Chapter Text
EIGHT YEARS AFTER THE EVENTS OF HELL IS EMPTY . . .
The stink of death was on him. The grizzled recruiter of the Night's Watch smelled as terrible as some wild beast. Dressed in rags of faded black, his back as gnarled as an oak and his teeth a mangled yellow mess, Yoren was a sore on the eyes. Especially amidst court, a dark dot on the silken rainbow pallette of lords and ladies.
"State your business," Rhaegar implored from his iron perch, trying hard not to twist his nose against the putrid stench of his subject. Even from high atop his throne, a great many feet and a flight of steps away, Rhaegar's eyes watered.
The Black Brother seemed unperturbed at the presence of his king, whilst still minding his courtesies; Yoren knelt dutifully before rising, meeting purple eyes with hard black ones. "If it please you, I've come to recruit for the Night's Watch, Your Grace."
Rhaegar was taken aback. Only a year ago, Lyanna herself had scoured the Red Keep's dungeons clean for the Watch of the Wall. Thirty men - thieves and rapers and the ilk - had gone north to take their vows, and now a Brother was back at his feet begging for more.
"Your queen supplied the Watch with recruits only a year past," Rhaegar said, not unkindly.
"Pardon me, Your Grace," Yoren said in a voice like sawdust, "but that weren't enough. Most of them is gone now, felled by the cold and sick and . . ."
"And?" Brandon Stark urged, leaning forward in his seat near the base of the Iron Throne. Rhaegar could practically smell the intrigue dripping off his good-brother; though Hand of the King for years, Brandon was still a northerner at heart and a Stark at that.
Yoren flicked his eyes swiftly to Brandon, meeting familiar hard eyes, before addressing Rhaegar once more. "Our numbers have been drastically cut, Your Grace. Once we were many, and now we are less than a thousand."
Rhaegar considered this. Many southerners believed the Night's Watch an ineffectual, if not unnecessary, group of commoners that did little more than waste life and resources manning an ancient and useless wonder of the world. All but the north seemed to look down upon the Watch with derision.
Rhaegar was not such a man. The prophecy of his House, the telling of a savior and his army of foes, was a tale that had been rooted deep inside Rhaegar's soul. The significant dwindling of this old order could only mean one thing.
"What has happened to steal so many of your men?" he said aloud.
Yoren seemed to consider his king, searching for something in the dragonlord that, finally, was met. The Black Brother dug into the pouch tied to his breeches, rummaging through the clink of coin, before producing what for he searched.
His palms were outstretched, melded together, as he offered up what seemed to be . . . a hand. A pale hand, lifeless, cut savagely at the wrist, with fingertips black as coal.
Yoren said, "This was cut off a man that attacked Lord Commander Mormont. I weren't there to see it myself, but Lord Commander ain't no frilly lord playing at games. His word is true. A dead man with black hands and star-blue eyes attacked him, stopped only by the force of fire."
Yoren rummaged again at his side, this time picking out a missive. "This," he said, "is a letter written in the hand of Maester Aemon. He wrote everything that happened down, even examined the wight himself."
Wight. The word sent a cool shiver down Rhaegar's spine. Despite the quiet snickering of the court at what they believed to be foolery, he knew this was no jest, no ploy. This . . . was just the beginning of the prophecy, a sign come to life. He itched to read his great-uncle's letter at once.
"Brandon," Rhaegar nodded toward the Black Brother, a command. His Lord Hand went forth at once. "We will take the wight's hand for examination and the letter as well." Perhaps Grand Maester Luwin could find something Aemon's eyes had not.
Yoren nodded, grateful, but still beseeching.
"And you may have the pick of the dungeons," Rhaegar promised. The prophecy coming to slow, but sure, fruition had his heart stirring to life. His entire being had led to this. I must see my children, he thought with urgency. He wanted to see his promised prince, his dragon's heads, to soothe away the panic of the impending dawn.
But first, he needed to read Aemon's letter.
"No, darling, no," Lyanna smiled. "We don't do that."
Valarr frowned into his chubby cheeks, summoning all the disappointment his two-year old self could manage. Instead of questioning her verdict, he just climbed more steadily into his brother's lap, balling his little fists into Jon's dark curls and tugged hard.
"Ow," Jon grumbled, disentangling Valarr's fingers from his scalp as best he could. "Mother, get him."
Lyanna chuckled, leaning forward to pull her little silver prince into her arms. Valarr wiggled at once, angry at being taken away from Jon. She hushed his indignant cries and carded her fingers through his starlight hair.
Jon gathered himself and stood, dusting off his breeches and tunic. The sight of him, growing taller as each day passed, the roundness of his youth sloughing away even at eight years old, made her throat burn. He was growing too fast.
