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Aegon V

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Seated within the Godswood Winterfell boasts of and with Balerion's huge head hanging over the side of the castle wall (in addition to Meraxes' presence), Aegon eyes the Stark Lord across from him, constantly aware of just how close Visenya is.

She had been so incredibly hesitant to accompany him, one hand still clasped around the grip of a well-worn bow, eyes still blown wide and quite unable to turn away from him after the Stark Lord had confirmed what she has apparently already been suspecting. A piece of him smarts at the very concept of a trueborn Targaryen being brought up as a bastard, treated lesser. Yet, as he recalls what happened to Princess Elia and Princess Rhaenys (what happened to Prince Aegon or his own body double), he must concede that Visenya's safety would have been paramount in the Stark Lord's eyes and who would ever think to look for a princess in a bastard child? Aegon himself had only set eyes upon the girl when Meraxes literally sniffed her out.

Pale hands cast in the light of the halfmoon tremble upon the lap of her thin nightdress and Aegon reaches to take one of those hands in his. The look of surprise Visenya shoots him, as if shocked to receive any form of comfort or support in public, is leaving him feeling less than merciful. She would not be here without the Stark Lord, he reminds himself forcefully, turning his gaze upon the man in question. Despite what she has suffered, Visenya still breathes thanks to her uncle's willingness to deceive the realm, to deceive his wife and family and the best friend he kneels to. The love this man must have felt for his sister, to risk not just his own neck but that of his family and their legacy… Aegon can respect him for that.

It is, however, exceptionally clear that Eddard Stark is not made for the political games of the South. Disgust and a deep weariness have been engraved into his features as Aegon made clear his demands. The man would, in the very least, remain neutral in this war, though would preferably aid Aegon's conquest with an army. He would offer the Usurper no aid and reach out to his connections within the Riverlands to ensure the Tully Lord was aware just how very poorly he could choose should he back the Usurper. Finally, he would turn over Visenya, allowing her to retake her rightful place as a Princess of the realm and a true Targaryen. It is this that the Lord Stark seems to contest the most. Aegon can respect the man's family loyalty; it is this that will be the reason he grants the Stark Lord mercy, grants him the option to kneel and keep his position as Warden of the North.

The man's wife, however, is a different matter altogether.

Visenya will not even meet the woman's eyes and, given how the Lady of Winterfell is staring at the younger girl in barely concealed horror, Aegon deduces that his fellow Targaryen has been shown something of a bastard's usual level of welcome.

His lips thin and Aegon slides his cape free of his armour, laying it across Visenya's shoulders. The excess material pools in her lap, a waterfall of deep red. There's a moment of hesitation and then she draws it right around her form, sinking into his offer of warmth. That alone settles Aegon's next course of action.

"Despite your attempts to delay us, we will be leaving by the morning's light," Aegon concludes, Balerion's hot breath ghosting across the back of his neck. "I have made my concessions clear, it is by your own leave if you follow them or not." Balerion huffs, steam coiling in the summer's air, heat brushing through Aegon's locks and kissing at his cheeks.

Visenya is quiet beside him, dark smudges lingering beneath her eyes a clear indication as to why. He does regret interrupting her sleep; there had been two before her who so disliked his invasion of their slumber. He had done his best to avoid that where he could. Yet, there were times when the realm waited for no one and Aegon had suffered the consequences of being a rightful and just king.

"Lyarra," Eddard Stark breathes, looking to the young woman seated beside Aegon; when she refuses to meet his eyes, the stare is instead turned upon Aegon, "she will be safe with you?"

"I swear it, by fire and blood. While you have my deepest sincerities for her survival… the fates of Rhaenys and Elia remain unaccounted for." You did not chase justice for them, you who claims to be an honourable man has allowed this to slide by.

Eddard Stark's jaw clenches but he speaks no more on the matter, his wife remaining by his side. She has been quiet throughout the whole proceedings, it is by the glances (horrified, guilt-laced regret) that Aegon can begin guessing at the familiar relations between Visenya and this woman. He has no need to deal with her, she is no one of significance and he shan't be wasting time upon dealing with her. Visenya is his to care for now, has always been his to care for; she has just been waiting here, waiting for him.

