Chapter 1: State of the Realm
Notes:
Hello, welcome to my first fanfiction since 2018! I am determined to finish this complete saga and will be doing two chapters every Sunday around 9pm, like the original series debuted! Thank you!
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The Year 281 AC (After Conquest) – Westeros stands at an uneasy calm after a crisis narrowly avoided. King Rhaegar Targaryen I sits the Iron Throne, a crown stained by the blood of his own father. The Mad King Aerys II is dead at his son’s hand, slain in the Red Keep before his wildfire could turn the capital to ash. In that single decisive stroke, Robert’s Rebellion was halted before it truly began – the great civil war never came, and the fields of the Seven Kingdoms were spared a generation’s bloodshed. Yet the realm’s relief is tempered by disquiet. Rhaegar’s bold act ended a tyrant’s rule but broke ancient taboos: kinslaying and regicide. Now whispers echo in castle and tavern alike – some name him savior, others kinslayer. The young king must contend with the shadow of his father’s madness and his own guilt, even as he wears the crown he never expected to bear so soon.
In King’s Landing, the aftermath of the coup is still palpable. The Red Keep has been secured with surprisingly little bloodshed – Lord Varys’s spies moved swiftly to prevent King Aerys’s final wildfire plot, and many once-loyal courtiers quickly acclaimed Rhaegar to avoid the pyre. Grand Maester Pycelle and the royal household bend the knee, calling Rhaegar the realm’s savior for saving the city from “fire and blood” of the worst kind. Even the Kingsguard, sworn to defend Aerys, yielded: the sight of Ser Jaime Lannister kneeling before Rhaegar in the throne room signaled the changing of the guard. Still, the throne itself is hot beneath Rhaegar – quite literally, as the Iron Throne was nearly licked by wildfire in that final struggle. The scent of smoke clings to the halls, a constant reminder that this new reign was born in flames and moral complexity.
Beyond the capital, the Great Houses grapple with the new order. In the North, Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon – who barely escaped the Mad King’s furnace thanks to Rhaegar’s intervention – return to Winterfell with solemn gratitude and lingering anger. The Starks’ outraged banners, raised when Lyanna Stark was thought abducted, have been reluctantly lowered. True to his word, Rhaegar returned Lyanna Stark unharmed and personally knelt in the mud before Lord Eddard Stark to beg forgiveness, averting a ruinous battle at the Trident. This peacemaking at the Trident bridged a dangerous rift: the North has no love for Aerys or his memory, but they honor Rhaegar’s humility in making amends. Even so, Lyanna’s broken betrothal to Robert Baratheon – and her admission that she left with Rhaegar of her own free will – has sown discord. The Starks brood over honor slighted while fiercely protecting Lyanna’s privacy from prying southern gossips.
In the Stormlands, Lord Robert Baratheon nurses a bitter heart. With Lyanna lost to him, Robert’s envisioned rebellion against the Targaryens collapsed beneath him. He bowed to his mentor Jon Arryn’s counsel and stood down his forces rather than fight a futile war. As compensation (and to bind the Baratheons to the new regime), Robert has been wed to Lady Cersei Lannister, in a grand political match brokered by King Rhaegar. The marriage ties the Stormlands to the wealthy Westerlands – but it is an empty union. Robert and Cersei’s alliance is cold and loveless, a salve to neither party’s pride . In Storm’s End’s halls, Robert drowns his resentment in ale, surrounded by a few loyal stormlords who remember his brief spark of rebellion. The Baratheon lord remains a potential lightning bolt in the political landscape: outwardly he honors the King, but his refusal to attend court and his sullen loyalty make it clear his grievances smolder still.
Meanwhile, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock have maneuvered back into power. After years of estrangement from the crown, Tywin Lannister answered King Rhaegar’s call to council and resumed his position as Hand of the King, a masterstroke of reconciliation by Rhaegar. The realm breathed easier with Tywin’s capable hand on the tiller – his reputation as a ruthless but efficient administrator promises stability. Yet beneath the courtesy at court, Tywin bristles. The proud Lion of the Rock cannot forget that Aerys spurned his daughter and humiliated his house; nor does he entirely forgive Rhaegar for the scandal that set these events in motion. For now, Tywin plays the loyal statesman, ensuring Lannister gold and grain flow to King’s Landing. But those who know him well can sense cold anger coiled behind his green eyes, waiting for an opportunity to redress the slights to his honor. His twin children in the capital only complicate matters: Ser Jaime Lannister serves in Rhaegar’s Kingsguard, bound by oath to protect the man who effectively toppled his father’s reign, and Lady Cersei is now tied in marriage to Robert instead of sitting as queen. The Lannister patriarch smiles in council, but one wonders how long peace can hold if his ambitions remain unsated.
The favor of the crown now shines brightest on Dorne. For the Martells, Rhaegar’s ascent is the vindication of Elia Martell’s faith. Queen Elia of Dorne sits beside Rhaegar, beloved by the smallfolk for her grace and mercy, and by nobles for the diplomacy she gently weaves. Her brother, Prince Doran Martell, has cautiously allied Dorne with the Iron Throne, accepting a council seat. Doran’s deliberate statecraft lends Rhaegar’s court a measured Southern perspective. In contrast, Prince Oberyn Martell makes a far more volatile entrance at court – the Red Viper’s passionate defense of Elia’s honor (whether sparring in the yard with boastful knights or nearly coming to blows with the Targaryen prince Viserys) has already become the stuff of gossip. Still, Dorne’s loyalty to Rhaegar is unwavering: the Dragon King protected Elia and her children from Aerys’s worst whims, earning the Martells’ gratitude. Under the Dragon’s Peace, Dorne’s longstanding grievances against the Iron Throne (for past slights and wars) have at last begun to ease – though Dornish pride never fades entirely.
