A Prince of House Targaryen Chapter 70 (Tears of Direwolves) (Patreon)

Dacey Mormont

It's been hours since the meeting ended, and Dacey's head was still a mess; she tried but failed to understand everything that happened; it had happened so fast that even now, she was still trying to process everything.

A sense of unease crept over Dacey, like a shadow cast by doubt, as she remembered her mother's peculiar habit of showering Jon Snow with praise. It puzzled her greatly, for her mother was not one to bestow compliments lightly, reserving them only for those who managed to truly captivate her. Yet, in the case of Jon, Dacey struggled to comprehend the reason behind her mother's unwavering admiration. Perhaps, she reasoned, her mother's intentions were rooted in kindness, an innate desire to extend a helping hand to the illegitimate son of Lord Stark, who had faced his fair share of hardships.

In a sudden moment of clarity, a wave of comprehension washed over Dacey. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her mind. With an air of revelation, she realized that her mother had possessed the knowledge of Jon Snow's true identity all along, a secret carefully guarded and concealed. Dacey understood the profound significance behind her mother's comparisons of Jon to Lyanna Stark. It was not merely a passing resemblance or a casual observation; rather, it was an acknowledgment of a deeper connection, a bond of blood and heritage.

After she departed the grand meeting chamber, Dacey's keen eyes scanned the countenances of the assembled Northern Lords, beholding a sea of fury etched upon their visages, each one clamoring for justice with an indomitable fervor that resonated through the very air. Dacey herself wanted Lord Stark to be out of jail; she knew him, and she knew he was a man of honor, an honorable man, someone the Entire North respected, someone she herself respected. Dacey understood what Lord Stark had done, but a part of her knew he must have had a good reason to do that.

Lord Eddard Stark is a man of honor; he would never stand so low out of petty spite; he must have had a good reason, Dacey told herself; this was what she had told herself since the meeting ended.

Once we talk with Lord Stark, everything will make sense, Dacey thought with absolute certainty, As Dacey made her way towards her tent. With each step she took, anticipation grew, fueling her determination to find clarity amidst the chaos. Finally, she arrived at her tent, its humble exterior offering solace and privacy from the world. Gently lifting the flap, she entered the familiar sanctuary that housed her family, their presence providing a sense of warmth and familiarity. As her gaze swept across the room, her attention was immediately drawn to her aging mother, seated regally on a chair that set her apart from the rest. The air in the tent grew heavy with anticipation as Dacey's sisters, their eyes filled with anticipation, awaited their mother's words.

"Now that everyone is here," she declared, her gaze sweeping across her daughters, "as Lady of House Mormont, we will stand down from any conflict." Her pronouncement reverberated through the tent, causing a collective gasp to ripple through Maege's daughters; their eyes wide with astonishment were momentarily frozen in disbelief. However, it was Dacey Mormont, the eldest and most resilient of the siblings, who swiftly recovered from the shock. With a determined expression and unwavering loyalty shining in her eyes, she took a resolute step forward.

Tension simmered as Dacey's voice trembled with suppressed emotion. Her piercing gaze fixed upon her mother, Maege, who met her daughter's challenging stare with an expression of disapproval. The weighty decision loomed before them like an ominous storm cloud. "Mother," Dacey's voice quivered, "they will send Lord Stark to take the Black. Are you saying we should break our oath to Lord Stark, to the North, and do nothing?" Her words hung in the air.

Dacey found herself caught in a moment of intense vulnerability. As her eyes met her mother's piercing gaze, she couldn't help but feel a wave of trepidation wash over her, reminiscent of a small child bracing themselves for a scolding. However, fueled by a flicker of determination, Dacey summoned the courage to meet her mother's disapproving stare head-on, refusing to let it overshadow her own resolve.

"How do you think I would have felt," Lady Maege's voice reverberated, "if any of you were stolen from me, torn from my loving embrace, only to be raised as a bastard in a distant, unfamiliar land?" A flicker of nervousness danced within Dacey's being.

"Lord Stark is lucky to keep his head because old Gods know I wouldn't have been as merciful," Maege spoke with a grave voice; Dacey gulped slightly at the way her mother was looking at her.

"Lord Stark must have had a reason," Dacey tried to reason, she understood where her mother was coming from, but Dacey wanted more than anything to believe that the man she respected the most had a reason for doing that, and it wasn't as simple as out of spite. Lord Stark was never a man to do this for no reason, Dacey thought in her head, repeating it as many times as possible.