"Where are you off to?" she asked. Dany, Jon's eternal half, had already left to pay respects to the Seven at Baelor's Sept; Rhae was with her grandmother, likely pestering Rhaella into another evening of High Valyrian lessons. Only Valarr and Jon had remained with Lyanna as Rhaegar held court.
Jon looked down at her with his father's eyes, hiding something. "To pray," he said, "in the godswood." As a prince of the crown and heir to Rhaegar, Jon had been raised on both the Faith and the Old Gods. But with his Uncle Brandon and Benjen's influences, as well as her own teachings, Jon was more inclined to the northern way, often shirking devotion at the Great Sept for isolation in the godswood.
His piety had only grown more resolved in the past couple of years, ever since Magister Illyrio of Pentos had paid his visit to King's Landing. With the arrival of Rhaegar's and her third child two years ago, the capital had swarmed with nobility of Westeros and Essos, all come to pay their respects. They'd showered the royal family with extravagant gifts: magnificent swords, cloth-of-gold, horses of astounding breeding, silver finery, ruby-crusted diadems and crowns.
Magister Illyrio had come late, the last of all Essosi princes and sealords and magisters and Archons to bear gifts. He'd arrived with a horde of his estate, flanked by two dozen of his Unsullied slave soldiers. She and Rhaegar had welcomed this friend of Varys' with polite warmth, but only Lyanna was wary, unable to forget the night nearly nine years ago when she had overheard Illyrio and the spymaster discussing King Aerys' fate in the dungeons.
Illyrio had paid her suspicion no mind, bowing to his queen and king as best he could around his rounded belly before ushering forth his servants with a sharp whistle. Four men, dressed in black leather and pointed steels caps, marched forth; they were folded nearly in half by the weight of a great oaken chest that was banded by iron.
When they had set it on the ground before the Iron Throne, it seemed as if the world shook with it. Illyrio himself had drifted forth to unlock the chest, smiling briefly but meaningfully at his king with golden teeth before lifting the lid.
To this day, Lyanna could still recall the shock and awe that rocked her to the core. Four eggs there were, a quartet of eons-ancient stone that lay on a bed of pale silks and damasks. Jon, only six then, had gasped and wound his hand around Dany's; the silver princess had stood still in disbelief.
"Dragon's eggs from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai, Your Grace, for the dragons of Westeros." Illyrio stepped back and swept an inviting hand out.
With Rhaegar, Lyanna had stepped closer for a better look, allowing Rhae and Dany to climb into her lap as Jon went into his father's arms.
Up close, the eggs were ancient treasures. Each one was splendid in its own right, boasting a different beauty than its siblings. The first was chipped with onyx scales, an egg of midnight but for the glint of scarlet that was veined through in whorls.
"Can I," Daenerys breathed low in worship, "touch it?"
Lyanna and Rhaegar met eyes, sharing a thought, and nodded together. Dany had climbed from Lyanna's lap and took the black egg in her palms, lips parting as she sighed.
The second egg was green-and-bronze by turns, flashing beneath the torchlight. Jon went forth and carefully took it into his arms.
The third was pale, cream scales that were streaked with gold. Rhae squirmed from her mother's lap, leaning over the chest as best as she could at the time with her shaky little legs. Rhaegar had plucked the cream egg from its bed for her, holding it out for his daughter to touch.
The last egg was the most beautiful. It shone brilliantly, seemingly forged of pure silver. Lyanna picked it from its spot, the chest now bare, and held it up with trembling hands; as she turned the egg this way and that, it shimmered like polished metal, catching the light.
"Valarr's," Rhaegar whispered. "We must lay it with him in his crib."
Lyanna had known then that her husband's prophecy was coming finally alive.
Ever since, Jon and Dany had not gone a day without praying over their treasures. They woke to say their godly words over the dragon's eggs, and went to bed with them in their clutches.
And now, eight years old and fidgeting beneath his mother's scrutiny, Jon was itching to pray.
"Go on then," Lyanna finally said. "Tell the Old Gods of my thanks and send love to your grandfather."
Jon smiled softly and accepted a prim kiss from Lyanna, then a sloppy one from Valarr, and raced from the room.
It was hours later that Rhaegar finally came to their apartments, looking every bit of exhausted, but with a fire in his eyes that bespoke of thrill and fear. Lyanna was on edge at once, standing from her perch at the open window where she had been breathing in the night sky.
She knew her dragon well enough to realize when something was crawling beneath his skin. "What is it?"
"I received grievances from a sworn brother of the Night's Watch today," he mumbled, shedding his doublet before shucking his tunic.
Lyanna frowned. Had it even been a year since last they supplied the Night's Watch with men? "And?"
