i.

When Daenerys was a girl of twelve, a raven had brought her a letter.

She hadn't been entirely certain how the bird had found her, though she had strongly suspected that the rumors of Northern sorcery weren't quite as absurd as Viserys claimed. She'd written back, if only to learn if her suspicions were correct.

They were.

Over the years, the raven had come time and time again, always waiting until Viserys was gone before offering her its load. It gave her letters and coins that she carefully hid, connection and hope.

Khal Drogo was a huge brute of a man who didn't speak a word of her language. He frightened her, but Viserys in his ruthlessness frightened her more. All forty thousand of Drogo's men, them and their horses, too, he had said, if that would get him his kingdom.

No. Daenerys would not allow it, not while she had another option.

And so she gathered her coins and her letters and some of her clothing. She cut short her silver hair and rubbed mud in it, stole a set of Viserys's less conspicuous garments.

Then she left.

Winterfell would be safe for her.

ii.

Sam wasn't certain how an offhand comment that he wished he could just stay at Winterfell and become a wizard had turned into him explaining why, exactly, he was supposed to take the black, and to Jon Snow of all people. The bastard warg listened to his tale with a steadily darkening expression.

When Sam finished, they sat in silence for a few moments. Finally Jon spoke. "The Night's Watch could always use good men, but I think you'd be of more use here, learning magic and researching. Stay."

"But my father—"

"—is in the Reach. What's he going to do, declare war on the North? You're safe here, Sam, if you want to be."

He hesitated, a lifetime of fear warring against a lifetime of dreams. "He sent men with me. An escort."

"We can tell them that my family is sending a group of men to the Wall within the sennight, so they don't have to stay with you." Jon grinned. "It's even true, if a bit misleading."

Freedom. "You mean it? You really mean it?"

"Of course," said Jon.

"Then…." Sam swallowed hard. "Then let's do it."

iii.

His Grace Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, was drinking when a man of the Night's Watch arrived with a message from his dear old friend Eddard Stark. Later on, Barristan Selmy would try desperately to convince himself that things would have turned out very differently if Robert had been entirely sober. He never quite succeeded.

It was not unusual for Robert to receive this sort of missive from Ned. The two were old friends and their personal letters back and forth were often too big for a raven to carry all the way between Winterfell and King's Landing. Then, of course, there was the official business of the King and the Warden of the North. Consequently, Barristan thought nothing of this latest letter until Robert burst out laughing.

Again, this was not unusual. The once-stoic Northman had developed quite the sense of humor since his marriage, and he and the king had a longstanding inside joke about an academy of magic and the Long Night. (Well, that was what the king—and most of the court in King's Landing—thought, anyways.) Robert found it hilarious and tended to approve his friend's increasingly bizarre requests, something that Ned had fortunately never taken advantage of but nonetheless would have given the small council conniptions if the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been allowed to tell them about it.

So really, there was nothing unusual about the king's reaction until his face, already rosy from the wine, turned a truly alarming shade of crimson. Even the crow-turned-messenger's befuddlement was normal, as Lord Stark's couriers (usually trusted merchants, sometimes guards) weren't privy to the old friends' back-and-forth and they were almost always unprepared for Robert's inevitable amusement.

"Fetch me a quill and some parchment," Robert ordered his squire once he had recovered enough to talk. When the boy returned with the items, the still-chuckling king scrawled a quick note. "Oh, and the royal seal too! And sealing wax. It's funnier that way." The boy scurried off.

This was the part where Ser Barristan began to experience concern. However, after nearly sixteen years in Robert's service, he knew better than to try to protest. Robert did as Robert pleased. But, the knight consoled himself, it was just another of their jokes. Surely Ned Stark wouldn't really ask for something too outlandish.

Soon Robert was handing the sealed note to his squire, ordering the boy to bring it directly to Pycelle and have it sent to Winterfell.

"Your Grace?" said the messenger, speaking for the first time since he'd arrived. "Lord Stark is at Castle Black."

Robert grinned. "Of course he is. That would explain where he came up with this idea."

The messenger looked like he didn't know whether or not to say anything. He opened his mouth briefly, then clicked it closed and nodded wordlessly.