"He Stole a Child, someone who was innocent in the eyes of the old gods; Prince Aemon was innocent. How can a baby, not even a day old, be responsible for anything? He should never be seen as guilty for something their parents did. If Lord Stark has a reason, then I don't care to listen because it will never justify it," She spoke with a hint of both anger and sadness, not for Lord Stark, but for the Stark children.

Maege's mind wandered back to a poignant moment etched deeply in her memory. It was a time when the weight of despair hung heavy in the air, for news, had spread like wildfire that Lord Rickon and Lord Brandon had met their untimely demise at the hands of the Mad King. As the chilling truth reverberated through the halls, Maege's heart ached for Ned Stark, for she had never witnessed a man so utterly shattered as he was on that fateful day.

In the depths of his sorrow, he seemed to have lost not just his beloved kin but his very essence as well. Yet, amid the darkness that threatened to consume him, there remained a flicker of hope, a slender thread that prevented him from plunging into the depths of despair. It was the mere mention of Lyanna, his cherished sister, that kindled within him an indomitable spirit, a fierce determination to rise above the abyss and Fight. A part of Maege wondered why, what could have caused Lord Stark to do that.

The tension was palpable as Alysane, with unwavering determination, interrupted her mother's escalating frustration toward Dacey. "Mother, we should ask Lord Stark. I'm sure he had his reasons," Taking a stand beside her sister, Alysane's voice resonated with calm certainty. With gratitude emanating from her sparkling eyes, Dacey couldn't help but bestow a heartfelt smile upon her sister, appreciating her unwavering support.

The resolute voice of Maege resonated with unwavering conviction, refusing to waver or succumb to persuasion. "I don't care what his reasons might be. Lord Stark betrayed the Realm and committed High Treason. The only reason his head is still on his shoulder is because of Prince Aemon's mercy," she declared, her tone laced with unwavering resolve. Her piercing gaze swiftly shifted, fixing upon her eldest daughter.

"Tell me, Dacey, how would you feel if anyone took Lyanna away from us? What would you have done?" Maege demanded from her daughter. Dacey opened her mouth but quickly closed it, knowing deep down that Lord Stark couldn't be justified.

Dacey shook her head. She didn't want, and she refused to believe that the man she considered the most honorable man in Westeros was able to kidnap a baby and lie about it in front of his father. Dacey desperately wanted to believe that Lord Stark must have had a Good Reason to do that and that all would make sense once they talked with him.

Dacey let out a weary sigh, her brows furrowing with a hint of annoyance as she prepared to voice her thoughts. However, before she could utter a single word, the silence of the tent was abruptly shattered by the creaking sound of the entrance being pulled apart. In unison, their attention was drawn to the figure standing before them. It was Lord GreatJon, with his broad frame towering over the rest. One arm held up the flap of the tent.

GreatJon's face contorted into a fiery shade of scarlet, his anger radiating like smoldering embers. As Dacey's eyes met his, she couldn't help but notice the pulsating veins that snaked across his forehead, seemingly ready to burst forth with the intensity of his fury. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, causing her to instinctively take a cautious step backward, her heart pounding in her chest. At that moment, Dacey couldn't help but imagine the sheer audacity it would take to defy this formidable man, for he seemed capable of single-handedly facing down a ferocious bear armed with nothing but a humble knife and perhaps even emerging victorious.

"Lady Mormont," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority, "we are having a meeting in the Stark Tent. We all want your presence there," As his words hung in the air, a gust of wind swept through the camp, causing the tent's flaps to dance and twirl in a graceful display. GreatJon, his purpose fulfilled, turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Lady Mormont to contemplate the significance of the summons.

.

As the moon cast its ethereal glow upon the Stark camp, Dacey ventured towards the tent where the Stark children sought solace. Her heart heavy with concern, she entered the tent and was met with a scene that pierced her soul. The faces of the young Starks once filled with joy and innocence, now bore the weight of unimaginable sorrow, their countenances etched with the indelible marks of loss and devastation.

Their eyes held a glimmer of confusion as if grappling with the unfathomable events that had befallen their once-peaceful existence. Surrounding them, their loyal direwolves stood steadfastly, their noble presence offering a modicum of comfort and support.

