerys alive, the Realm has an alternative should something happen."

"I don't believe you," Jon said sharply, even if he knew that he should hold his tongue. "If that was all you wouldn't need me, I'm just a bastard…"

There was no mistaking it now, Varys was impressed. "You're quite right Jon Snow," he admitted at last. "There is quite a bit more behind it all."

"I'll never return will I?" Jon asked sadly as he tried to keep his eyes dry, even as much as he wanted to deny it he knew Varys was right. He was looking, and acting far less like a Stark of the North every day, and it was only a matter of time before someone figured out the truth.

"Who knows what will happen in the future Jon Snow," Varys said. "But I will say this, I will look after you. I have arranged for a good friend to take you in, and good teachers for you, teachers who knew your father, and my friend has quite the large home, and also has a daughter your age I believe, so you shan't lack for company either."

"I-I thank you Lord Varys," Jon said, his voice trembling. "But I am still a hostage to you, you are taking me against my will, to a place where I'll be looked after by grown men, a large space to roam and men friendly to my father, but still a gilded cage with jailers, and you won't even tell my the real reason why you want me."

Varys patted Jon on his hand. "Give me… two years Jon," Varys said at last. "Do this for me, stay with my friend for the next two years, learn what you can, and then… you and I shall talk once more, and if what I offer then is not to your liking, I shall let you walk free that very day."

Jon looked closely at Varys for any sign of deceit before finally taking his outstretched hand for a good shake. "Two years Lord Varys, and then we'll see."

Eddard:

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North stood in silence before Lyanna's statue in the crypts below Winterfell. His shoulders shook as he contemplated the possible fate of Lyanna's only son, the last piece of her left in the world that he had sworn to protect even as she lay dying. Earlier that very night he had burned Jon's clothes that had been left behind, in lieu of an actual body to burn. Robb and Sansa were heartbroken, while Arya and Bran were still too young to understand why their father and older siblings were crying, even Cat, who had quite understandably never cared for the boy was broken up about it, and Ned knew that in some ways she blamed herself.

Not that he blamed her at all, nor Septa Mordane or Septon Chayle. How were they to know that someone would come into Winterfell dressed as a Septon of all things and abscond with a bastard boy? When Jon had not returned for supper Cat had quite correctly assumed that the boy had chosen to either eat in the kitchen or the solitude of his own rooms, it was only the next morning when prompted by Septa Mordane that they realized that Jon had never made it back at all.

Though he wished dearly that Jon had been found he had nothing but pride and admiration for Cat's handling of the situation. A dozen riders with hounds had been sent out in all directions, and ravens sent to every keep in the North as well as a few sent to the Riverlands, such as the twins or Riverrun, but to no avail. After almost a day's search the dagger Jon had been gifted with on his seventh nameday had been found half trampled into the ground, thick with dried blood, closer search of the area had discovered two cleverly hidden graves, the turned soil hidden by rocks, the two men being the acolytes in training to the false Septon according to Septon Chayle. If nothing else Ned was proud that Jon had apparently managed to overcome two of his assailants, all the same, he'd rather have Jon back with him than Gods know where.

In truth, and he was almost disgusted with himself, he hoped that Jon was dead, the other alternatives were too horrible to imagine. Had he been taken and sold into slavery? Or worse still, had someone discovered the true nature of his parentage and intended to use him for their own devious means? He knew that none loyal to Robert was behind Jon's abduction, had it been Ned wouldn't even have received a raven, Robert himself would be marching on the North with every man he could muster to to bring Ned to heel. Instead Robert had sent him home the moment word reached him in the south, while a shy week later Ned was given custody of Theon Greyjoy who had been escorted north by Greatjon Umber after Pyke fell and Balon bent the knee.

Ned had sent out whatever ravens he could, while and uncharacteristically somber Robert had lived up to his promise and ordered every Raven in King's Landing, Casterly Rock and Highgarden sent out as well and offered a reward of ten thousand Gold Dragons for whoever could find Jon alive or dead, but with three weeks gone and not a word or letter asking for ransom or favours Ned had declared the boy dead. Oh he hadn't rescinded his own offer either, five thousand Dragons to whomever could produce Jon, but he had given up hope. Neither hide nor hair of Jon was found anywhere, and as much as Ned would like to drop everything until Jon was found he was the Warden of the North, and four other children as well to care for.