"Ned always knows how to cheer me up," the king told his knight. "He's outdone himself this time, though. Now, what's taking that girl from Chataya's so long?"

iv.

"Aren't these things supposed to be fancier?" asked Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, staring down incredulously at the letter from King's Landing.

"They usually are," Maester Aemon, once of the House Targaryen, informed him, "but as long as it bears his seal and signature, it's completely valid."

Mance shook his head. "I can't believe you did it, Ned," he stated.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was more than a little surprised himself. For a moment, he wondered if this was some sort of joke, but that was ridiculous. There was absolutely no way that Robert would pardon Mance Rayder for desertion, confirm his appointment to the lordship of a vast unclaimed territory to the northwest, allow the alliance of the living to come south of the Wall, and grant them full citizenship just as a joke.

"Who cares if it's fancy or not?" demanded one of the wildling—free folk—chieftains, a great bear of a man called Tormund Giantsbane. "Let's just go through with it before he changes his mind."

Mag the Mighty, last king of the giants, nodded his agreement. He couldn't speak the Common Tongue, but he understood it well enough.

"Yes," murmured one of the only woman in the group, a wise old singer of the song of earth. "The quicker we move our peoples, the more firmly entrenched we'll be if he reconsiders and the harder it will be for him to force us out. Now, does anyone have any last-moment amendments to the treaty?"

No one did. They'd hammered out the final details while waiting for Robert's response. Hostages, laws, territories, everything they could think of, it was all there, awaiting the king's approval.

Jeor Mormont, 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, heaved a heavy sigh. He understood, of course, why this agreement was necessary. That didn't mean he liked it. "There's still enough daylight to get to the godswood grove. No point in waiting." He stood. "Let's go."

They went.

v.

It wasn't often that anybody tried to force Robert Baratheon into a small council meeting and even rarer that they succeeded. Barristan couldn't help but wonder what Lord Varys said that made the king abandon his usual pastimes in favor of carrying out his duties. From the look on Robert's face, he wasn't too certain, either.

Renly was the first to speak. "Well, what's going on?" he asked.

Varys opened his mouth. Closed it. Grimaced. "Your Grace, I don't mean to question your wisdom. That is the last thing I want to do. However, given the… developments…in the North, I feel the need to ask why."

"Why what?" Robert grumbled. "Nothing's happened in the North lately."

If Varys had had hair, he would have torn it out then and there. "I'm referring to the wildling migration, Your Grace."

The bottom fell out of Barristan's stomach.

"Wildling migration?" repeated the Hand. Barristan didn't think he'd ever seen him look quite so horrified, not even when Brynden Tully had quit his position and disappeared into the hill tribes. "What wildling migration?"

"It's just one of Ned's jokes," Robert said dismissively. "He wrote me a few weeks back asking permission to ennoble that Mance Rayder fellow and let the wildlings past the Wall." He laughed.

"He wasn't joking," Varys replied. There was a faintly shrill quality to his voice. "Eddard Stark signed a treaty with the so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall, and now tens of thousands of wildlings are migrating south of the Wall as we speak. This isn't a joke, Your Grace, my lords, it's actually happening."

"What?" Robert asked, blank-faced with shock. "Are… are you completely certain, Lord Varys?"

"Yes!"

"Oh." Robert blinked. "Damn."

vi.

Eddard Stark stood before the tomb of his sister, his eldest son and nephew by his side. After a few moments of waiting, the air filled with an indelible sense of presence.

Jon smiled. "Hello, Mother. Do you like the flowers?"

The lady's statue, adorned with a crown of forget-me-nots, seemed to smile slightly.

"Hello, Lyanna," Ned said, staring into the statue's sightless eyes. He knew that his sister wasn't exactly in the statue, but he lacked Robb and Arya and Bran's ghost-sight and had always found it easier to look at the statue rather than stare into the air. "I need to ask a favor of you. Could you gather up the ghosts of Winterfell and bring them here?"

"She says yes," Robb translated. Sure enough, the sense of presence was rapidly fading from the air.

"I wish I could see her," Jon sighed.

"She should be able to manifest again soon," Robb assured him. "You can see her then."

"I know. Still, I can't help but envy you and the others."