Amongst the children, Rickon, the youngest Stark, clung desperately to Shaggydog. Tears streamed down his cherubic face, mingling with the dark fur of the direwolf as if seeking solace from the creature's unwavering loyalty. Sensing his distress, Shaggydog tenderly licked the boy's tear-stained cheeks, their bond serving as a balm for their wounded spirits.

Meanwhile, Brandon Stark, his young voice tinged with both desperation and indignation, incessantly sought answers. His innocent queries echoed through the air, questioning the whereabouts of his beloved father and pondering the motives behind the king's decision to imprison him. With each inquiry, Brandon's bewildered words evoked a poignant sense of injustice and longing for understanding, as if grappling with the notion that his father could have possibly committed an offense against the King.

Arya Stark lay motionless upon her bed, a solitary figure shrouded in silence. Her lips remained sealed, withholding words from the world around her. Dacey approached her with gentle intentions, yet Arya averted her gaze, redirecting her attention elsewhere. Meanwhile, her loyal Direwolf, nestled beside the bed, her desperate attempts to coax Arya into engagement falling upon deaf ears. The young Stark, consumed by inner turmoil, mustered the strength to utter a single command, bidding her direwolf to leave her be.

' "How can Jon be a Prince?" Sansa voiced her incredulity, the words escaping her lips with a mix of curiosity and disbelief, as she delicately rubbed the side of her head, her fingers gliding through the luxurious strands of her long, crimson hair that had been meticulously brushed until they shimmered like molten copper. The gentle caress of her right hand extended to the crown of her Direwolf, a silent reassurance emanating from the bond they shared.

"He's a Bastard," Sansa continued, her tone laced with conviction, her blue eyes fixed intently on Robb, silently beseeching him to validate her sentiments. Yet, to her dismay, Robb sat there in a desolate silence, his countenance betraying the weight of his emotions. His weary eyes, heavy with unshed tears, spoke volumes of the profound anguish he had been silently enduring.

"Right?" Sansa questioned once again, her voice brimming with uncertainty. The words reverberated through the tent's canvas walls like a melody seeking an audience. She spoke louder this time, hoping to pierce through the obliviousness of her siblings. But alas, her voice seemed to possess an unexpected power, an unintended catalyst that ignited a spark of anger within Robb. As the echoes of her inquiry dissipated, tension filled the air.

"Stop Saying His Name!" Robb's voice thundered through the tent walls, reverberating with an intensity that seemed to shake even the air itself. His command, sharp and forceful, sliced through the tense silence like a sword through silk. At that moment, Sansa, her delicate frame quivering, found herself caught in the crossfire of his anger. A flicker of fear danced across her face, her once vibrant blue eyes now clouded with a hint of crimson, on the very precipice of releasing a torrent of tears. The weight of his actions pressed heavily upon Robb's chest, etching lines of remorse onto his features as he beheld the devastating effect his words had on his beloved sibling. Dacey couldn't remember Robb ever shouting at his sister like that.

With a voice devoid of any trace of emotion, Robb uttered the words that sent a chilling tremor down Arya's spine, causing her to curl up in her bed, hugging her legs tightly. "He's not Jon. He never was Jon," he declared, his eyes ablaze with an intensity that matched the fiery redness that consumed them with each word he spat.

With a fiery intensity burning in his eyes, Robb's voice dripped with contempt as he vehemently declared, "Jon never existed. His name is Aemon Targaryen, there was never a Jon, and he was never our brother," As the words escaped Robb's lips, his voice quivered ever so slightly, betraying the depths of his sorrow. His eyes, glazed with unshed tears, bore witness to the anguish that threatened to consume him, yet somehow, he found the strength to restrain his emotions.

Meanwhile, Dacey heard the faint echoes of Arya's grief echoing through the chambers. The young girl, her face buried in the embrace of her tear-soaked pillow, found solace in the company of Nymeria, whose mournful whimpers mirrored her own heartache.

"You're wrong," With a sudden outburst. Tears cascaded down Bran's cherubic face as he defiantly challenged his sibling's belief. Rising from his cozy bed, he took determined steps towards his towering brother, his small frame filled with a newfound courage. "J-Jon is o-our b-brother, h-h-he," But as he spoke, his words faltered and dissolved into muffled sobs, unable to withstand the overwhelming flood of emotions that consumed the young Bran.

