A Song of Ice, a Song of Fire

Arya was impressed about her own strength in face of the calamities that occurred. When Lyonel rode past her without a glance and crowned his own sister as the Queen of Love and Beauty, the wolf girl retreated deep into herself and crafted a mask of stone for the rest of the world to see. When she had left the arena earlier than everyone else and commanded the carriage driver to take her back to the Red Keep, she was thankful that her voice remained steady and did not quiver. When she climbed the Tower of the Hand, acknowledging the bows of the handful of Stark guards that her father had left back, she did so with ease, not betraying any emotion.

It was only when she was left alone at the hall of the Tower of the Hand that Arya began to let her emotions flow once more, taking deep, unsteady breaths as her body trembled.

The final straw was seeing her father's table, where a handful of scrolls bearing the seals of various houses lay hastily discarded. She knew what they were; marriage proposals. Once, Eddard Stark would have taken hours talking to his rebellious daughter, trying to get her to see the benefits of marrying this house or that, and how she herself would find happiness in those marriages. She had refused them all with barely any thought, and for the past year her father did not make such attempts anymore, resigned to the belief that her daughter knows what's best for her. For much of her life, seeing her father respect her decisions and not pressuring her to marry would have filled Arya with happiness. This past month, she would have been relieved, for while Arya knew that she couldn't marry Lyonel, she could have at least stayed by his side as his... something. Anything. But today that sight which should have made her joyous was what made her cry. In Arya's proud mind, Lyonel had done the worst thing anyone could have done to her: given her a hint of love, before spurring her.

As the first signs of sobs began to rack her, Arya caught a glimpse of herself in the glass windows. Her ridiculously tight and revealing dress, worn to impress Lyonel, now looked exceedingly foolish to her. She tried to unlace herself, but the dress was too tight, and Arya had to struggle and claw her way out of the dress. The wolf girl looked sadly at the torn, blue heirloom on the ground, giving it a pathetic kick. She'll have to get it fixed later.

"Pity about the dress," a strangely familiar voice that gave Arya goose prickles came from behind. "It was pretty. But dresses were never your thing in the first place, was it, little wolf?"

Arya whirled back and gasped. "Meera?"

Her old friend, Meera Reed, stepped out of the shadows with her usual, confident smile. She must be twenty-seven now, Arya realized, eight years her senior, but she didn't look any different from when Arya had last seen her a couple of years ago. Perhaps that is because like all her people, the Crannogmen, Meera was extremely short and lithe. In fact, Arya remembered how Meera used to tease her about her height, saying that the reason she was so fond of Arya was because Arya was one of the few people Meera could beat in height. Her childhood friend still had the features she always had, with the most notable being her startling, apple green eyes that could pierce into a person's soul. Meera's dark curls were braided tightly behind her head, and the rest of her lithe body was covered in a black cloak, clasped together by a jade brooch of a lizard lion eating its own tail - the sigil of House Reed.

"What are you doing here?" Arya blurted out, overwhelmed with emotions. "I haven't seen you in years! Are you here for the tourney?"

"I was at the tourney. But I came here for you, of course." Meera replied, with the kind smile that is reserved for just her family... and Arya. Seeing the smile made many old memories return.

Years ago, Lord Howland Reed of the Greywater Watch came to visit his best friend and her father, Eddard Stark, to Winterfell. He brought his two children along with him, and Arya was immediately captivated. Arya had a few male friends she played with, but absolutely no female friends, the girls in the castle shunning her for being un-lady like. Arya thought that there was only one girl like her. Until Meera came and proved her wrong and showed that there were girls who enjoyed climbing and hunting and fishing and fighting. During the month she stayed at the castle, much to her mother's disapproval, Arya had followed the older girl everywhere, learning all she could from her. But Crannogmen rarely leave their marshy homes for long, and after a wonderful month, Arya was all alone. She couldn't even contact Meera through letters, as no one, not even a well-trained messenger raven, can find a moving castle in the middle of the world's most dangerous swamps. Her father realized how much their friendship had meant for one another, and, after she had become a maiden proper at her eighteenth nameday, he talked with Lord Reed and gave Arya permission to stay at Greywater Watch for several months. They were the best time of her life, as the two girls fell back to their old habits and games. But some of the games by then had become... somewhat adult.