The air was filling again, a thick heavy sense of hundreds upon hundreds of unseen eyes all watching them. Robb looked from ghost to ghost with an expression of wonder on his face. Finally he announced, "Aunt Lyanna is back, Father."

When Ned spoke, it was in accented but acceptable Old Tongue, a language that all Lords of Winterfell were expected to know even if they didn't use it very often. "Robert Baratheon, the King of Westeros, is coming to Winterfell. He will arrive in two days. If this visit goes well, Robert will be much more amenable to defending the realms of men during the next Long Night. That being said, he… is not like the Kings of Winter, and many of you will be tempted to haunt him and his court. I ask that you refrain from doing so."

Robb winced. Ned looked askance at him.

"…They're all laughing at you, Father."

Ned groaned. Considering that Lyanna had presumably been complaining about Robert to them for years, he really should have expected that.

vii.

If Tyrion were his good-brother, he'd simply have ordered Eddard Stark to attend him in King's Landing. Gods knew it would be easier than uprooting the entire court (including half the small council and the Hand of the King's entire family) and dragging them to Winterfell. Warmer, too. But Robert did as Robert pleased, and Robert wanted to see with his own eyes what his old friend was really getting up to.

And truthfully, it was a curiosity that Tyrion could understand. After all, nobody was forcing him to come along.

Winterfell rose far in the distance, a vast bulk of gray stone, but what attracted Tyrion's attention was the honor guard that the Starks had sent to greet their king. He stared, wondered if he was seeing things.

Robert pulled up short, gawked. Apparently he'd seen it too. "What in the seven hells is that?"

'That' was an enormous furry humanoid, easily four times Tyrion's height and thrice his width, mounted atop a creature even larger and shaggier than itself. A giant, he thought in disbelief, a giant and a mammoth.

What had they gotten themselves into?

viii.

Barristan had always tried to take care of his own horse, so he went to check up on her as soon as he could. The knight entered the stable and froze midstep, his jaw hanging slack.

"Ser?" asked an enormous stable boy. "Are you all right?"

"That's a bear," Barristan said faintly. "Why is there a bear in one of the stalls?"

The stable boy blinked at him, genuinely confused. "Where else are we supposed to put her?"

"In the forest, where bears belong! And—good gods, is that a unicorn?"

"Not all skinchangers' beasts are as friendly as the Starks' direwolves, ser," the boy explained. "But don't worry. All the ones in the castle are trained too well to attack anyone. Lord Stark's not going to risk alienating the king."

Barristan had a sudden horrible vision of having to fight off an army of large carnivores. "I… see."

"Don't worry," said another voice, one that carried just a faint hint of ironman's accent. Theon Greyjoy was grinning at him, clearly far too entertained by Barristan's incredulity. "You'll get used to it."

ix.

Over the years, Eddard Stark had become mostly immune to shock. He treated with beings of legend and prepared for war against an ages-old myth. He hosted an Academy of magic in his own home. Just a fortnight ago he'd had to talk with the stable master to make certain that Rickon's unicorn could be kept near the southron horses, for the gods' sake. He was accustomed to the strange and bizarre, and it took quite a bit to floor him.

So when he stared at Robert Baratheon in wide-eyed disbelief, it was a true testament to just how surprising he found the king's words.

"All this time, you thought I was joking?"

Robert shrugged. "What was I supposed to think, Ned? That one of the least superstitious men I knew just opened up some hogwash school for witchcraft and wizardry or that Cat taught you humor?"

"You legalized the use of skinchangers and greenseers for Cat's spy ring."

"She has a spy ring?" The king frowned. "Isn't that illegal?"

"You legalized that too," Ned reminded him, mildly horrified. Maybe Bloodraven was right and he should just put Jon and his aunt on the Iron Throne. "I have the letter in my study."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Lyanna's statue seemed to be laughing at them both.

x.

Robert had been swearing for quite some time, Cat noted. She had to admit, if only to herself, that perhaps Bloodraven had a point about putting Jon on the throne. He'd managed to hatch a blasted dragon last night; if its very existence didn't get them all executed as traitors, Heartwing could serve as undeniable proof of his heritage. It wasn't like Robert had any legitimate children, so a war with the Lannisters was probably inevitable anyways. She'd have to talk with Ned about it.