"Jon," Robb exclaimed, his voice dripping with a mix of frustration and disbelief, "Jon is not our brother, Bran!" With each word that escaped his lips, Robb's anger intensified, fueling the fire within him. He took a resolute step forward, his heavy boots sinking into the ground beneath him. Bracing himself, Robb knelt down, bringing himself eye-level with his young sibling, their gazes locked in a battle of conflicting emotions. It was impossible to ignore the poignant sight that greeted him – Bran's once bright blue eyes now tainted with sorrow, glistening with unshed tears that painted a trail down his flushed cheeks, only to be swallowed by the plushness of the mattress below.

Bran's tears streamed down his face uncontrollably while Robb, his older brother, placed a firm grasp on his quivering shoulders. With a determined gaze, Robb compelled the young Bran to meet his eyes directly. "Jon Snow never existed." The weight of those words threatened to crush Bran's spirit, "Jon Snow never existed. He's not our brother. Because of him, our father will be sent to the Wall to rot there amongst rapists and thieves. The whole realm will think of our father as someone no better than a thief."

As Robb's voice resonated with undeniable authority, Bran instinctively closed his eyes, his head trembling in denial. Desperate for the torment to cease, Bran longed for his brother to halt his words. A glimpse of regret flashed across Robb's expression, prompting him to swiftly embrace Bran, whose sobs reverberated loudly against Robb's protective shoulder.

"I want father here," With tears streaming down his face, Bran clung tightly to Robb, burying his sobs against his brother's broad shoulder. The weight of their father's absence hung heavy in the air, filling the tent with a sense of longing and despair.

Robb, understanding the depth of his little brother's grief, pressed a tender kiss against Bran's tear-streaked cheek, offering a small comfort in the midst of their shared pain.

In a hushed voice, barely audible above the sound of their mingled breaths, Robb whispered into Bran's ear, his words laced with determination and unwavering resolve. "I will save our father, Bran. I give you my Word," Another soft kiss, a silent promise sealed with love and devotion, was planted on Bran's cheek.

Dacey watching from a distance, was happy to see Lord Robb taking care of his little siblings, her eyes looked around, but she couldn't see where Lady Stark had gone too. '

As the dusk settled over the encampment, casting an ethereal glow upon the Stark tent, a sense of anticipation filled the air, thickening with every passing moment. Dacey stood amidst the hushed gathering of allies, feeling the weight of their collective purpose. All eyes were fixed upon the noble figure of Robb Stark as he made his way toward them. Standing resolutely beside him were GreatJon and Roose Bolton, their presence commanding respect and admiration. However, Dacey couldn't help but notice the absence of someone: Domeric Bolton, the young scion of the Bolton house, whose absence stirred a curiosity within her. Where could the young Lord Bolton have ventured off to, she wondered.

Amidst the sea of voices, a cacophony of anger and resentment arose like thunderous clouds heralding a storm. Some voices soared with fervor, hurling venomous words toward the Royal Family, their disdain echoing through the tent.

Others, more cunning and discreet, masked their displeasure behind veils of subtlety, their disdain simmering beneath composed facades. And then there were those who seemed utterly indifferent to the consequences of their words, their voices resounding boldly as if daring the entire castle to bear witness to their audacity, many cursing 'Jon Snow' for betraying the North; Dacey felt a hint of anger whenever she heard someone curse him.

But amidst the chaos of opinions and emotions, a sudden silence ensued. The air grew heavy as GreatJon, slammed his fist upon the table before him. The force of his blow reverberated through the room, causing the sturdy wooden surface to groan and creak under the weight of his power.

"Everyone be quiet now," With a forceful command reverberating through the tent. Every pair of eyes turned towards him, awaiting his next move, as he scanned everyone, scrutinizing each individual for any sign of disobedience. As the once lively chatter faded into a hushed murmur, a palpable tension hung in the air, revealing the simmering anger that lurked beneath the surface of each person present.

"Now, we need to talk about what happened in the Great Hall, what happened to Lord Stark-" As the tension rippled through the air, Maege's urgent words were abruptly cut off, silenced by the forceful rise of Lord Karstark from his ornate seat in the tent. With a face flushed scarlet with indignation, he towered above the gathering with an imposing presence, his anger palpable. In the midst of his furious ascent, his wooden chair clattered to the ground. The room fell into a hushed stillness as Lord Karstark exhaled a gust of pent-up frustration through his flared nostrils.