"You could not see me, but I was looking at you from the arena." Meera said. "I could scarcely recognize you. How much you have grown!" With that, Meera lifted her hand and gently cupped one of Arya's breasts. A finger lightly brushed over her nipple, which immediately hardened remembering old sensations.

"And you look the same as ever," Arya said with a smile, not acknowledging the touch. After all, many and more wilder things have happened to her since Meera last saw her.

Meera took her hand away in surprised amusement. "Grown indeed," she muttered.

"You said you were here to see me," Arya remarked.

"I came to help you."

"Why do you think I need help?"

"Perhaps because you looked as if you were going to strangle the prince of the Seven Kingdoms," Meera replied with her typical bluntness.

Arya grew pale with anger, before sinking into a nearby chair, ignoring the unpleasant sensation of rough wood on bare skin.

"Oh, little wolf," Meer said, softening up. "What drove you to lay your hopes on a man and a Southerner? Did you really think that your sister's betrothed would crown you today?"

"Yes." Arya said simply.

Meera stared at her with her green eyes. They aren't the sparkling green eyes of the Lannisters. Arya thought. It's the green of the bog and the swamp, just a hint too dark to remind one of the old myths of Crannogmen breeding with the Children of the Forest.

Realizing that her friend was waiting for more from her. Lyonel's not like other Southerners, other men. He's the opposite. He's even teaching me the art of the sword. He's... special."

Arya trailed off at the last word as a raven flew into the room and perched on Meera's shoulders. She wasn't surprised. Greywater Watch was infested with the birds.

"Yes, I know he is special," Meera muttered while stroking the bird, talking almost as much to Arya as to the raven. "He has a role to play in the wars to come. But so do you, and for that, you can't keep on acting like some Southern damsel."

"What are you talking about?" a confused Arya asked.

Meera unclasped her cloak and wrapped it around Arya's nakedness, before taking her hand and moving to the door.

"Where are we going?" an exasperated Arya demanded.

"To the Godswood," Meera replied without looking back. "It's time to remember who you are, She-wolf of Winterfell."

Septa Mordane was reading the Book of the Maiden in the Seven Pointed Star when Sansa interrupted her.

"Septa?"

"Yes, Sansa?" Septa Mordane asked while lowering the tome for a moment and looking at her charge lying on bed. Apart from the weakness of her voice and the paleness of her skin, Lady Sansa Stark looked as beautiful as she always did.

"Do you think I'll be able to go the tourney tomorrow? I missed the joust, but the archery competition and the melee are still there."

Mordane sighed. "Sansa, you must rest. You know this."

"But I've been resting the whole day!" the redheaded protested. "And my tummy hasn't hurt in hours! I can go!"

"The Grand Maester said that you need to rest for at least a couple of days, Sansa."

The Stark girl went silent, though it was clear she wanted to argue more. She always had complete faith in her Septa knowing the best for her, which was one of the reasons Mordane loved her so much.

After a few seconds of silence, Sansa spoke up again. "They say that Prince Lyonel crowned Princess Myrcella after the tourney."

"Yes."

"Good. I was afraid..."

Sansa trailed off, though it wasn't hard for the Septa to guess why. The Stark sisters never got on well, and as the younger spending more and more time with the prince has become an increasing matter of annoyance to the elder.

"Oh, Sansa," murmured the Septa, bending over her and removing a strand of red hair from her damp forehead. "I know that missing this tourney seems like a great deal to you, but there will be so many in your life to come -"

"Will there?"

"Of course! When your young prince ascends the throne, when he weds you, when you have your firstborn child... for all of these there will be tourneys grander than this, and you will be crowned in each one of them."

The young lady didn't reply, but it was very clear that she was much happier now, the Septa's soothing voice of reason always having that effect on her.

"But what of you, Septa?" Sansa asked in a while. "This is the first time you are back in the South in decades, not since you were as young as I am now. Are you not sad at being stuck with me and missing all the chivalry of the South?"

"All that I care for are currently in this tower, right now."