So a ceremony had been held in Jon's honour, with a surprising turnout of people coming to wish the young boy farewell and offer their sympathies. The turnout from Winterfell and Wintertown weren't unexpected. Despite his bastardy Jon had been well liked, particularly among the young girls whom he often charmed with his harp, but a fair few Lords had arrived as well, such as Wyman Manderly, Medger Cerwyn, Galbart Glover, and lastly Rickard Karstark along with his sons and daughter on account of the blood they shared, no matter how far back. Ned had been grateful and honoured, even if it was a poor balm and the fact that most of the arrivals did so to curry his favour rather than through genuine regret at Jon's loss.

"I'm sorry Lya," he whispered to Lya's statue before turning his back on it. He would commission a small statue of Jon and place it beside her, a poor repayment for the vow he had failed to uphold, but Jon was a Stark, regardless of who his father was and would have a place beside the woman who had loved him since she first felt him quickening in her womb.

Daenyra Blackfyre:

Daenyra smiled triumphantly as she starred at the arrow she had placed neatly in the centre of the target fifty paces away, seated not too far away under a large pavilion was her father Illyrio who was clapping with his large hands. "Bravo my dear," he said as he rose from his chair with a groan, his corpulent form being a chore as always. "I see the money I spent on your tutor has been well spent."

"Girl is gifted with bow," her tutor said in broken common. Her tutor was a large Dothraki, well over six feet tall, and had it not been for the leg he lost he liked to boast that he would be a great Khal by now, sadly, he had lost his right leg in some battle and fallen from his horse, the shame he said was so great that he could never again show himself among his own kind and he'd settled down in Pentos, earning his keep by teaching the children of rich merchants how to fire a bow, and Daenyra was a diligent student.

"Blood will out," 'Nyra said with a grin. Her father may be fat as a horse, but she had seen statues and portraits of him when he was in his youth, and he would have put any Khal to shame with his body then, and his talent with a blade had been so impressive that no less than three different First Swords of Braavos owed their skill to his tutoring.

"Just so," Illyrio said with a smile as he hefted a large pouch of gold and turned it over to Jaggo, her Dothraki teacher. "I thank you horsemaster for your time, gold as promised."

The old former ko gave a sharp grunt of thanks and limped away, escorted by one of Illyrio's serfs, the 'clunk' 'clunk' of his peg leg hitting the paved path of the garden disappearing into the distance.

"You seem to have taken a liking to the bow my sweet," Illyrio said while smiling as wide as his jowls would allow.

'Nyra beamed. "I like it very much father, it's challenging, but well worth it for the feeling of satisfaction of watching your hard work pay off when the arrow strikes the centre."

"Just so," he agreed. "Why I remember when I was young, I participated in an archery competition in Myr," he stroked his oiled beard with one of his large hands. "I acquitted myself well but the winners, now they were a sight to see. A man who would one day become a Prince in the Summer Isles with his bow of Goldenheart and two young Tigers wanting to see the world with their Dragonbone bows. I never thought to see such a performance, and doubt I'll ever see it's like again."

'Nyra almost started bouncing on her feet, knowing that her father was stalling on purpose. "Well?" she asked impatiently, finally giving way for her curiosity.

Illyrio laughed. "The last shot was on a target four hundred and sixty yards in the distance, do you know what skill it takes to make such a shot?" he asked 'Nyra who was gazing at him with wide eyes, the distance and difficulty of such a shot completely unthinkable to her. "In the end it was the Summer Islander who won, beating out one of the Tigers by three measly inches."

"What about the last one?" 'Nyra asked impatiently.

"Oh him," Illyrio chuckled before his grin reduced slightly. "The man coughed just as he released the arrow. If you've ever wondered at the strength of a Dragonbone bow, know this. His arrow killed and armoured Knight almost five hundred yards away, the arrow itself punching out of the backplate."

'Nyra gasped, "I want one," she said immediately, the thought of owning such a bow, why she'd probably be the first woman in history.