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The Stark Lord is far from happy, that much is clear. But there is little he can do to prevent Aegon from leaving with Visenya. If he puts up any significant form of protest, Aegon is not against forcing him to submit and the man knows that. The haunting form of Balerion had resided over their meeting for that exact reason. He did not plan on leaving with the eldest Stark boy, however.

Robb Stark watches him with chips of frosted blue ice, his arms folded across his chest. Residing within that awkward stage of almost-a-man, the auburn-haired heir had insisted upon parting with them, deaf to his mother's cries and screams of denial. A part of Aegon can concede to the boy's feeble manipulations; offering himself up as a hostage forces Aegon to truly consider the North aligned with his motives, all the while allowing the boy to keep an eye on his sister. Robb Stark had stressed the term furiously, wolf's blood surging behind his Tully eyes.

Aegon hadn't even considered turning the offer down. Though it's a clear ploy to guard his sister-turned-cousin, the advantages had been too great to pass up. The surety of holding the North's future, the chance to assess the young lord and gain an insight into his personality; it all allows Aegon to begin paving the way for the future that will come after the conquest. Robb Stark will inherit the North; he already holds a great deal of affection for Visenya; if Aegon can kindle the same familiar sensations, then the chances of the boy supporting his own rule increase drastically.

It still makes for an uncomfortable ride back; Visenya cautiously seated upon Meraxes, Robb Stark with his forearms wrapped around Aegon's chest as the dawn's wind bites bitter against their skin. Balerion is warm between the meat of his thighs, familiar and scorching. By the constant shuffling of the body behind him, the young Stark finds no comfort here. Understandable; Balerion would dive for Aegon should he fall.

Robb Stark would not be so duly considered.

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Silence continues to shroud Visenya as they arrive within the main chamber.

Robb Stark has since been shown to his accommodations, fitting for his station but guarded as would be required. Visenya (sister, descendant, Targaryen) watches him with the same dark eyes he witnesses in the still waters, the very same shade of eminence purple as his own irises. Unlike him, her own eyes are guarded aggressively, her lips pressed into a firm, tight line. Cautious. There's a beauty about her, there always is when it comes to those of Valyrian descent. But it is a soft, supple thing. An overwash of gentle waves, rising and rising until it surrounds, until it is the first thing to be noticed. Aegon does not forget the bow she grasps, the quiver that still resides upon her shoulder; two of the guards have already dismissed that the weapon remains in her grasp, too entranced.

"What would you have of me, Your Highness?" Her voice is as soft-spoken as the Rhaenys of his memories; he recalls the iron to her tone when she had addressed her uncle, so alike the Visenya of the past. Two women rolled into one body within the wake of the second Rhaenys' death. She does not recall as he does, he can see that much. It is evident in the way she glances upon him; there are no memories within her mind of the sisters that came before. Perhaps this Visenya is a person independent of others, perhaps she is not. She is familiar; for that, he will hold her close. Treasured.

"Aegon."

"Pardon?"

"To you, Visenya, I shall be Aegon. Only Aegon." He has no intention of doing this alone, had not completed the first alone (he? his ancestor?), there had been two others. Now, for the greed and wrath of man, for the sins of their enemies, there is but two of them. He shall not fall, shall not allow Visenya to stand alone.

But she too must return the same ideals.

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Lyarra V

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She is shown to a room, grander than any she has ever stayed in (any she has ever visited) before. Lyarra dares not touch much of anything within, hesitant to even approach the window. A bed stretches across the right side of the room, lounging in such a manner that it takes up the entire wall. It seems too much, far too much for her, that is. Slowly, Lyarra seats herself on the bed, hands tangling within the scarlet cloth still draped across her shoulders. Aegon had given it to her, his flowing cape, laid it across her shoulders as if she could draw warmth from it.

Only, it had not been with cold that Lyarra had trembled.