With a commanding presence, he posed a weighty question that lingered in the minds of the Northern Lords, their eyes locked on him in rapt anticipation. "What is there to talk about?" he bellowed.

The collective nodding of the majority of the assembled lords confirmed their shared sentiment, their determination etched upon their faces like battle-hardened resolve. It was a declaration that echoed through the tent, reverberating off the canvas walls.

"This can only be answered with War!" Lord Karstark's voice boomed once again, his conviction unyielding and resolute. The Northern Lords, one by one, raised their voices in unison, their powerful 'Aye's reverberating throughout the tent, a chorus of agreement that could not be ignored. Among them, the GreatJon, shouted the loudest and with the utmost conviction, his voice carrying the weight of his lineage and the fierce spirit of his House.

"We will never allow those Southern to decide for us what we should do!" GreatJon shouted with everyone in the Tent, shouting 'Aye' in approval; As the echoes of their resolute declarations slowly dissipated, a chilling hush descended upon the assembly, interrupted only by a piercingly cold voice that effortlessly sliced through the silence like a sharpened blade.

As Roose Bolton's voice cut through the air, its blunt edges carried a chilling intensity. "GreatJon, it seems all your brain turned to muscle. Did none of you see the Dragon outside? Because I sure did," The frigid atmosphere seemed to emanate from him, his piercing gaze fixated on GreatJon, devoid of any warmth or sympathy, reducing the once mighty lord to the status of a mere commoner in his eyes.

Dacey, couldn't help but feel a shiver coursing down her spine as Roose Bolton's words hung in the air, like an invisible hand tracing icy pathways across her flesh. At that moment, she imagined the sensation of a sharp blade, slowly and methodically, peeling away the layers of her skin, like peeling an egg.

Roose Bolton has an unremarkable body, neither plump, thin, nor muscular. He has pasty skin and a pallid chest, which is soft and hairless. Roose has short, strong fingers. He has a plain face, beardless and ordinary, with his only noticeable feature being his strange eyes, paler than stone and darker than milk, like two white moons. Roose was wearing black ringmail and a red-spotted pale pink cloak trimmed with white fur.

Dacey had seen the man only twice before, but the man had an aura of danger and coldness around him; sometimes, Dacey compared Roose to a white walker, both cold and merciless. Dacey still didn't understand why House Bolton even existed; they had made public rebellions against House Stark many times before the Targaryens arrived in Westeros.

They should have destroyed Dreadfort to the last brick, all sons executed for everyone to see, the daughters either executed too or married to loyal lords, Dacey thought with a shiver in her body; if she had been the one to decide, House Bolton would have ceased to exist a long time ago.

"What did you say, Bolton?" GreatJon questioned with a high voice, booming throughout the tent; Roose simply stood in place; despite GreatJon being as big as a bear, Roose simply looked at him, unfazed by his size.

"To have this discussion here is not smart of us; anyone could hear us. I'm saying we should wait until we ride back North to make a decision about the Future of Lord Stark and The North," Roose explained, his voice quiet, but everyone still paid attention to him. His words were met with nods of agreement, especially from Robb.

"Did none of you hear what Lord Stark confessed!" Maege's voice cut through the sounds of approval; she couldn't take it anymore; everyone was acting like a fool in front of her; everyone turned their heads to look at Lady Mormont, many with disapproval.

"Lord Stark stole Prince Aemon from his family, he stole a Prince of the Realm, he committed high treason, he's lucky to still have his head," Maege spoke. Despite her anger, her countenance remained eerily composed, a testament to her unwavering resolve. As her voice echoed through the air, each word carefully enunciated, Maege hoped to instill a momentary pause in the minds of the Northern Lords, urging them to reconsider the weight of their words. However, rather than eliciting reflection, her brave stand seemed to fuel the fiery indignation within those gathered. In this charged atmosphere, the towering figure of GreatJon rose abruptly from his seat, his eyes filled with a mix of disappointment and disapproval.

"Aemon Stark was a child of the North. Would you want Lord Stark to let him grow up amongst Vipers? Do you think House Martell would have allowed him to live?" GreatJon shouted, looking down at Lady Maege with disapproval, who remained unfazed by his glare; instead, she looked back at him with an equal amount of anger, but she quickly returned her attention back to everyone else in the Tent; she could tell almost all of them were thinking the same thing as GreatJon.