Illyrio chuckled. "You have years more of training before you are capable of handling such a bow my dear, but if you are good and practice every day, I see no reason why you should not have one some day, but however much you like the bow, it will not go out over your other lessons, if you start to fall behind I'll have no choice but to forbid you."

'Nyra crossed her arms grumpily, always with the damn lessons. "What will I study now father," she asked, her tone the very image of courtesy, while her posture was rather the opposite.

"We'll be receiving a guest soon who is to stay here for the foreseeable future. He's quite the gifted harpist and singer, so it is my desire that you'll take up dancing as well as singing lessons beside."

'Nyra narrowed her eyes, she knew her father well enough to know when he was scheming, and there was no doubt about it, he had some scheme in mind with this new guest, but one thing stood out. "Dancing," she spoke, aghast at the very idea of suit a fruitless silly pursuit, give her a horse to race or a bow to shoot and she was happy, but dancing and singing, why that was even worse than learning history, languages or gods forbid sums.

Illyrio laughed at her disgust. "There may yet come a day daughter when you thank me on your knees for having you learn to dance if what I hear of our coming guest is even close to the truth."

Oh great, her father was talking about boys again. Boys were silly, always refusing her to join their games of knights, pirates or sellswords, except sometime offer her the chance to play some simpering helpless maiden, well she had sure showed them, on more than one occasion. "Boys are silly," she said grumpily.

"That they may be daughter," Illyrio said with a chuckle, "But one day you will have to wed for reasons you know quite well, and if my friend is right, then young Jon is the best candidate you can hope for. Talent, intelligent and the right blood if not name, all are things you will need in a husband to take back what belongs to you by right."

"But why?" she questioned. Now don't get her wrong, 'Nyra wasn't averse to becoming Queen of a great continent, but she failed to understand why her father was so invested in making her one when he knew that it would take a war to get her the throne she had a rightful claim on through her mother Serra, the only child of Maelys Blackfyre.

"because I promised your mother," Illyrio said, for once not smiling or jovial, her father always got sad when her mother came up. "I promised your mother I would see your birthright restored to you, even as she was dying her last thoughts were of you, and what you deserved."

'Nyra threw her arms around her father, hugging him closely. She herself never knew her mother who died birthing her, but knew that father had loved her, truly loved her with all his heart, he had turned down the hand of several women of importance in Pentos, not caring at all for the great insult he offered their houses. "I love you papa," she mumbled.

"I know my sweet," he said as he returned her hug. "You remind me more of her every day, like you she had no time for such 'silly' things such as dancing or needlepoint."

'Nyra let out an involuntary giggle. The few people who had known her mother often remarked the same when they saw her. She had her mother's hair, long shimmering curls of silver gold, finely sculpted features and light purple, almost blue eyes, she was a testament to the fact that the Blood of Old Valyria was still strong in the line of House Blackfyre, and if the many Valyrian featured Lyseni she had seen were anything to go by, she herself was liable to turn many a man or even women's heads in the future, although considering her father intended for her to wed she was unsure about how useful that would be, shouldn't her husband be the only one to share her bed at any rate?

'Nyra, or Daenyra as father always insisted she call herself had known since she was a girl of five that one day she would marry a Dragon Prince and become the Queen of all Westeros. And while at the time it had seemed like just another silly story or happy fantasy she had eventually been brought up properly, learning her family history, being able to name every single one of her aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and forth up to the founder of her House, Daemon Blackfyre. She learnt of the Targaryens as well, and while she knew that her mother had probably been resentful of the Targaryens her entire life, 'Nyra was less so. She had grown up here in Pentos in her father's large manse, what did she understand of the hardship of her mother or ancestors? And if marrying a Targaryen Prince meant that she could become the Queen of Westeros and not have to live in worry that a Targaryen would find and kill her she saw no problem with it.

"Do I still have to take dancing lessons?" 'Nyra asked, hopeful that her father might change his mind.

"Yes daughter I'm afraid you must," he told her sharply. Her father hated to raise his voice at her, although it was happening more often than not nowadays, her upcoming tenth nameday in a few moons being the only thing that was keeping her relatively obedient and demure these days, she didn't want to spend her nameday locked in her room after all.