The answer made Sansa happy, and the two were lulled back into silence. However, Sansa's contentment was not shared with her Septa. Being reminded of her youth dragged her memory back to those days that she'd rather forget. Memories of pleasant Oldtown, of growing up as the daughter of a well to do merchant, with a predictable but pleasant life laid in front of her. It took only one day for all of that to change, however. One day, a kind smile framed by fiery hair, a youthful mistake of kisses and touches. Then came the guilt and the horror, the realization of her sinful actions by engaging in abnormal, carnal desires that were an insult in the eyes of the seven. That very night the young Mordane has fled to a septon to seek solace and went as far, far possible from that city of sin, resolved to lead a life of chastity and make sure that no other woman treads the path of sin that she once stepped on.

Septa Mordane rose swiftly while closing the holy book, eager to go to the Sept and beseech the clemency of the gods, as she always does whenever the memories of sin come back to haunt her.

"Where are you going Septa?" Sansa asked with her wide blue eyes.

"To the Sept. I must pray. I will light a candle to the Mother asking for your quick recovery, my lady." the Septa replied, a bit tersely than she would have liked, but remembrances of her sinful youth always put her in a bad temper.

"But it is the time for my bath!"

The Septa looked at the setting sun and almost cursed under her breath before stopping herself. The Grand Maester requested frequent baths in hot water for Lady Sansa to wear off her sickness, and, gods give her peace, it really was the time for the next bath.

Steeling herself, the Septa silently assented and helped Sansa get off the bed. The needs of her charges always supersede those of hers.

The two women, young and older, both tall, drifted through the Tower of the Hand before reaching the bathing chamber. A narrow, long copper tub sat at the center of it, filled to the brim with warm water by servants who had already left. Usually, the servants stayed behind to help Lady Sansa undress, but due to her sickness, her young charge was only wearing a loose white shift which clung to her skin due to her sweat. Sansa's fingers clumsily went to cloth strip tying it all together, and the Septa, suddenly aware of her own ogling, quickly looked away.

Instead, the old matron turned her face to the brick wall and began to undress herself. First, as always, came the only piece of jewelry that adorned her body, a necklace with a seven-pointed star that she hung on a crook on the wall. Then came the habit that covered her head, unleashing a cascade of brown hair, streaked with grey here and there. Then came the rest of her Septa's robe. On the walls hung a looking mirror, and despite her disapproval of this sign of vanity, the Septa find her eyes moving there. The face and body of the young girl from Oldtown have melted with age, but did her sprit remain? Her breasts, despite never feeding a child, have now begun to sag, though their size was admittedly very impressive. Her stomach was proudly still very flat, and a crop of dark hair, so brown that it was almost black, covered her nether regions (it was sinful for a woman to shave anywhere but her head, and even then, not too much). Almost unconsciously, her hands rubbed her arms. Were those hints of wrinkles she felt, or was that her imagination? And even if it were wrinkles, shouldn't you be more grateful, you hypocrite, that your body will soon stop becoming a temptation to others? the more pious side of her asked scathingly.

That voice popped like a balloon with a single word. "Septa?"

The Septa turned and smiled. "Forgive me, Sansa. An old woman often gets trapped in her own memories."

The girl smiled in turn, and she strode towards her.

The Septa had hoped that Sansa would have unrobed and got into the bath while her back was turned to her. This was indeed what had occurred, but still, she could see much of her young charge's body than she must at the moment. Sansa's hair, dark red with wetness, floated on the surface of the water, contrasting with the girl's pale skin, so unlike the Septa's own tanned skin, though that is to be expected given that the two women were born on the opposite sides of the continent. The girl's large breasts, topped by pale, pink nipples, almost floated on the surface of the water. Her long, long legs, which gave her much of her height, was carelessly leaned on either edge of the tub... or, in other words, her legs were wide open. Being the pious, studious, young lady, Sansa followed her Septa's example in everything, and her nether regions were covered in a bush of fiery hair... but, if you looked closely enough, you could see a hint of the pink slit underneath the rippling water and all that hair, glistening oh so invitingly.

"Septa! You are staring again!" Sansa giggled.

"Forgive me, Sansa," the matron replied, coming out of her reverie. "I was thinking of how pretty your hair looked." That was... not exactly a lie, but far from the whole truth either.

"Yours is pretty too. It's a pity that so few get to see it."