"Are you finished yet?" the talking tree demanded sardonically, looking as unimpressed as Cat felt.

"That's Brynden Bloodraven?" Robert repeated yet again, gesturing wildly at the weirwood's face.

"Yes," Ned confirmed once more, his patience sounding a bit forced.

"Just like I was the last few times you asked," the tree snapped sardonically.

Robert swore.

xi.

When they'd first heard of the king's expedition to Winterfell, Mother and Father had drawn them all aside to explain a few unpleasant truths: the 'royal' children's true parentage, the sheer importance of keeping Robert Baratheon on their side, the oily machinations of so many courtiers, and the… unpleasant mental state of Lysa and Robert Arryn. Mother hadn't wanted to believe that her sister and nephew were at least a little mad, but her sources had been unanimous in their reports. Still, they were family. Perhaps they could help.

Then Sansa actually met the Arryns and found herself questioning her former certainty. Jon (their uncle, not their brother/cousin) was a perfectly lovely old man, but his wife and heir were… difficult.

Sansa and Robb managed to keep pleasant smiles plastered on their faces as their young cousin made a scene of himself. Arya couldn't quite manage that level of false cheer, but she hadn't said anything yet, possibly because she was lodged between the two older siblings who were forced to suffer through this. (Jon—their brother/cousin, not their uncle—had fled as soon as he'd been introduced. Bran appeared to be either warging or mentally listing the past Lords of Winterfell; he had a glazed look in his eye which could be interpreted either way. Mother and Father were just trying to keep the conversation going.

In hindsight, it was only surprising that Rickon had lasted so long before he snapped.

xii.

Sometimes, Bran wished that he couldn't see the ghosts. He usually liked talking with them—Bael especially knew the best stories—but they could also be… distracting.

"Look at him," Aunt Lyanna growled. "Look at him." She gestured wildly at the fat king, who was red in the face from drinking and groping a serving girl's bottom. "And in front of his wife, too!"

"I know," sighed Uncle Rhaegar. (Bran and Arya were reasonably certain that he and Aunt Lyanna were Jon's birth parents, but he'd never quite worked up the nerve to ask them and Arya very adamantly didn't care. There were ways that it wouldn't matter—Jon was their brother no matter what—but Bran knew enough history to realize how dangerous it would be to harbor the real heir to the Iron Throne.)

"Cersei Lannister's an adulterous bitch, but this is disgusting."

"It's almost enough to make you feel sorry for her," agreed Aunt Elia.

"Arya, go send Nymeria to bite him in the ass."

Bran's sister choked on her mashed potatoes, prompting concerned inquiries from Princess Myrcella.

"And risk them having Nymeria put down?" Uncle Rhaegar chided.

"Oh." Aunt Lyanna flushed. "I didn't think of that."

"There are many reasons that your brother needs to keep the king's favor." Uncle Rhaegar looked at Jaime Lannister sitting near his sister; at Dalla Rayder and her sister Val, uncomfortable at the high table but determined to make a good impression for their people; lastly, back at the section where Jon sat.

"…Do you think it would count against Ned if I told Robert exactly what I think of him? I have enough energy to manifest."

The king slapped another serving girl's rear. She scurried away as quickly as she could, face red with humiliation.

"Do it," Arya whispered. Bran nodded his agreement, though Robb was frantically shaking his head.

Myrcella and Tommen were beginning to look concerned.

Aunt Lyanna drifted over to where Robert Baratheon wined and dined, adjusting the crown of winter roses that she always wore so that it was especially prominent against her dark locks. Her form shimmered.

Gasps erupted around the entire hall. The king's chicken leg fell clean out of his mouth.

"You disgust me, you whoremongering drunk!" Aunt Lyanna shouted, jabbing at Robert's chest. "I'm glad I eloped with Rhaegar!"

Her form shimmered again, and she vanished from most mortal eyes. Grinning, she returned to her place by the three niblings who could see her.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

xiii.

Ned stared.

The dragon stared back.

Jon fidgeted.

"She'll be useful during the Long Night," the Lord of Winterfell finally stated, "but couldn't you have waited to hatch her until after Robert's visit?"