"When will this… Jon arrive then father?" she asked testily.

"If I'm not mistaken he shall be here in a few days at most."

"Humph," she snorted as she played with a lock of her that had escaped from one of her braids. "Strange name for a Prince of Dragonblood," she admitted, Jon was just so… common.

"To tell the truth neither my friend nor I know his true name," if his uncle ever shared it with someone we haven't been able to find out, and by all rights he isn't a Prince either by Westerosi standards, he is a bastard I believe."

'Nyra snorted, "As if that matters, my ancestor Daemon was a bastard too at first wasn't he?"

"That he was," Illyrio said. "A foolish custom," Illyrio admitted. "Our own customs are much simpler I think, a man's children by his official wife will inherit, and that's that."

'Nyra nodded. Essos was far more free and liberal… at least in some cases, slavery, while prohibited on paper in Pentos was strictly illegal in Westeros, any man engaging in such activities earning the death penalty without questions, going so far that those caught red handed in slavery were not even permitted a Trial of Combat, another strange Westerosi custom.

"When will my lessons start then father?" she asked grumpily, seeing that her father was not going to budge.

"I have scheduled a rather skilled dancing tutor for you from tomorrow on, five days a week until she is satisfied, but for now you may do as you wish, no more lessons for today."

Smiling she gave her father one last hug before running off to pack away her bow and training gear, pausing only briefly to order the servants to draw her a bath in her rooms.

Two days later, just after her dancing lessons for the day were finished she was brought into her father's meeting room. Sitting by the large table was a bald plump man that she had seen with her father on a few occasions and a boy roughly her age with deep amethyst eyes and head bald as an egg. Man and boy both stood up and walked around the table to stop before her. "Daenyra, meet my friend Varys and our young guest for the next years Jon Snow," her father said.

Varys bowed slightly, offering her a sweet smile, while Jon took her hand and bowed to place a kiss in the back. "My Lady," he said with a small smile that didn't quite reach his sad eyes. "Tis a pleasure to meet you," and Daenyra gave a smile before glaring at her father for the way he chuckled at her sudden blush, it wasn't her fault if her cheeks reddened a little, the boy was quite handsome, for a boy that was.

"The pleasure is mine My Lord," she replied courteously while trying to ignore her burning cheeks.

"Very good, very good," her father said. "I have some business to discuss with Varys, so why don't you take Jon for a small trip hmm? Show him around and get to know each other yes?"

'Nyra glared at him, she wanted nothing more than to not be around Jon Snow at the moment, at least not until she could get a hold on herself, but what father wanted father usually got. "Of course father," she said with a stiff smile and a tone cold enough to wither plants, "I would love to."

Spinning around she almost stomped towards the door, only stopping and turning back to look at Jon who was looking somewhat uncertain while Varys and her father were doing their best to hide knowing grins that 'Nyra hated. "WELL!" she barked at Jon who almost jumped, "Are you coming? My Lord."

With a quickly stammered 'yes' he followed her quickly, sadly just not quick enough for 'Nyra not to catch the murmured 'Theirs will be an interesting marriage I think,' from Varys, and from her burning cheeks and the equally red ears of Jon Snow she knew that he had heard it too. For one brief moment they both looked into each other's eyes, and she just knew that her own eyes were mirroring the panic she could see in Jon's own purple orbs. The sudden laughter of her father broke them out of their reverie, and with red faces they both turned away and walked away, Jon following her quick steps like an obedient puppy, while she tried her best to contain her blush she couldn't help but think 'I'm going to murder father for making me go through with this,'

And that's it for chapter two. I was already workin on it when I posted the first one. I'll be gone for the next week or so, so my writing time will be somewhat lessened, but I'll try to work more on Bloody Wolf, as well as an amusing oneshot in a somewhat similar vein as my 'Bobby B' one, this one dealing with some of the things I disliked about the show, and the amount of bad shit that could have occurred as a result.

Read and review

PS: If someone can help me get my hands on a few disclaimers I'd love to have them, the one for this chapter still hasn't arrived so I'm starting to worry.

Cheers

Daemon Belaerys.