Across the Narrow Sea, news of the regime change has kept the Free Cities attentive but cautious. The merchants of Braavos and Volantis prefer stability in Westeros for trade’s sake. With no Targaryen exiles seeking refuge (since all the dragonspawn remain on the throne or under its protection), the continent remains united under one dragon banner. The smallfolk of Westeros, for their part, have greeted the new reign with a mix of relief and curiosity. The fires of war did not sweep their villages; instead, life goes on with little change, save new names in the prayers. Stories spread of King Rhaegar’s harp – the singer-king who ended the terror without a battle – and of Queen Elia’s kindness, feeding the poor and tending the sick. Yet there are darker rumors too: that King Rhaegar, noble as he seems, is chasing mystical dreams like his father chased wildfire. Some say he consults dusty prophecies in Maester’s scrolls late at night, seeking answers in the stars. After all, a red comet blazed in the sky over King’s Landing on the night Princess Daenerys was born – a sign that many took to herald the start of a new era. In taverns they whisper: does the comet mean the gods favor the new Targaryen era, or does it warn of fire and blood to come?
For now, King Rhaegar’s realm stands unified and largely unharmed. The Seven Kingdoms have been steered away from civil war, but old feuds and new intrigues simmer under the surface. The North remembers the near execution of its lord and the tarnishing of its daughter’s name. The Stormlands brood under a headstrong lord who lost his chance at glory. The Westerlands chafe at the dominance of Dorne in the royal favor. Even within the Red Keep, not all are content: Prince Viserys resents living in his brother’s shadow, and Master of Whisperers Varys reports that certain malcontents (loyalists to the dead King or sly opportunists) plot in secret against the “Dragon’s Peace.” Rhaegar Targaryen holds the realm together by the strength of his will and the hope he inspires. His vision is of a better world – a realm healed from madness, united in peace and plenty – and he has wagered everything to achieve it. But as the first year of his reign turns to the second and third, new challenges arise to test that vision. Will the dragon’s peace hold, or will the sins of the past and the schemes of the present plunge Westeros into chaos once more? Only time will tell, as the game of thrones begins anew under the Targaryen banner, in a realm perched between peace and war.
Chapter 2: Characters by House
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Below is a detailed list of major characters at the start of The Dragon’s Peace: Book One, organized by their allegiances. (House names are given as of the beginning of this tale. Many characters’ fates and alliances will evolve as the story unfolds.)
House Targaryen (The Royal House of the Dragon)
- King Rhaegar Targaryen I, “The Dragon Prince”, King of the Seven Kingdoms – A bookish yet charismatic warrior-poet king . Rhaegar is wise, compassionate, and intensely idealistic, with a melancholic streak. Once a dreamy prince known for his harp and songs, he now bears the weight of the Iron Throne. He is haunted by prophecy – convinced that the ancient legend of “The Prince That Was Promised” refers to his lineage – and this belief drives many of his decisions. Having slain his own father to prevent unimaginable horror, Rhaegar is a man of duty and conscience trying to reconcile the taboo of kinslaying with his desire to be a just ruler . He genuinely wants to usher in a golden era of peace and “deserves the crown” he took through fate’s cruel hand, but struggles with guilt and self-doubt beneath his calm nobility. In public, Rhaegar comports himself with quiet dignity and earnest mercy, striving to heal the wounds of his father’s reign. In private, he carries scars of tragedy – a lingering love for Lyanna Stark that he set aside, and remorse for the turmoil that love inflicted. Rhaegar is deeply devoted to his family: he loves his wife Elia and their children dearly, and cherishes his younger siblings Viserys and Daenerys, hoping to guide them onto honorable paths. His rule is marked by a sincere effort to unify former enemies (he kneels to those his father wronged, pardons Lords who nearly rebelled, and seeks counsel from all quarters). But the new king’s idealism is tested at every turn by lords who seek advantage and by omens that the peace he fought for may be fleeting.
- Queen Elia Martell, “The Dornish Rose”, Queen Consort of Westeros – A Dornish princess wed to Rhaegar, Elia is gracious, intelligent, and compassionate, with a core of quiet strength . Dark eyed and elegant, she embodies the pride of Dorne tempered by a gentle heart. Elia’s health is frail – years of delicate health and difficult pregnancies have left her physically weak – but her spirit is unyielding. As queen, she often plays peacemaker and mediator, using keen political insight and empathy to bridge differences at court. Many credit Elia’s steady influence for helping Rhaegar maintain stability; she soothes tempers with a warm word and promotes unity among the Great Houses. Elia is fiercely devoted to her children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, and remains loyal to Rhaegar despite the shadows of the past (she was deeply hurt by Rhaegar’s public attention to Lyanna Stark years ago, but in this new era he has reaffirmed that she is his one true queen ). Kindness is Elia’s strength – she sponsors charities for the poor and corresponded graciously even with women like Catelyn Stark and Lysa Arryn to mend the rifts of the war-that-was-averted . Yet beneath her courteous exterior, Elia possesses a Dornish temper and resolute will. She does not easily forget those who endangered her children (she harbors quiet bitterness toward Tywin Lannister, recalling that in another timeline his men might have harmed her family) . Elia’s deepest desire is to protect her loved ones and prove her worth as queen – a Dornish woman who earned the love of Westeros. Though gentle, she can be steely in crisis, surprising those who underestimate her. Elia stands as both Rhaegar’s loving partner and his moral compass, determined that the “Dragon’s Peace” will be remembered for mercy, enlightenment, and hope.