"As long as you get to see it, why would I care about others?" the Septa gave her usual reply, inciting the usual set of giggles. But, hidden as banter as it may be, those words were as true as any she had spoken.

The Septa sat on the rim of the tub, behind Sansa, while her legs were spread on either side of the girl. Then she took her lady's long red hair and began to unravel it. The soothing sensation and the warm water lulled the sweet girl into a state of drowsiness, and she leaned against her teacher's bare legs, eyes almost fully closed.

The Septa's dark brown eyes peered at the almost sleeping girl. So young, so ****, so... trusting. Maybe this was why the gods cursed her with a sinful youth. So that she can learn of sin and protect even greater innocence from corruption. Yes, that must be it. That's what she'll do. She will guard this young girl, almost her daughter, from any that would corrupt her. Her beloved Sansa. Yes. She was sure that the reason for her birth, her life, it was all to serve the Lady Sansa.

In the heart of the city of King's Landing, Marei Waters stood at the window of her room at Chataya's brothel and sighed. Her constantly gazing vivid green eyes were, for once, closed, and the calm night breeze tousled her golden hair, making the usually dispassionate girl's mouth curve in a rare smile.

It has been a busy day. The entire day was engulfed by the Hand's joust, and afterwards, victorious knights and noblemen had flocked into the establishment, using the ransoms they earned to have a good time with the girls. As always, the reminder of her career always spoiled Marei's mood, and the slight sneer she almost permanently wore returned to her face. And by the time she was at Chataya's quarters, even the vestige of the smile she had had dissipated.

"Ah, come in Marei!" the matron spoke kindly. "Take a seat!"

"Thank you, Lady Chataya," Marei said in a reverent voice she would not use for any other.

While the world was full of people she disdained, Chataya was far from that. She was the first to see Marei's use for anything other than what her holes could provide. She took her in and Marei quickly rose under the old matron's care to become her second, managing everything from the lady's finances to felicitating the many secret meetings she has with the crown prince.

"A girl came in and asked for me for apparently something very important. I thought to have you by my side."

Marei nodded simply, and Chataya beckoned the girl to come in.

One thing was immediately clear to Marei; the woman was a prostitute, and a very successful one at that. It wasn't her appearance. She was tall and thin, black eyes and shiny, cascading black hair. Apart from her ageless looking face, which made it impossible to guess her age, she was an ordinary, pretty woman. However, it was her walk, and her haughty gaze that expected people to bend to her will, that marked her as an old (and successful) hand at the trade.

Apparently, the observation was also obvious to Lady Chataya as well. "This joust brought women from all over the world to this city, and they all wanted to serve here, at the best place possible. I already had to send dozens away. But it's clear that you are not here for a job and that you don't need help to be a pleasure girl. So, tell me what you want girl. I'm very curious about what you can give me other than yourself."

The woman laughed a throaty, exotic laugh, the way those in free cities do. "No, no, I'm afraid I'm not here for a job. My name is Shae and I'm looking for your help, Lady Chataya."

A raised eyebrow. "Help? What can I do for a woman that is so obviously already well established in the trade?"

The girl, Shae, hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Your discretion among those in our profession is legendary. Can I put my trust in it?"

"You can," Chataya exclaimed proudly at her reputation.

"Well, you see, recently I got a client whose secrecy must be protected in the utmost. The problem is he lives in the Red Keep and can't leave it unnoticed. Now, I have heard that there is a secret method to enter into the keep under your position. Something about a... secret tunnel or some such?"

Marei flinched at that last part. She does her best to not think of the tunnel, but it is becoming increasingly hard to do that. Just a little time back, didn't the Crown Prince himself barge into the brothel, with the daughter of the Lord Hand at toe, and required the use of the tunnel?

"And if I allow you to use this tunnel, if such a thing even existed, what would you give me in turn?"

A moment of silence.

"You know," Chataya continued slily. "You are very much the type of girl this establishment employs. You could do well here."

"I can. But my new client might well disapprove of me being with other men. He can ask me to be his paramour." Shae's voice was coquettish, but confidence still radiated from her.

"If that is the case, then I want 30% of whatever he pays you, gold, jewels, whatever, in exchange for you using the tunnel."