Jon flinched. "It was an accident," he explained apologetically. He gestured faintly towards the dragon, which made a noise halfway between a hiss and a cheep. "Do you think I can keep her hidden in my chambers until they're gone, or should I risk smuggling her out of the castle?"

Ned frowned, considering. Each plan had benefits as well as downsides. Slowly, grudgingly, he admitted, "I doubt you could spirit her all the way to Graywater Watch or Castle Black with so many people around." Jon hadn't even dared to bring the dragon out of his bedchamber, instead asking (begging, really) his uncle-turned-father to come inside.

"I thought so myself," Jon admitted. "I suppose I'll be spending quite a bit of time in my chambers, then."

"It would seem so," Ned agreed. He stood, made for the door—there was no way his absence would go unnoticed for much longer. But just as he was about to exit, a stray thought made him pause. He turned around. His nephew was there, dragon and direwolf by his side, silver hair dyed dark brown, eyes gleaming indigo in the firelight. "What will you call her, Aemon?"

His smile was a mix of Rhaegar and Lyanna. He did not comment on the use of his birth name. "The Targaryens of old named their dragons after the gods of Valyria, but my gods have no names. I will call her Heartwing, for the weirwood tree."

Eddard Stark smiled. "A good name."

"It is."

xiv.

"May I help you, my lord?"

Tyrion startled, spun around to see a young woman with an armful of books—and a bloody direwolf that sat tamely by her side—looking at him. Her Tully coloring (and the bloody direwolf that sat tamely by her side) identified her as the older Stark girl, Sansa.

"My lord?" she repeated. "May I…." She paused, seeming to realize why Tyrion was hesitating. "Lady shan't harm you, I promise, not unless you attack me. Then she'll tear out your throat."

"Then I shan't attack you," Tyrion replied, forcing a smile. Apparently she hadn't figured it out.

Sansa smiled back. "There is a ladder over by that wall, my lord. You can't see it from here because that book shelf is in the way."

Ah. Perhaps she had realized. "Thank you," he said, referring to both the advice and the graceful way of letting him help himself. "I—"

Something made a great booming noise. A half-second later, something crashed. Several somethings, actually.

Tyrion jumped. The wolf—Lady, was it?—looked completely undisturbed, but there was a hint of worry on Sansa's face. That probably meant that the explosion was something atypical even for this madhouse.

"What was that?" he asked nervously.

"It was probably just another attempt at making Valyrian steel gone wrong," Sansa answered, a slight frown on her lips. "I do hope there aren't any more. They know we've had to lower the explosions budget recently, so they really ought to be more careful."

…explosions budget. The Starks had a bloody explosions budget.

Tyrion laughed, because it was either that or cry. Gods, he needed a drink.

xv.

Myrcella was probably the cleverest of Tyrion's niblings. As such, she waited until her supposed father was drunk before approaching him with her request.

"Sigil pets?" Robert repeated dumbly.

Myrcella nodded, her golden curls bobbing. "Like the Starks' direwolves, Father, or the lions in my great-grandfather's menagerie. Deer are so beautiful and gentle. Surely Tommen and I could tame them even without… abilities… like the Starks have. Even Lady Catelyn has Frost, and she's no more magical than we are. Please, Father?"

Robert leaned back in his chair; it creaked under his weight. "I'll think about it."

The princess sighed heavily—a bit too heavily, in Tyrion's opinion. He leaned forward slightly, wondering what his niece was up to.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for," she said, her lower lip quivering just a little too much to be entirely real. "After all, Mother would simply hate it if Tommen and I had—"

"You can have one," Robert decreed. "One doe fawn for you, and one stag fawn for Tommen. I'll think of something else for Joffrey so he won't whine about it."

Myrcella smiled like the sun. "Thank you, Father," she said, dipping into a perfect curtsey before walking out of the room, probably to find her little brother.

As she passed Tyrion, the dwarf rose to walk with her. "Well played, dear."

His niece grinned. "Thank you, Uncle."

xvi.

Cat had no idea why her son's cryptic words about shrouds and crowns had disturbed Cersei Lannister so badly, but the queen looked ready to pass out. Bran, for his part, seemed completely unruffled, which she supposed was better than Arya's badly concealed amusement but was still not at all appropriate. Hands on her hips, she frowned down at her little greenseer.