- Prince Viserys Targaryen, “The Second Son”, Prince of Dragonstone – King Rhaegar’s younger brother and the former heir presumptive. Viserys is proud, temperamental, and insecure, a young man with the volatile bravado of the Targaryen dragonlords of old . He was a child during Aerys’s downfall and in this timeline never experienced exile or poverty – instead he grew up pampered in the Red Keep. This Viserys wears silken finery and enjoys the trappings of princely life perhaps a bit too much . Yet he constantly feels overshadowed by Rhaegar’s greatness and secretly resents living in his brother’s shadow. Rhaegar, seeking to honor Viserys, named him Prince of Dragonstone (a title traditionally reserved for the heir) , but even that gesture feeds Viserys’s pride and sense of entitlement. Viserys craves validation and power: he often reminds others that he is the Mad King’s true heir by blood , and indulges in grandiose fantasies of his own future glory. Quick to take offense and quicker to boast, he can be charming and witty one moment, then cruel and petulant the next if slighted. At court, Viserys has begun surrounding himself with a small clique of flatterers and malcontents – those who whisper that the “true dragon’s blood” should not play second fiddle (Tywin Lannister cleverly stroked Viserys’s ego in schemes against the Dornish, with dangerous effect) . Despite his posturing, Viserys is inwardly plagued by doubt – he fears he’ll never measure up. He idolizes the idea of Targaryen supremacy and talks of dragons as if they were his birthright. In truth, his courage is untested and his judgment poor. As the realm enjoys peace, Viserys finds himself restless and increasingly frustrated. His arc teeters between loyal brother and potential rival: he loves his family name, but if continually slighted, his pride could ignite into something treacherous. Viserys is, as some say at court, “a dragon’s egg that could hatch either a wise ruler or a monster.”
- Princess Rhaenys Targaryen – The young princess, Rhaegar and Elia’s firstborn child. At about four years old, Rhaenys is bright, adventurous, and quick-witted. She has her mother’s Dornish beauty (dark hair, violet eyes) and her father’s gentle charm. Known as a precocious toddler who can already recite Valyrian tales and loves to play with her kittens, Rhaenys charms everyone at court . She is doted upon by her parents and closely guarded after the frightening days of Aerys’s final hours (when she and her brother had to be hidden from the Mad King). Rhaenys enjoys a special friendship with her Uncle Viserys and adores her Aunt (Princess) Daenerys, though the latter is a baby. Despite her youth, Rhaenys is already a symbol of hope and unity – she is half Dornish and half Valyrian, and the lords see in her a potential bridge between cultures. For instance, the visiting Willas Tyrell (heir of Highgarden) became pen pals with the little princess after they bonded over books and designs for a water garden . Lord Mace Tyrell has even begun to eye Rhaenys as a future bride for Willas, though such plans are many years away . For now, Princess Rhaenys lives a blissful childhood in the Red Keep’s gardens – a dragon’s daughter who has never known war, whose laughter is a reminder of why Rhaegar fought for peace.
- Prince Aegon Targaryen – The infant son of Rhaegar and Elia, and heir apparent to the Iron Throne. Prince Aegon is just a toddler (born 281 AC); he is too young to understand the turmoil around him. To the realm, however, Aegon represents the next generation of Targaryen rule – a living promise that the dynasty continues. Rhaegar named Aegon after the Conqueror himself, and in the prince’s silver-gold hair and purple eyes, many see the glory of old Valyria reborn. Rhaegar is somewhat mystical about his son: he believes Aegon may be the “Prince That Was Promised,” a prophesied hero . This conviction leads the King to be fiercely protective of Aegon. Aegon himself is a happy, plump babe, doted on by his mother Elia and his aunt (Queen Dowager) Rhaella. Though oblivious now, one day he will have to carry the mantle of his father’s legacy. The realm prays he will grow up in peace, strength, and wisdom – the first Targaryen in a long time born in a world without war.
- Princess Daenerys Targaryen, “Daenerys Stormborn” – The youngest member of House Targaryen, newborn Princess Daenerys is King Rhaegar’s sister (the posthumous daughter of Aerys II and Queen Rhaella). Daenerys entered the world under dramatic circumstances: she was born during a fierce storm at Dragonstone, on the very night a red comet streaked across the sky . The storm took her mother Rhaella’s life in childbirth, making baby Daenerys an orphaned princess from the moment of her first breath. Nicknamed “Stormborn” for that night, Daenerys was brought to King’s Landing as an infant and placed under the loving care of Rhaegar and Queen Elia . She is a cherubic baby with silver-white Targaryen hair and big purple eyes, doted on by all. Elia Martell, in particular, cares for Dany as if she were her own, fostering a sisterly bond between Elia’s children and the little princess. Though Daenerys is far too young to have a personality beyond cooing and crying, omens surround her birth – many Septons proclaimed that the gods showed approval of Rhaegar’s new reign by sending the comet when Dany drew her first breath . Some even whisper that dragons stir in the far corners of the world due to that portent. For now, Daenerys Stormborn is a symbol of hope and renewal for House Targaryen: a new life to fill the void of the Mad King’s death, and possibly a third “head of the dragon” if prophecy is to be believed . Her destiny remains unwritten, but those with eyes to see suspect the blood of the dragon burns bright in this little girl.