No, it was the fear of what would become of her family that had gripped her so tightly. Her uncle, who had lied to the whole world in order to secure her life. Her brother (for Robb shall always be her brother, cousins by blood or not) who had so willingly offered himself up as hostage in order to continue protecting her. She doesn't deserve either of them… only, she's not an unworthy bastard anymore, is she?

Married, Eddard Stark (the man who told no lies but one) had claimed the Dragon Prince had married Lyanna… had married Lyarra's mother. Is she even truly Lyarra? Is her birth name Visenya, as Aegon Targaryen seems to whole-heartedly believe? The world no longer makes sense, she resides within a castle of a man who plans to bring Westeros to its knees and her fa-uncle, the man she'd believed invincible, is being held all but at sword-point. All the while, Lyarra rests upon a bed too grand and too large, aware of only one truth. There is a dragon that belongs to her.

Meraxes. That was the name Aegon had whispered, had called, so many times. Within her dreams, within waking life, every time it had been that name the dragon she is… bonded with had responded to it.

"Meraxes." Testing the name on her tongue brings no religious realisation, nor does anything magically click into place. Instead, it's acknowledgement. Acknowledgement of something that has always been present and she is just accepting it now. Meraxes has always been hers. She has always belonged to Meraxes. It had just taken them meeting to confirm it. When she had been seated upon the dragon's neck, hands wrapped around the large horns… nothing had ever felt so natural as that. Nothing had ever felt so pure and perfect. It had been as if, for the first time in her whole life, all was right with the world. While, in truth, nothing was right. She's been torn away from her home, found her whole life to be a lie, and now has to content with a brother who is intent on taking over Westeros for reasons unknown. A brother who is undoubtedly perusing justice for his dead sister and mother. For Lyarra's half-sister. That thought promotes bile, bile that rests at the back of her throat as she recalls just what Princess Rhaenys' fate had been. Her half-sister… that could have been her, if the Lord of the North hadn't lied to everyone. Hadn't lied to her.

A knock at the door startles Lyarra out of her dark thoughts. The castle, despite residing upon an island within a particularly stormy patch of sea, carries a warmth about it. Though that might be a result of the three dragons in residency. She's far from knowledgeable on the beasts. Is anyone, given they'd previously been thought extinct?

"Your Highness? Please open the door." The voice is female, soft spoken and accented in a way Lyarra has never heard. It doesn't make her any less trusting. She is not longer protected by her fath- uncle's men; the only person whose motives she's sure of are Robb's and he's who knows where in this keep? Aegon… Aegon wants her alive. There's a sinking suspicion as to why. It is the first thing in her life so far that chills Lyarra's innards.

Marriage. She knows that it is in her future, but she'd always pictured a lesser bannerman. Perhaps Smalljon, who she is sure would treat her kindly. Now… now she has become a pawn in the Game of Thrones. To be married off to secure an allegiance at her brother's convenience. She dares not think of the other option, dares not allow her mind to tread in that direction.

Lyarra picks up her bow, notches an arrow before she cautiously unbolts the door. She does feel terrible when the threshold exposes nothing more than a chambermaid, looking suitable horrified to be on the business end of Lyarra's bow.

"I- sorry. I didn't know…" Lyarra trails off, utterly unsure how to finish her sentence. She didn't know if there would be enemies of Aegon's rule behind the door? On the one island he has to his name? His ancestral homeland, his one seat of power? Then again, just because the people who call this land home support Aegon, does not mean they will show her the same curtesy.

"Ah! You do not need to apologise to me, Your Highness. His Grace sends these. He also hopes you will join him for dinner in his parlour… he has also extended the invitation to Lord Robb." Just like that, the one reason Lyarra has to turn him down disappears. It would be in her best interests to find where she stands with Aegon, that much is clear.

"Thank you. I accept."

"I will relay the message to His Grace." The maid bows, disappearing down the corridor as Lyarra shuts the door, suddenly aware she never even asked for the girl's name. Her cheeks burn, embarrassed by her own inability to come to recognise her surroundings. It is not just the physical geography she must pay attention to, but also the people. Aegon's people. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Lyarra looks down at the soft mass of fabrics the girl had handed to her, inspecting the deep red silks. It is by far finer than anything else she has ever worn, embroidered with darker threads to create a subtle scale like patter down the back. She feels dirty just from touching it.