"Brandon, what is the one thing I asked you not to do this month?"

He looked down at his feet. "Frighten the southrons."

"And what did you do?"

"…frighten the southrons."

"Exactly. Now apologize to her at once."

"Yes, Mother."

xvii.

Jon had never truly believed the tales about Vermax leaving a clutch of eggs in Winterfell's catacombs. The only dragon egg hidden therein had been in his mother's tomb, and it came from Vhagar. Now, though, he was forced to reconsider, for where else would the direwolves have come across a clutch of not just two or three but six dragon eggs?

"How did you smuggle these through the castle?" he demanded, knowing full well that it probably had more to do with the lateness of the hour than anything overtly supernatural. Well, he hoped, anyways. "I know you aren't being warged."

Ghost grinned at him, completely unrepentant.

"Put them back," Jon ordered.

Ghost looked at his siblings and parents. As one, the pack sat. Nymeria batted her egg forward with her paw.

"All right," sighed Jon, "but I'm not going to hatch them."

The direwolves exchanged conspiratorial glances.

"…until Robert is gone," Jon amended, suddenly fearing that the pack knew exactly how he had hatched Heartwing and would not hesitate to repeat the process. Gods knew they looked like it.

The pack seemed to find this concession acceptable.

Jon gathered the eggs in his arms and brought them into his room.

xviii.

Jaime followed the sound of hooting laughter into the courtyard, dreading what he would find. The Northmen hadn't done anything untoward, but in this madhouse, he could never be too certain of anything.

The knight pushed his way through the crowd to see… Ned Stark's younger girl (she was what, ten? One-and-ten?) with his nephew in a headlock.

He groaned softly. Cersei would not be happy about this. Grimacing, he turned to the nearest Northman. "Why."

The Northman cackled. "He said something inappropriate to Lady Sansa, so Lady Arya called him on it. Somehow it escalated to him challenging her to a duel." His teeth were a white crescent above his beard. "The little pr—prince didn't know what he was getting into."

Jaime sighed. "None of us did."

xix.

Ned had not been looking forward to this conversation. He knew it needed to be done; having met Joffrey, there was no way in hell that he'd let the horrible little brat sit on the Iron Throne. (The three Baratheon bastards Jon Arryn had brought along as proof were all much more suitable, even though one of them was literally an infant.) He just hoped that Jory and the other guards could hide the queen's children until Robert's wrath cooled.

"Spit it out already, you three," the king demanded.

Naturally, it was Stannis who broke the silence. "Lord Arryn and I have uncovered evidence of high treason against the throne. We can prove that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not trueborn Baratheons but bastards born of incest between Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister."

A murmur erupted among the lords and ladies that had come to witness this testimony, but no one's reaction was as pronounced as Robert's. The king's jaw flopped uselessly for a long, long moment before he toppled to the side.

When Maester Luwin examined the body, he concluded that Robert had likely been dead before he hit the ground.

What I think happened is that I forgot we had different... bases, for lack of a better word. As the author, I know pretty much everything that happens in a given chapter and organized the snippets with that basis in the way that I thought was funniest. Readers don't have that prior knowledge, so my formatting was less amusing and more confusing. I'm sorry for that, everyone. Thank you for reading anyways. In the future, I will try to publish both a chronologically organized and a "haha this order amuses me" version at the same time.

Some quick notes copy/pasted from the other version of chapter 2: A few details/comments: Bloodraven may or may not have been blocking Varys's spy efforts into the North. Sansa and Robb know about Jon because he decided to tell his siblings when they turned twelve. Arya and her younger brothers aren't quite old enough for that conversation, so they only suspect. Jon and Dany are magic pen pals because Bloodraven. Yes, Gendry is one of the five Baratheon bastards. Ned and Mance Rayder are friends. Jon's got a different Targ name than the one the show gave him because that decision was just plain stupid. The Blackfish recruited the riverlands and the hill tribes for the alliance of the living after meeting Bloodraven. More details/character profiles on my tumblr, Antares8.

(Also, the stable boy is Hodor. I forgot to mention that.)

Next up: Even more characters crowd into Winterfell. Let me know if there's an amusing character interaction you'd like to see and I'll maybe be able to work it in.