House Stark (Lords of Winterfell, Wardens of the North)
- Lord Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North – The patriarch of House Stark, Lord Rickard is a stern, traditional Northern lord known for his honor and pragmatism. He nearly met a terrible end in King Aerys’s court; falsely accused and trapped, Rickard was minutes from being burned alive in the Red Keep before Prince Rhaegar intervened to save him . Having survived that ordeal, Rickard carries scars both physical and emotional: his once graying hair is now pure white from the shock of wildfire, and he returns home more grim-faced and cautious than ever. Grateful as he is that Rhaegar spared his life and ended the tyrant, Rickard remains wary of the Targaryens. The scandal of Rhaegar’s involvement with his daughter Lyanna wounded Stark pride, and Rickard’s innate mistrust of southern politics has only grown. Nonetheless, he is a man of honor – he acknowledges Rhaegar’s sincere apology and accepts the new King’s justice (Rhaegar knelt in the mud before the Stark sons to beg forgiveness , a gesture Rickard could hardly refuse). Now back at Winterfell, Lord Rickard focuses on rebuilding and guarding his family. He is fiercely protective of his children, having nearly lost two of them, and has doubled the guard at Winterfell. Politically, he adopts a cold peace with the Iron Throne: the North will keep to itself and fulfill its duties, but Rickard will not forget the flames that licked at his armor. In council with his bannermen, he preaches vigilance – the Starks will support King Rhaegar so long as he proves honorable, but any hint of resumed madness or southern treachery will be met with the full winter fury of the North. Quiet and forbidding, Rickard represents the North’s memory: “The North remembers,” and as head of his house, he will make sure that remembrance keeps his family safe.
- Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell – Eldest son of Rickard, Brandon is a tall, fiery young man known for his hot temper and bold personality. In the original timeline Brandon was executed by Aerys, but in this reality he lives – though not without seeing the brink of death. Brandon had ridden to King’s Landing in outrage when Lyanna vanished, and he was restrained and nearly strangled by Aerys’s cruel devices. He survives due to Rhaegar’s last-minute intervention, but the experience has left Brandon angry and chastened. Always passionate, he now carries a personal vendetta against those who endangered his family. Brandon is less diplomatic than his father or brother; he speaks his mind freely and can be rash. Nevertheless, Brandon’s brush with death has deepened his appreciation for his loved ones. He married Lady Catelyn Tully (his betrothed) soon after returning north, in part to honor the alliance his father promised and in part to celebrate life after their near tragedy. Now as husband and new father (the marriage has already produced an infant daughter, Arya), Brandon has matured slightly – but he remains the Wolf with a hot heart. He trains aggressively in the courtyard, venting his rage on training dummies as if they were Targaryen pyromancers. Brandon’s views on King Rhaegar are complicated: he cannot forget that Rhaegar’s actions with Lyanna set this all in motion, yet he also knows Rhaegar saved him and their father from death. This leaves Brandon in a push-pull of grudging respect and lingering resentment. Should the King falter or show weakness, Brandon would be among the first to voice dissent. He is fiercely protective of Lyanna, watching over his sister’s reclusive recovery at Winterfell. As heir to the North, Brandon projects strength and brash confidence, assuring his bannermen that no one will ever dare threaten House Stark again. His arc will test whether this young wolf can temper his passion with wisdom – or whether impulsiveness will lead him (and the North) into new dangers.
- Eddard “Ned” Stark, second son of Rickard Stark – A quiet, solemn young man of great honor. Ned is notably more reserved and contemplative than his brother Brandon. Having been fostered in the Vale under Lord Jon Arryn, Ned has the air of a neutral mediator and became one of Rhaegar’s unexpected bridges to peace. When war loomed, Ned marched south with Robert Baratheon but found himself meeting Rhaegar under a peace banner at the Trident instead . It was Ned who, alongside Jon Arryn, helped calm Robert’s fury when Lyanna was returned – physically restraining his friend from attacking Rhaegar in rage . This act, and Ned’s willingness to hear Rhaegar out, saved countless lives. In the wake of the near-war, Ned’s role in House Stark has grown. Though Brandon is heir, many see Ned as the steadier hand – he is insightful and compassionate, often counseling his more impetuous brother. Ned is extremely protective of Lyanna, whose heartbreak and lingering melancholy pain him. He spends long hours with her, lending a listening ear as she adapts to life after her fateful romance. In the North, Ned dutifully serves his father and brother, overseeing holdfasts and justice with the fair mindedness of a future lord. Many northern bannermen have come to respect Ned’s calm judgment. He is a bridge between generations – trained by the old (Jon Arryn) and bonded with the new (his friendship with Robert, his connection to Dorne through Ashara). Ned Stark’s integrity and introspection will be vital in the trials to come. He carries the words of House Stark, “Winter is Coming,” in his heart, ever mindful and prepared for whatever darkness might loom on the horizon.
- Lady Lyanna Stark, only daughter of Rickard – A headstrong, wild-spirited young woman often called the “She-Wolf” of Winterfell. Lyanna’s beauty (stormy grey eyes, long brown hair) and free spirited nature caught Prince Rhaegar’s attention at the Tourney of Harrenhal, leading to a secret romance that nearly engulfed the realm in war. In this timeline, Lyanna’s fate is transformed: she survived her time in hiding (at the Tower of Joy) and was brought back to her family unharmed . However, Lyanna paid a heavy emotional price for following her heart. She publicly admitted that she went with Rhaegar willingly and broke her betrothal to Robert Baratheon, apologizing for the pain caused . This scandal left Lyanna feeling deeply ashamed and guilty. Back at Winterfell, she is a shadow of the fiery girl she was – somber, haunted, and subdued. Lyanna avoids the company of southern lords and has refused all marriage offers (despite it being highly unusual for a noblewoman to remain unwed). Instead, she has immersed herself in humble pursuits: helping at the Winterfell kennels, riding alone through Wolfswood, and tending to the sick and injured in the castle. During her time in Dorne while in hiding, Lyanna learned herb-lore and healing skills, and now she applies this knowledge as a quiet healer for her people . This work gives her a measure of purpose and penance. Still, Lyanna’s heart aches – she loved Rhaegar truly, and though she knows ending their affair was necessary for peace, the loss leaves an emptiness in her. She is fond of Rhaegar’s children (sending little gifts anonymously) and finds joy in her younger relatives at Winterfell. With Ned’s gentle support, Lyanna is slowly regaining a sense of self. She retains sparks of her old spirit – glimpses of the bold girl who would ride horseback daringly or defend a peasant girl from Lord Whent’s sons. If provoked or if those she loves are threatened, Lyanna’s She-Wolf fury could reawaken. For now, she lives quietly, determined to honor her family and atone for the blood nearly shed on her account. In her solitude, she often visits the crypts of Winterfell, where she leaves flowers and perhaps whispers the name of the silver prince she loved and lost.