With no idea how long she has until this lunch, Lyarra makes for the adjoining room she hadn't dared to approach yet, peering inside. A bath already resides within, filled with water. There's a small box beneath and, upon peeling back the door, it reveals a mass of straw and timbre. Two flints reside upon the top of the box, clearly present to light a fire and warm her water. Hesitant, Lyarra reaches for them, shuffling the chips about in her hands. Lighting a fire is not beyond her.

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Time passes; the candles of her rooms shrink, pools of wax gathering in the holders. Lyarra finds a short blade, clearly created with the intent of shaving, and she shears the hairs from her legs. The pale skin beneath is smooth; she runs her fingers across the surface with tentative ease, marvelling in the motions. It's not something she'd have dared to do in the North, having only recently overheard from Sansa's gossiping with her friends that it is a common beauty routine in the South. Probably for a man's enjoyment but… Lyarra quite likes it. Her calves feel fantastic when she rubs them together now.

It is not, however, the only thing she has changed.

Glancing at the long locks of hair that now decorate the floor, she consciously reaches for the choppy strands that now only just kiss at her collarbones. She'd not dared to cut her hair before, despite a multitude of shared fantasies concocted with Arya under the cover of darkness. Now… now, she is either a captive prisoner or one of the most powerful women in the realm. Perhaps both. It is a test, a test to see how Aegon will react, to understand if she should sneak to Meraxes and flee or remain and risk her future on the whims of her previously unknown brother.

Lyarra has long dreamed of short hair, hair that would not get in the way of her quiver, of her bow and the arrows she sends flying from it. Lady Catelyn had made her impressions of short hair quite clear. It is for this reason that Lyarra so determinedly has sliced off the majority of her mane. Drastic measures perhaps. But she can all but hear Arya cheering her on. Tucking one unruly strand behind her ear, Lyarra sighs, considering the tiara that came with the dress a single glance.

No, far too soon. She can't. Not right now.

Perhaps never.

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Aegon VI

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While he had been tempted to take his meal in the Chamber with the painted Table, Aegon had ultimately decided to forestall bringing the Stark boy in on his conquest. Though Robb Stark would not be sending ravens anytime soon (certainly not unsupervised anyway), there is no need to create unnecessary risks for himself and his conquest. Instead, they reside within the Red Parlour, named so for the coloured glass that fills every window. With its black piping, it allows light to leak through in the Targaryen colours, bathing the room in a crimson glow. One window provides less light than the others; Balerion resides behind that one, his intimidating bulk pressing up against the side of the keep.

The storm rages outside, as if the heavens weep as Lord Stark undoubtedly does. With his previous actions, he has signed the North for war with the Crown, carved the pathway that will allow Northern warriors to join Aegon's cause. Many may not realise it, but Robb Stark resides within his keep now. Robb Stark is the key to the North, to the Riverlands. And Visenya is the key to Robb Stark.

As the thought of his sister crosses his mind, Aegon settles more comfortably into his chair, watching the boy across from his but considering another. In truth, he had not expected to find Visenya when he flew North. The intention had been to make the largest of the Kingdom's submit, to accept his rule and his word. To accept his stake for the crown. Atop dragon back, there is little they could do to complain. Instead, he had found a way into their hearts.

For the past few hours, Aegon has realized himself with the tale of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, taken with the new information that they were wed. It certainly put a new spin on things; a tale of tragic love, of two lovers who risked everything for their romance and lost it all. The realm bled and right now, the attitude towards Rhaegar (father, descendant, the Last Dragon), is far from good. The Crown's current stance tells of a devil who spirited away a young, innocent woman. However… Aegon cannot picture a Stark being forced to wed; not one who was so proudly declared to carry the 'wolf's blood'. No, he rather assumes Lyanna Stark fled an unworthy suitor. He has heard tale enough of the King, both past and present, to decide that the attentions of an attentive prince would be much preferred to the drunken lout that currently rules. Perhaps Robert Baratheon would have been worthy of note in his prime; yet, the wolf maid still chose another.