"Lord Stark," Lord Karstark suddenly called out. His eyes locked onto Robb, who swiftly adjusted his posture, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his rigid stance. Despite the stoicism etched upon his face, like a solid granite facade, a hint of vulnerability lingered within his reddened eyes, remnants of tears shed in solitude. Determined to conceal this raw display of emotion, Robb fought to mask his inner turmoil, guarding his heart like a hidden treasure.

"How was Jon Snow treated in Winterfell? We weren't there to see it, but Jon Snow was your brother for fifteen years. Tell us the truth," Lord Karstark questioned; everyone's eyes quickly turned towards Robb, who seemed a little overwhelmed by the pressure and the attention from everyone, but he quickly stood up. Despite his young age, he tried to look like a grown Man.

"My father always treated all of us equally. He never said anything bad for him, not once. Jon Snow was always treated like a Stark. My father always treated him like his own son, like a true son of House Stark," Robb Stark answered with as much conviction as he could muster. Maege closed her eyes as everyone else approved with a loud 'Aye.'

W-what will happen to us? Maege thought, feeling a pit forming on her stomach and only growing.

Arya Stark

She couldn't remember the last time she felt so alone, so heartbroken, so sad, so betrayed. She didn't even know what she was even feeling. How was she even supposed to feel? Since Jon returned from the Wall, she had noticed something had changed but wasn't quite sure what. But she didn't think it was anything to worry about. In her eyes, Jon marrying Val was perhaps what changed him, but he was still Jon.

Arya had been overjoyed to spend more time with her brother; she remembered every moment, especially when he saved her from her horrible cousin; Jon was always Arya's favorite.

That all changed after they arrived in Harrenhal; Arya had noticed Jon would spend time with her less and less until one day, he just disappeared; Arya didn't know where Jon had been for a few days; all she had was her father telling everyone that Jon was alright and that he knew where Jon was, until one day Jon returned, but despite returning, Arya knew there was something amiss, she just didn't know what it was.

After Jon won the Jousting, Arya was overjoyed to see him crown Val as Queen of Love and Beauty; she was happy her brother was finally getting the attention he always deserved. Arya had thought they all would celebrate together after the Jousting ended, but Arya soon found out just how wrong she was.

When her father revealed who her brother Jon Snow was all along, he wasn't her brother and his name was Aemon Targaryen and not Jon. And that he was her cousin and not her brother; the knowledge had made Arya's stomach fall into a pit. Her once steady gaze now blurred with the teardrops that welled up, threatening to cascade down her cheeks like the rain that falls upon a desolate battlefield.

No, No, Jon would never do that; he would never do that to us, to me; I'm still his sister, Arya thought with tears in her eyes when her father had been sentenced to the Wall.

She had waited for her brother to say something against that decision, to say that Lord Stark didn't deserve to be sent to the Wall, to say anything to help their father, but instead, Arya watched as Jon did nothing but stand there as their father was sentenced to the Wall.

' As Arya slowly emerged from the depths of sleep, her groggy eyes fluttered open to the familiar sight of her cozy bed, surrounding her with a sense of comfort and safety. In that fleeting moment of confusion, she couldn't help but believe, if just for a heartbeat, that the harrowing events had all been nothing more than a haunting nightmare, a figment of her imagination.

However, reality promptly shattered that fragile illusion. Her mother's tender gaze filled with sympathy and compassion, consoling a tear-stained Sansa, who sought solace in the arms of their direwolf, Lady.

Robb engaged in a solemn conversation with Lord Umber. Meanwhile, Rickon clung tightly to Shaggydog, his sobs echoing through the air. '

At that moment, Arya's emotions overwhelmed her, causing her to collapse into a sea of tears, her anguished sobs echoing against the pillow's softness. Despite the comforting presence of Nymeria, Arya yearned for the solace only her half-brother Jon could provide. Her heart ached for the tender embrace of her father, wishing he were there to envelop her in a warm, reassuring hug and whisper words of comfort, assuring her that everything would eventually return to normal.

In the depths of her despair, consumed by the overwhelming desire to revert everything to its former state, she yearned to awaken from this relentless nightmare. Tears streamed down her face, their heat searing her eyes as she desperately sought solace in the hope that this was all just a figment of her imagination. With each pinch, a futile attempt to rouse herself from this cruel reality, Arya's heart sank further, for deep down, she comprehended that this was not a mere bad dream. The harsh truth echoed in her mind, resonating like a mournful dirge - her father had been irrevocably sentenced to a life of exile at the Wall, forever lost to her and all she held dear.