- Lady Catelyn Stark (née Tully) – Originally of House Tully, now wife to Brandon Stark. Catelyn is a dutiful, sensible, and compassionate young woman who finds herself Lady-in-waiting (and future Lady) of Winterfell much earlier than expected. In the original timeline, Catelyn wed Ned; in this one, her betrothal to Brandon was never broken by tragedy. After the crisis abated, Catelyn married Brandon Stark in Riverrun with great fanfare, solidifying the alliance between House Stark and House Tully. Now in the North, Catelyn navigates a culture very different from her riverlands home. She comports herself with grace and courtesy, winning the respect of Winterfell’s people by embracing their customs (she has even taken to wearing woolen Northern dresses and hosting harvest feasts in the name of the Old Gods as well as the Seven). Catelyn’s marriage to Brandon is one of mutual respect if not initially deep affection – Brandon’s passionate, impulsive nature sometimes clashes with Catelyn’s prudent demeanor. Still, Catelyn has a talent for soothing Brandon’s temper and guiding him toward more thoughtful decisions, much as she did with her younger siblings in childhood. They have a new baby daughter, Arya, and Catelyn fiercely loves the child, already expecting that raising a Stark girl with a Tully heart will be an adventure. Politically, Lady Catelyn serves as a vital link between the Starks and Tullys/Arryns. She writes often to her father Lord Hoster Tully about Northern affairs and to her sister Lysa in the Vale. Catelyn carries the Tully words “Family, Duty, Honor” as her creed: she encourages Brandon to honor his duty to King Rhaegar’s peace for the sake of their family’s future. Though Catelyn has no direct say in grand politics, her influence on Brandon (and through him, on the northern lords) is significant. Many see her as the moderating southern voice whispering in the Stark heir’s ear. Personally, Cat is content but sometimes lonely in Winterfell’s cold; she misses the warmth of Riverrun and worries for her volatile sister Lysa far away. Ever the caregiver and diplomat, Catelyn pours her energy into making Winterfell a happy home – she organizes joint hunts and harvest festivals to bring joy back to the castle after the recent dark times. Under her touch, the grey stone halls feel a bit warmer. As the story progresses, Catelyn’s steadfast devotion to her loved ones will be both her strength and, perhaps, a source of conflict when family loyalty and royal duty do not align.
House Baratheon (Lords of the Stormlands)
- Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End – A large, boisterous warrior lord known for his unshakable confidence and prowess in battle… yet in this timeline, Robert finds himself a warrior without a war. Once Rhaegar spirited Lyanna Stark away and Aerys executed Stark prisoners, Robert’s rage ignited and he was poised to rebel. But fate cheated him of his grand war – Rhaegar ended the conflict with words and mercy before Robert could lift his warhammer at the Trident. Now Robert is left with a bitter aftertaste of unresolved vengeance. He lost his betrothed Lyanna not in glorious combat, but to a peaceful reconciliation he never wanted. Robert begrudgingly swore no fealty but ceased hostilities, effectively a rebel without a cause. As part of the peace accords, he was married off to Cersei Lannister , a match intended to bolster crown alliances and soothe the Baratheon Lannister rivalry. This outcome is far from Robert’s boyhood dreams. He finds himself in a loveless political marriage – Cersei’s disdain for him is palpable, and Robert in turn feels no affection for the cold golden maiden he was forced to wed . Disappointed in love and glory, Robert has taken heavily to drink and carousing. He holds court at Storm’s End mostly with his old friends and war companions (like Lord Estermont and the fellows who would have been his generals), recounting what “should have been.” Robert is still charismatic and bold, able to win men to his side with a hearty laugh and promise of adventure, but there is a hollowness beneath his mirth. Some days he speaks of touring the realm to find fights in tourneys or slay some dragon (a jesting reference to Rhaegar) just to appease his boredom. Importantly, Robert has not forgiven Rhaegar in his heart – he remains wroth about Lyanna’s choice, convinced she was bewitched or misled. However, with Jon Arryn’s steady counsel, Robert thus far keeps the King’s peace. The Stormlands remain dutiful if not enthusiastic vassals. Many eyes watch Robert as a potential troublemaker – if any spark were to reignite rebellion, it could be Robert’s doing. For now, he is contained, like a storm brewing at sea: loud, restless, and destructive mainly to himself (and his marriage). Whether Robert will reconcile with this peaceful era or find a new cause to fight for is an open question. What is clear is that this once-heroic figure is now a man adrift, a roaring storm lord with no war to win and no love to temper his fury.
- Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships (Lord of Dragonstone) – Robert’s younger brother, a hard and dutiful man with a rigid sense of justice. In the absence of war, Stannis’s talents as a commander have had little chance to shine, but he remains absolutely loyal to his family and the realm’s laws. When Robert stormed off in fury after Lyanna’s reveal, it was Stannis who held many stormlords back from rash action, coldly reminding them of their oaths. Now Stannis serves King Rhaegar in a capacity that suits his skills: he has been given charge of the royal fleet and the defenses of the Narrow Sea (effectively, Rhaegar granted him the lordship of Dragonstone, the traditional seat of the heir, which Viserys holds in title – but Viserys has little interest in the actual governance, so Stannis commands the island’s garrison and fleet). Stannis is stern, unbending, and taciturn. He finds the pageantry of Rhaegar’s court tiresome and the Dornish influence distasteful (though he keeps such opinions private). However, he cannot fault Rhaegar’s justice in a legal sense – the King has followed the laws of gods and men in dealing with rebels mercifully, a decision Stannis respects even if he might not personally have been so lenient. Stannis’s home life is as grim as his demeanor: he has recently married Lady Selyse of House Florent, an arrangement made during the peacemaking (to strengthen Baratheon ties to the Reach since Renly was too young). The marriage is without warmth. Stannis is more comfortable at sea inspecting ships than attempting small talk with his awkward, pious wife. One thing that secretly weighs on Stannis: at court, he is somewhat overlooked. His older brother Robert commands attention, and even his youngest brother Renly (whom Stannis finds frivolous) is popular in the Stormlands. Stannis feels he’s never properly acknowledged for his loyalty. This festering hunger for recognition is a lonely ache in him. Still, he does his duty without complaint. He spends long hours improving King’s Landing’s navy and coastal defenses, ever vigilant for external threats. In sum, Stannis Baratheon is the unyielding cornerstone of House Baratheon’s loyalty: cold, just, and strong as stone. Whether he will be rewarded or continually overshadowed is yet to be seen.
- Lord Renly Baratheon – The youngest Baratheon brother, Renly is charismatic and charming, with the easygoing confidence of a child who has never known true hardship. He has been raised in the Eyrie as a page (Jon Arryn gladly took the boy in while Robert dealt with the rebellion-that-wasn’t). Now Renly returns to Storm’s End to live with Robert and Cersei’s household. He is handsome and well-liked, showing glimmers of the affable leader he might become. Renly idolizes Robert and is excited by the tales of near-war, not understanding the gravity – to him, it’s all gallant knights and would-be battles. He gets along surprisingly well with Cersei (who flatters him, enjoying the young boy’s hero-worship of her beauty). Renly’s role at this stage is minor, but he represents the future generation. In Renly, one can see what Robert was like at that age – mischievous, bold, and already flirting with girls above his station (for now). The Stormlords dote on him and some half-joke that Renly might make a better lord of Storm’s End one day than brooding Robert. For now, Renly is simply a child of the court: learning the arts of combat and courtesy, soaking in all the intrigue with wide eyes. He has pet kittens (gifted by Rhaenys Targaryen, cementing a cute friendship between the little princess and the boy). Though he bears the Baratheon name, Renly’s loyalties are still forming. Will he grow to follow Robert’s rebellious temperament or Stannis’s stern honor – or carve out a charming path of his own? Time will tell, but the realm will eventually find that even a boy raised in peace can have the ambition of a king.
House Lannister (Lords of Casterly Rock, Wardens of the West)
- Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King – Tywin is a towering figure of cold authority, with golden hair gone steel-grey and pale green eyes that miss nothing. As Hand to King Aerys for twenty years, he effectively ruled Westeros during its last stable period – until Aerys’s madness drove them apart. Now, with Rhaegar on the throne, Tywin has been restored to his old office of Hand in an effort to lend the new reign the weight of his experience (and to bind the powerful West to Rhaegar’s cause). Tywin accepted the post and outwardly supports King Rhaegar, but his motivations run deeper. He intends to ensure Lannister dominance in this new political landscape. Tywin is calculating, ruthlessly intelligent, and utterly prideful. He never forgets a slight – and the Targaryen dynasty gave him a few: Aerys insulting him, Rhaegar marrying Elia over Tywin’s daughter, and now Rhaegar stripping Tywin of influence by favoring Dornish and Northern counsel in certain matters. Though Tywin presents a facade of dutiful service, he has already begun maneuvering in the shadows. Tywin’s character is defined by his devotion to legacy: every move he makes is to elevate House Lannister’s power and prestige. He is a master of the long game, patient and ferocious. As a father, Tywin is intimidating and cold. He has high expectations of his children: Cersei must be a queen (that dream half-fulfilled by marrying Robert, though Tywin secretly wishes she sat on the Iron Throne itself), Jaime must bring honor as the realm’s finest knight (Jaime’s Kingsguard post both pleases and irks Tywin, since it’s prestigious yet removes Jaime from Lannister inheritance), and Tyrion… Tywin scarcely acknowledges his youngest except with contempt. In public, Lord Tywin is polite, stoic, and commands respect with few words – crown servants jump at the snap of his fingers. In private, especially at court, he is a lion plotting in the tall grass, waiting for the right moment to assert Lannister interests. With the Reach and Dorne gaining influence through royal marriages and appointments, Tywin feels the West must not be sidelined. The Lion of the Rock may seem to slumber during this Dragon’s Peace, but he is very much awake, eyes keen and claws sharp. Should the opportunity arise, Tywin Lannister will not hesitate to redress every wrong and place his family atop the kingdom, crowns and titles be damned.