His mind spins back into focus, revolving once again around Visenya. A sister. He had two of those, once. Warriors, dragon-riders, lovers. Visenya unquestionably fits within one of these categories. He's hesitant place her within the other two. Not without first considering all the angles. He knows so little of her. She is Meraxes chosen rider, a Targaryen by blood but also claims to be blood of the first kings, blood of the Starks. A child of fire and ice. That is the important bit. That is the bit that sings within his brain, harmonising with a melody that has haunted him his whole life, that had haunted his descendants.

Perhaps that is Rhaegar's reasoning for taking a second wife. Perhaps he had realised what was to come, what danger lies in wake. The danger that Aegon was dreaming of when he was nought but a green boy, unbloodied and innocent.

Mayhap it shall be his child with Visenya that claims the title of Prince that was Promised.

Aegon banishes the thought from his mind forcibly. Now is not the time. He has set aside dinner in order to test Robb Stark, to allow himself a chance to grasp the boy's character. It had been here that he developed a friendship with another boy close to his age, a boy who would have fought by his side and been rewarded handsomely. A boy whose descendant he now wages war upon. They had been close one, Targaryen and Baratheon. Now, however. Things are different now. It is time to reach out and build new bridges, to extend new branches. The Starks, known for their loyalty to their people and their steadfast preparation for Winter above all else is a good place to start.

"How do you find Dragonstone, Robb Stark?" Flicking his gaze to the boy in question, Aegon watches the fabric of his doublet stretch, the shoulders beneath tensing. Robb has yet to start eating; they are still waiting on their female company after all. Though Aegon assumes the other boy will be as unimpressed with young Shireen as Aegon himself was. Baratheon in name, not much else. He does pity the girl for the grey-scale that mars her features; he will ensure a good match is made for the girl, if nothing else. But she shall never be a true beauty. Her personality is also substandard. That, however, can be worked on with the correct company.

"It's a grand piece of architecture, Your Grace." There's a shallow dip to Robb Stark's head as he speaks, but while his posture is submissive, his eyes are anything but. Wolf's blood, no doubt. Just, a subtler tinge to it than any he's heard of before. Like the fish beneath the stream, masked by the water's surface, giving no hints to the dangers that lurk beneath.

"But you prefer Winterfell."

"Winterfell is my home. Our home." There needs be no explanation on just who the 'our' includes. Aegon tilts his head, considering the boy whose bravery boarders upon stupidity. While it has yet to tip-toe across that razor fine line… He's not too far off.

"There is a lethal beauty to winter. The weather is exceptionally pure but can kill a man with as much ease as the flames. One cooks you alive, strips the flesh from your bones. The other seeps into them; frostbite can be considered a more torturous way to die than flames. As a Northerner, I'm sure you are well aware of that, Rob Stark." Whatever rebukes the young heir wishes to voice are suffocated when the door opens and the last of their company appears. Shireen seems to have found Visenya on her way down, for the young girl stands almost half-hidden by her elder companion, her long, dark hair pulled back in an intricate braid. It's a startling contrast to the jagged strands Visenya sports.

Aegon cannot possibly hope to steal his eyes from her.

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Lyarra VI

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Aegon spends the dinner informing her of House Targaryen's history. Yet, for all that he speaks of the dragonsblood that resides within her veins… his tales do not centre upon the Crown. No, the majority of his exploits exist in a time before a united Westeros thriving under Targaryen rule. In fact, a fair portion of the tales revolve around the most famous of their ancestors; Aegon and his two sister wives. Not once does Aegon refer to them as such, however. Within his tales, they are simply Visenya and Rhaenys. They are tales she, and probably anyone who is not a member of the main Targaryen family, has never heard of.

He makes no mention of her hair, past the first few moments he'd spent staring. Robb is worse; he has yet to wipe the horror from his face. It makes her relatively self conscious, even if Shireen has stated she looked lovely. Lyarra... Lyarra feels protective of the other girl already. She's no Arya, has no hope of being a Sansa (though Lyarra is beginning to suspect that both of those things may be a good thing in the South) but, none the less, she is the only other girl of status here.