"It's beginning," he whispered. "The recruiter spoke of wights. One attacked their commander." Rhaegar inhaled deeply. "The dead are stirring to life."
The floor seemed to warp beneath her feet. Terror clawed at her throat. Old Nan's voice echoed in her head, repeating stories of the fabled Others. "You don't mean...?"
Rhaegar nodded, eyes flashing amethyst beneath the amber glow of her candles. "Uncle Aemon seems to believe these are dead of the prophecy. This is the first sign of eternal darkness."
Cold terror ripped through her like a scythe. "What are we to do?"
For the first time tonight, Rhaegar smiled. "Nothing, my love. We do not do anything."
"Nothing?" she repeated with incredulity.
"The dragon has three heads," Rhaegar repeated his beloved words, but for once they did not drip with certainty.
Lyanna dreaded of thinking of her children in danger. She could not stand to think of her serious Jon or excitable Rhae or little Valarr going up against foes of ice and evil. No prophecy was worth the pain of losing her blood, of that she knew.
She meant to speak up, interject on behalf of their babies, but a frantic knock at the door had her mouth sealing shut. Frowning at the intrusion, Rhaegar went to open the door. It revealed her brother Benjen, looking stern for once in his life, and beside him a Goldcloak who wore an expression of pure and utter horror.
"Your Grace," the man panted, tears making his eyes glassy. "It's the prince. And the princess."
Lyanna strode forward, heart pounding at once. "Valarr? Rhae?" The two were known to cause trouble, but no antics of theirs had ever warranted such panic in a person.
The Goldcloak turned his glassy eyes to hers. "Prince Jon and Princess Daenerys."
Lyanna blinked, uncertain she had heard him right. "Pardon?" Jon and Dany were the least likely of the royal children to cause problems. When the man did not answer, Lyanna grew angry. "Where are my son and good-sister?!"
The man looked near to faint. "You have to hurry," he sniffled, eyes going wide. "It's . . . an abomination."
He ran away then, not slowing even after she and Rhaegar raced after him uncertainly and hinging on panic. The Goldcloak's hysteria was potent enough to taste as she sprinted in his wake. Her mind was all atangle, tendrils of thoughts reaching out to a thousand different possibilities.
Was Jon hurt? Was Daenerys dead? Had they been kidnapped? Were they held hostage by some unknown enemy?
In the yard, horses were readied quickly and then they were riding through midnight in the city, still unanswered of any of their queries to the spooked 'Cloak. Smoke's hooves clacked loudly against the street, drowning out the beat of her heart as Lyanna rode. It wasn't until they approached Rhaenys' Hill that she began to notice the people.
All around they stood, gathering into a clot in the streets that warranted the shouts from the retinue of Kingsguards they'd taken. The people parted uneasily, barely glancing at their royals as they rode through.
The going up was slow, but it was easy to make out the Dragonpit sitting atop Rhaenys' Hill. Blackened and unused for centuries, its dome had collapsed and its towering bronze doors had been closed for good.
Until now.
Open, they were thrown, and coughing up thick plumes of smoke. The Goldcloak that had led them there cried out, pointing frantically. Lyanna leapt from her horse without thinking, tearing through the crowd with a ferocity she had never known. Rhaegar's hand tangled through hers, pulling her even faster. The Kingsguard raced ahead, clearing a path.
When Lyanna passed into the belly of the pit, she pulled the collar of her tunic over her face to mask her nose and mouth. Instantly, her eyes burned, hardly able to see an arm's length before her.
"Jon!" Rhaegar roared desperately. "Dany!"
It was silent for a few moments, the air still and quiet inside the ruined husk of the Dragonpit. And then, low, a screech. Followed by another, and a delighted hissing sound.
Wide-eyed, Lyanna followed the sounds to the eye of pit. The smoke was thinner here, swirling as it moved. Lyanna waved a hand before her face, aware of Rhaegar coming to stand beside her as she dropped her tunic back in place.
When the smoke wafted away and the floor began to clear, it was all she could do not to clear her stomach all over herself. Sitting with their legs entwined, clothes burned nearly off, were Jon and Daenerys. Their heads of hair, dark and silver, were singed to crisps and their skin soot-streaked.
And around them, crawling all over them, were beautiful, once-extinct beasts. The black-and-scarlet coiled around Dany's throat, its neck nuzzling her own. The green had found residence on Jon's shoulder, nipping lightly at his skin. The other two, one pale cream and one pure silver, were roaming about them restlessly, searching for some master to call their own.
"What," Lyanna breathed just as Rhaegar whispered, "By the gods."
Jon and Dany looked up together, strange purple eyes glinting, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.