- Ser Jaime Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard – Tywin’s eldest son and heir, until he abdicated that inheritance to don the white cloak. Jaime is twenty years old, strikingly handsome, and one of the most gifted swordsmen in Westeros. Called the “Young Lion”, Jaime at first joined the Kingsguard to guard King Aerys – a point of immense pride for House Lannister until Rhaegar’s coup turned that on its head. Jaime witnessed Rhaegar slay Aerys in the throne room; in fact, he nearly drew sword to do it himself but the Prince acted first . After that shock, Jaime was the very first to kneel and hail Rhaegar as King in that fateful moment, earning a quick nod of trust from the new monarch. Yet this places Jaime in a strange position. He is sworn to protect King Rhaegar now, and Rhaegar has retained him in the Kingsguard – Ser Jaime even earned some early glory by defending Queen Elia’s honor in a friendly duel against Prince Oberyn when the fiery Dornishman arrived at court. However, Jaime’s personal loyalties are divided. He loves his family deeply (especially his twin Cersei) and understands his father’s reservations. Jaime outwardly remains the golden-boy knight – swaggering, confident, perhaps arrogant – who flirts with highborn ladies and jokes with fellow knights. But behind the Kingsguard white cloak, he feels unmoored. The ideal of the Kingsguard meant protecting the king from harm; he never imagined protecting the realm from the king, as happened with Aerys. Now under Rhaegar, Jaime is torn: he admires Rhaegar’s nobility and skill, yet bristles at how the crown’s choices (like favoring Martells) have wounded his family’s honor. Adding to his turmoil is Cersei – separated from him by her marriage to Robert, she corresponds in secret letters that reawaken their illicit twin bond . Jaime struggles to stay true to his Kingsguard vows while longing for his sister and sensing his father’s expectations to keep Lannister interests in mind. This inner conflict makes Jaime unpredictable. One day he might heroically save King Rhaegar from an assassin or rogue (solidifying his Kingsguard renown), another day he might subtly undermine a Martell ally out of spite. Known as “the Smiling Knight” by some for his jaunty confidence, Jaime is actually wrestling with who he truly is: a kingsguard or a Lannister, a honorable knight or a man driven by secret passion. For now, he does his duty with excellence – leading the crown’s knights in tourneys, serving as a shining example of chivalry – even as whispers of “Kingslayer” (for failing to protect Aerys) occasionally follow him. Jaime laughs such whispers off, but they bite. His redemption or downfall may well hinge on the choices he will face if family and duty come into direct conflict. And in this uneasy peace, such conflict is only a matter of time.
- Lady Cersei Lannister (Baratheon) – Tywin’s eldest daughter, twin to Jaime, now wife to Robert Baratheon and Lady of Storm’s End. Cersei is beautiful, proud, and fiercely ambitious. She grew up believing she was meant to be a queen, and for a time hoped to marry Rhaegar Targaryen himself. That dream was dashed when Rhaegar wed Elia Martell, a slight Cersei has never forgotten . The Mad King’s death and Rhaegar’s ascent offered a second chance at the throne – but instead of making Cersei his queen, Rhaegar handed her to Robert to secure an alliance . This outcome infuriates Cersei. She resents Robert deeply: he is boorish, unfaithful, and – worst of all – he loves another (Robert’s open longings for Lyanna Stark are the insult added to the injury of Cersei being denied Rhaegar). Now trapped in a marriage with a man she considers her inferior, Cersei’s bitterness has only sharpened. She wears the mask of a dutiful wife in public, but behind closed doors their marriage is cold and hostile . Cersei has not moved to King’s Landing; she remains at Storm’s End or visits Casterly Rock often, avoiding the royal court where she might have to see Elia Martell wearing the crown she wanted. Clever and silver-tongued, Cersei has begun to scheme quietly to improve her lot. She flirts and conspires with Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish – the Master of Coin – during his visits, aiming to build a network of informants and influence at court . Through letters, she also keeps Jaime’s love aflame, hinting at her misery and manipulating his protective instincts . Cersei’s paramount goal is to eventually see herself (or her offspring) on the Iron Throne. If that means encouraging Robert’s self-destruction, so be it. She has even mused whether the realm might be better off with Robert dead accidentally in a hunt, though she’s taken no action on such dark thoughts… yet. For now, Cersei endures her role as Lady Baratheon with a patient smile, hosting lavish but joyless feasts and playing the charming hostess to visiting nobles. Many Stormland lords are already half in love with her, and she leverages that admiration to sideline anyone loyal to Robert’s late rebel cause (ensuring her husband remains isolated and dependent on Lannister support). Vanity, vengeance, and ambition drive Cersei at every turn. She is one to watch, a lioness locked in a gilded cage – and if an opportunity comes to break free and seize what she believes is hers by right, Cersei Lannister will not hesitate to use every weapon at her disposal, be it beauty, deceit, or brutality.
- Tyrion Lannister, called “The Imp” – The second son of Tywin, a dwarf born with twisted legs and mismatched eyes. Tyrion’s physical appearance has made him the subject of mockery and scorn all his life, especially from his father, who has never forgiven him for the death of Tyrion’s mother in childbirth. In this timeline, Tyrion at age ~16-17 has avoided any direct entanglement in war (in canon, he fought in later battles, but here none have occurred yet). He has spent these formative years reading, drinking, and observing. Tyrion possesses a sharp wit and sharper intellect, and he sees the Game of Thrones more clearly than most at court, even if he’s not an active player… yet. Officially, Tyrion holds no important position – Tywin certainly wouldn’t trust him with one – so he has a sort of freedom of movement. He drifts between Casterly Rock, Lannisport’s taverns, and occasionally King’s Landing (where he is welcomed by the royal siblings, who find his quips amusing). Tyrion has struck up a correspondence with Prince Oberyn Martell, of all people, after meeting the Dornish prince at a feast; their shared love of wine and disdain for certain pompous lords gave them common ground. Such friendships aside, Tyrion is still very much a lonely soul. He desires love and acceptance, but finds it only with paid companions and in the bottom of a wine goblet. Tyrion plays the role of court fool when in noble company: cracking jests, playing the clown, all to hide just how keenly he’s assessing everyone. Those who underestimate him (which is almost everyone) don’t realize Tyrion’s mind is a steel trap. He has learned a great deal about the factions and weaknesses at court simply by listening while drunk lords forget he’s there. Though not directly in the spotlight, Tyrion’s knowledge and cunning may prove pivotal if chaos erupts. For now, he remains on the periphery – a dwarven shadow in the halls of power, taking it all in. His personal dreams are modest: decent wine, a good book, and maybe a woman who doesn’t recoil at his stature. But deep down, Tyrion would love to prove his worth and show his father and the world that even an Imp can influence the course of kingdoms.