No, she cannot think that and remain serious. Lyarra doesn't feel she's a princess. She doesn't feel like she's a woman of importance, even as she sits here at this dinner table with the heir of the North and the Prince who aims to usurp the usurper. No- to claim his rightful throne. She's a Targaryen now, Lyarra forcibly reminds herself. She has no choice but to think as one of them, to wish for Aegon's victory. Because her very existence has forced her uncle's hand, has tied the otherwise apathetic North too tightly to Aegon's righteous campaign.

Aegon does a good job at piercing the silence that otherwise surrounds them, but it is clear he is untested in such a thing. He can hold a conversation, can teach them the history of his (their) house remarkable well. But it is not a comfortable thing. Perhaps this is how all lords' dinners of significance go. Lyarra wouldn't know; this is the first one she has ever been able to grace, after all.

"What are you going to do next?"

A single breath is taken, passing between her lips, before Lyarra realises it was she who spoke. Aegon, having finished one tale and been in the process of consulting his mind for another, flicks his gaze up to look at her. They have the same eyes, she realises. The same dark indigo, the same mystic darkness housed in their faces beneath any sky barring bright sunlight.

"Lyarra, don't-"

"No. Allow Visenya to finish her questioning," Aegon interrupts her brother and Robb's face makes it blatantly clear he has never experience another of his age cutting him off, "I would like to hear what her thoughts, along with any other issues she wishes to be addressed." Placing his goblet down upon the tabletop, Aegon threads his fingers together and balanced his chin upon the weave he has created. His full attention is upon her. He's got a dragon's gaze, she realises. Fully focused, it takes her breath away. Not in the Knight in shining armour way either, but nor is it predator and prey. Instead, the sheer amount of attention Aegon lavishes upon her in that moment seems to replace all of Lyarra's fragile bones with steel, coats her innards in dragon flames. She wishes to rise to the challenge, she is horrified to find. A once bastard, she could have never thought to respond in kind. Yet, here she is now, a princess with a would-be king practically inviting her to speak her mind.

"I want to know if you plan to have my f- my uncle's men march upon the other kingdoms. I want to know who you plan to besiege with dragons next. I want to know my place in all of this... who it is you intend for me to marry."

At that, Robb chokes, his cheeks beginning to turn a feverish red as he swing around to offer Aegon his best Tully flats, copies right for the canvas of his mother. It is a terribly intimating thing; what is a fish, a wolf, before a dragon? Nothing but prey. Only one is even worth of Aegon's notice.

Occupying the final chair at the table, Shireen Baratheon slowly recedes into the harsh wooden back, a curtain of dark hair tumbling across her features to hide her infliction for view. Lyarra's heart goes out to her, a girl the gods have so clearly not taken to heart, who they have not protected or gifted. There are far few who have that more of protection.

"Is this what you believe I have taken you from the North for?" Aegon asks, softly and unhurried with his words. He's still in the same position with only one difference; his he's is tilted up and yet, impossibly, he is still staring at her from beneath the thick layer of his lashes. In the unnatural red lighting the windows cast upon the room, he looks unearthly, far too beautiful for this land. It is no wonder the Targaryen's were so beloved, so hated. True beauty can inspire only the strongest of emotions, after all. "That I have nothing but plans to weave you into?"

And Lyarra finds herself at a loss for words. How is one supposed to respond to such questioning when it is becoming so blatant that Aegon has no such plans?

"Feel free to spend the rest of the evening together; I am afraid I have a council to meet with, though I will require your presence, each of you, shortly after the dawning sun. A guard will escort you to the Chamber of the Painted Table." With that, Aegon stands, prompting all of them to their feet for the sake of social niceties alone. He walks towards the door alone, stopping a foot shy of her chair.

"The cut suits your face, Visenya. You're beautiful."

And then he is gone.

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Still alive. Still not too sure where I'm going with this barring one thing.

Tsume
xxx