Arya thought of what her father had done many times, stealing Jon from the King; she had seen the way Jon looked at Princess Rhaenys. Does he already think of her as his sister? Arya thought, her hand going to the pommel of her thin sword. She couldn't understand why her father would do something like that, but even if he did, Jon was happy in Winterfell. Right?

Arya tried to, but couldn't remember Jon ever being unhappy; every time he was with her, he was always happy; he was always happy to spend time with everyone with a big smile on his face.

Why did he not want to stay with us? Arya asked herself, her fingers instinctively clutching the hilt of her sheathed thin sword. The mere touch of its cool metal against her palm provided a sense of solace and reassurance amidst the turmoil of emotions swirling within her. "Needle," Arya murmured under her breath; Jon had given her the sword; Arya knew her brother loved all of them, yet, Arya couldn't understand why he abandoned them.

Why didn't he try to protect our father? Arya asked herself but found no answers. The weight of despair settled upon her heart, intensifying with each passing moment, leaving her bereft of any satisfying answers. Clutching her slender sword tightly to her chest, its sheath serving as a comforting embrace, an overwhelming sense of sorrow enveloped Arya. Hugging the sword, she felt as if she was hugging Jon.

Arya remembered when Jon called her 'Little Sister.' She could almost feel the tender touch of his fingers playfully tousling her hair while his warm lips planted a gentle kiss upon her rosy cheek. Arya's heart swelled with bittersweet emotions, and a cascade of tears cascaded down her petite face.

"Arya," she looked up and saw Sansa calling her; she had stood up and was in the middle of the tent, wearing a blue gown.

"What?"

"Do you think Jon is really a prince that father stole?" Sansa asked quietly with a hint of disbelief, looking at her sister. Arya was a little surprised; Sansa never asked her about anything. Arya pondered; she still couldn't see Jon as a Prince; Jon was Jon; that's who he had always been; Arya couldn't see him as anyone else.

Arya hesitated, her voice trembling with uncertainty as she stammered, "I-I-I don't know." The weight of her words hung in the air, each syllable echoing her internal turmoil. A moment later, Arya closed her eyes. In her dreams, a vivid vision unfolded before her. In her dream, Arya and Jon sprinted hand in hand towards a tree atop a verdant hill. The laughter that bubbled from their souls filled the air, intermingling with their radiant smiles, reminiscent of the carefree days they once shared.

Rhaenys Targaryen

'Amidst the frigid, wintry landscape, Rhaenys, her voice laced with urgency, bellowed the command, "Faster, Ñāqatubis (Faster Morning)," Her faithful dragon, wings beating with relentless strength, propelled them through the treacherous snowstorm, each gust of wind biting at Rhaenys's exposed skin, turning her limbs numb. As they soared, the ethereal dance of falling snowflakes enveloped them.

As Rhaenys soared through the snow Storm on the back of her dragon, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest, its rhythm echoing in her ears. With her hands tightly gripping the reins, she embraced the exhilarating rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. The freezing air bit at her throat, leaving her breaths feeling like icy shards sliding down her windpipe.

Surveying her surroundings with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, Rhaenys searched the sky frantically, knowing that he lurked somewhere close behind. Despite her keen senses, she couldn't catch a glimpse of him.

"Where are you?" Rhaenys cried out fervently. Her voice was carried away by the winds as she soared high on the back of her dragon. The clouds swirled and danced around her, concealing the answer to her inquiry.

At that moment, a deafening Roar! Reverberated through the heavens, shaking the very foundation of the sky for countless miles. Rhaenys felt the vibrations resonate in her ears, a symphony of thunderous might that even her loyal dragon couldn't bear, releasing a pained roar in response. Rhaenys knew Morning was afraid of this Dragon; she herself was afraid.

Desperately scanning the vast expanse above, Rhaenys strained her eyes, searching for any sign of him. But to her dismay, the skies yielded no clues, leaving her heart pounding with apprehension. Suddenly, her widened eyes beheld an alarming sight: an immense maw materialized directly above them, Flames building on the bottom of his mouth; Rhaenys closed her eyes as the enormous flames bathed both her and Morning.

Let me know in the comments what you think about the Chapter. I hope you have a Wonderful Day.