Another moment of silence. 30% was a lot, but the tunnel connecting the Street of Silk to the Red Keep was one of a kind and Chataya had full control of it. Slowly Shae rose gracefully from her chair and dipped her head. "Your reputation serves you well, Lady Chataya."

The old, ebony skinned woman rose with a smile. "All lodgings must be full of all these visitors. You can have a room in my establishment for the time being."

"Thank you, Lady Chataya."

Afterwards, it was Marei's duty to show the new girl to her quarters and to explain to her the rules of the establishment. As she was tried to leave, however, she found the path to the door blocked.

"You know, Marei, you interest me," Shae said in her annoying, all-knowing manner.

"Is that so?" the blonde replied, completely uninterested.

"Yes. Women like you and I are expected to be more... ah, productive in places like this. I can see why an old woman like Chataya is doing all this money work. But how come someone like you are already her second? Someone who would be so popular, so beautiful and still young? How old are you anyway? Surely not even thirty?"

"Nine and twenty." Marei replied, her patience running thin.

"And already the second matron of the most exclusive brothel on the continent! How impressive for a young whore!"

At that last word, a brief spasm ran across Marei's face, which was not unnoticed by the other girl.

"Oh, don't tell me - oh I've met women like you before!" Shae said gleefully. "Women who think they are so much better than the work they do, who spend their whole lives hating anyone around them and dreaming of a better life that never comes. It's so pathet-"

That was the moment Marei's patience ran out and she stuck. Shae, too, was quick, but the blonde had the speed that only a bastard girl growing up in the streets of Flea Bottom acquire. Her hand went up the other's flimsy dress and got a handful of her bush (these Eastern whores almost never shave). Then Marei twisted, twisted and yanked so hard until Shae fell to her knees.

"Two things you should know if you are staying here, whore," Marei spat. "One, I'm nothing like you or those other strumpets here. Two, you will address me as Lady Marei. Understood?"

"Yes, my lady," came the shocked voice from below.

Marei's heart purred, as it always did, listening to the title she was always supposed to have. "Good. Now, you will atone for your transgressions."

An hour later, Shae was a frothing, broken slut, writhing in pain and pleasure on the sweat drenched bed. Marei was back at the window, allowing the cool night breeze to calm down her naked figure, sweaty from both the anger and the good fuck. With most of her anger left on Shae's skin, Marei took a deep breath and let the rest flow out. Emotions are a weakness she rarely entertains for long.

As she stood in front of the window, Marei's green eyes fell on a building across the street, Chataya's old brothel, now operating as an inn, in which the oh so important tunnel was located. As always, the mere reminder of it was enough for her to get bile in her throat. It was built by the Hand of the King some three decades back, so that he could visit his whores without harming his fearsome reputation. It was in such visit that Marei Waters was conceived.

The idea of it, the thought that in other circumstances she would be born to the highest nobility made Marei's entire body tremble. Her father might have used that tunnel to leave the Red Keep and visit whores in the city. One day, she would use it to go to the Red Keep, go as high as she can, and she would never look back.

A cold, night breeze swam atop the Dothraki Sea, making the tall grass ripple and penetrating everything in its way with icy fingers, including the light, Dothraki garb worn by Daenerys Targaryen. Bone chilling, was how anyone else would describe the winds, but hers was the blood of the dragon, and few things could dampen her inner fire, which burned brighter today than it had done in years.

Going to the edge of the hill that she was staying and peering down below, Daenerys could see a sea of tents spread for a mile about, little lights dispersed amidst them; the khalasar of her late husband Drogo, the largest in the world, led by the closest thing to a king the Dothraki has had in over three centuries. On they slumbered, blissfully unaware of their great leader's demise and how even then, her most loyal bloodriders silently strode through the camp, eliminating any who could challenge her authority come morning.

A rustling noise prompted the princess to turn her attention back to the top of the hill. A great wooden pyre was hastily built atop it, amidst which laid the body of her husband, Khal Drogo, carelessly arrayed in funeral garb. Daenerys glanced at his noble visage... and felt nothing, as she usually did. Even in ****, Drogo was clouded in the cloak of apathy that characterized their marriage.

On one end of the pyre, tied and gagged and defeated, sat Mirri Maz Duur. The wood's witch of the Lhazareen had been Daenerys' companion and confidant for many years, and it was her, with who concocted the potion that brought down the mighty khal just earlier today. All well and good, but that also meant she knew far more of Daenerys' secrets than she'd care to admit and has to be silenced... which would happen shortly enough.

She was not the only one present, however. Eight other men, the most powerful men within the khalasar and Drogo's most obvious successors, were tied to the pyre, the witch's potion still holding them in thrall. With Mirri and the khal, that made ten people on the pyre in total. The Dragon Dream she had three days ago said that three would suffice for her goals, but one could never be too sure.

Around the pyre was a ring of young, watchful warriors, her bloodriders, there arakhs, curved swords, gleaming in the moonlight. Good men all, whose trust was tested and cemented over and over again. Some held grievances against Khal Drogo and his rule, others wanted to climb the ranks of the khalasar, yet others were even more ambitious, hoping to sail the poison lake across wooden horses to plunder the seven kingdoms, and saw Drogo's conservativeness as an obstacle to that end. All lusted after Daenerys to one degree or another, and at least some must harbour secret wishes to wed her and be the new khal. That last idea was ridiculous to Daenerys. She was done with husbands and men in general, and the only reason she didn't put an end to those hopes was the joy she got from teasing and enticing her followers. Whatever their cocks told them, however, their loyalties were tested many times, and Daenerys had faith in them.

"Do not do this Khaleesi," a familiar voice grumbled behind him, the only voice that was still brave enough to say no to her.

Sir Jorah Mormont strode forwards and stood beside her. In full battle armour, hair all over his body except for the top of his head, face and voice course, he indeed lived up to his epithet of Old Bear, though his blue eyes would soften every time they meet her purple.

"Don't do this Khaleesi," Sir Jorah implored once more, as he had been doing since he learned of her plan. "Come morning the khalasar will be yours, yours to do as you wish, even to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. Why risk all that with this... this recklessness?"

"It is my destiny," Daenerys said in a simple voice. It was certain. On the East, a red comet dawned. It was too far away right now for the others to see, but for the Blood of the Dragon it was the surest sign one could ask for.

Jorah recoiled. "All this talk of destiny... you sound like your father."

A pinprick of anger disrupted Daenerys' calmness. Anyone else would have been banished from her presence, if not worse, for insulting her so, but Ser Jorah has always been her source of good advice and wisdom.

She fully turned to the old knight, putting a hand on his armoured arm and leaning on her tiptoes to kiss his course cheek. "You must trust me, Sir Jorah. Can you do that?" she asked.

Clearly, he still had his objections, but Jorah could never deny her when she flashed her purple eyes in innocent wideness as she did now. He nodded mutely and took a step back.

Turning back to the pyre, Daenerys congratulated herself with a smirk. Like everyone present, Jorah too, lusted, maybe even loved, her. Long ago, in the early days of her marriage, when she became certain that Khal Drogo could not, please her, and knowing how eager and **** and loving he was, Daenerys took Jorah to her bed. Their first attempt had been a disaster, but she cared enough for him to give a second chance. Once he failed even in his third attempt, Daenerys put a firm stop to their dalliances, though she still felt bad for him, and didn't object to him peering into her tent whenever she took her pleasure from her maids. Jorah never elicited disgust or hate from her the way Drogo did. In fact, she loved him, as one loves their old fumbling uncle. But he was a good step in her coming to terms with the fact that no man, no matter how earnest or loving, could please a woman as another woman does.

Daenerys' reverie was broken by her lovers themselves. Irri and Jhiqqi were hauling that wooden chest she received on her wedding day so long ago, placing it in the center of the pyre, right next to her husband's corpse. With that, all the preparations were complete, and soon a bright fire engulfed the pyre.

Aware of her moment of destiny being at hand, Daenerys slowly stripped (no need to get perfectly good clothes burned too). She strode forward self-assuredly, as a dozen set of eyes gazed at her in lust, wonder, awe, fear, grief and disbelief, until those eyes, and everything else, were consumed by all engulfing fire.

As the sun rose next morning, the world, for the first time in a century and a half, was greeted by the song of newborn dragons.