House Martell (Princes of Dorne)
- Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear, Prince of Dorne – A calm, pensive man in his early forties, Doran is the ruling Prince of Dorne and elder brother to Queen Elia and Oberyn. He is a shrewd and patient strategist, preferring diplomacy and long-term planning over rash action. Doran supported his sister Elia through the darkest times of Aerys’s reign (having nearly lost her and her children) and thus was immensely relieved by Rhaegar’s coup. In the new order, Doran has been cautiously cooperative. He traveled to King’s Landing to ensure Dornish interests were respected, and Rhaegar, eager to honor Dorne’s loyalty, gave Doran a seat on the small council (Master of Laws). His gouty health makes the active duties burdensome, but he undertakes them for Elia’s sake. Doran proves to be a voice of measured reason in the council. He tempers Rhaegar’s idealism with pragmatic advice, and works to smooth over conflicts. Doran is deeply protective of his family. His love for Elia is profound; he corresponds with her often and ensures Dorne sends the best maesters and comforts to help her fragile health. He also tries (not very successfully) to rein in Oberyn’s recklessness. Prince Doran’s style of rule is quiet but firm – he quells dissent in Dorne with a word, preferring to “make haste slowly.” In King’s Landing, some initially underestimated him, seeing only a weary man with aching joints, but they soon learned Doran’s mind is razor-sharp. He notices small slights and remembers every promise. Despite his role, Doran keeps one foot in Sunspear: he sends detailed letters to his wife Mellario and his children (his heir Trystane is just a boy, and in this AU his daughter Arianne is slightly younger than in canon, still a child). He is grooming them to understand that Dorne’s fate is now entwined with the Iron Throne’s. Doran’s main goal is to secure a lasting peace and prosperity for Dorne within the Seven Kingdoms – something that eluded his forebears. This means he often finds himself balancing on a knife’s edge: appeasing the fiery Dornish pride (especially Oberyn’s thirst for action) while also reassuring and negotiating with distrustful lords from other regions who still view Dornishmen as outsiders. So far, Doran has managed admirably, projecting an image of Dornish loyalty and honor at court. But the Martell prince is not without quiet grudges – he keenly remembers the Lannisters stayed aloof during Elia’s peril, and he watches that house warily. In summation, Prince Doran Martell is the steady hand steering Dorne through this new age, a man of peace who nonetheless will not hesitate to act decisively if his family or his homeland is threatened.
- Oberyn Martell, “The Red Viper” – Doran and Elia’s younger brother, a hot-blooded and deadly warrior in his mid-thirties. Oberyn is bold, brash, and passionate – the living contrast to his careful brother. He earned the nickname “Red Viper” for his quickness with both wit and poison, and his reputation precedes him to King’s Landing. When Oberyn arrives at court to support Elia, he immediately makes waves. He is fiercely protective of his sister and deeply suspicious of any who might slight her. He is endeared to the Dornish and makes others uneasy; they see that the Viper’s bite is never far from his smile. Personality-wise, Oberyn is witty, sensuous, and confident to the point of arrogance. He has traveled extensively and even studied poisons and medicine in the Citadel briefly. He brings with him to King’s Landing his paramour, Ellaria Sand, and openly flaunts the unconventional Dornish attitudes toward sexuality and bastardy, which scandalizes uptight courtiers. Oberyn’s presence at court serves a narrative purpose: he constantly challenges the status quo. He calls out Lannister arrogance, defends the “weak” (i.e., perceived outsiders), and pushes Rhaegar to remember Dorne’s loyalty. While he supports Rhaegar as king (for Elia’s sake), Oberyn is not shy about voicing criticism if he thinks the King is making a mistake or if someone insults Dorne. Despite this volatility, Oberyn is highly intelligent and politically astute in his own way. He will counsel Doran and Elia on what the “word on the street” is, gleaned from his nights in winesinks and brothels. He becomes a bit of a folk hero among the smallfolk too, due to his flair and the bawdy songs sung about his exploits. In war, Oberyn has yet to unleash his prowess (since no major war has occurred), but he commands the elite Dornish spearmen and would eagerly take a command should conflict erupt. At his core, Oberyn Martell is driven by love and vengeance in equal measure. He loves his family with a ferocity that makes him dangerous to anyone who even thinks of harming them. And he quietly hungers for payback against those who ever put Elia and her children at risk – chiefly, he keeps a watchful eye on any Lannister moves, recalling that Tywin’s bannermen committed unspeakable acts in a world that nearly was (a world Oberyn is glad was averted, but he never forgets that Tywin would have let Elia burn if it served him). The Red Viper’s sting will be felt by many before this tale is done.
- Princess Myriah Martell – A young noblewoman of Dorne, niece to Doran and Oberyn (the daughter of one of their cousins; in this alternate universe she fills a role similar to Arianne Martell). Myriah is introduced at court as part of Elia’s extended retinue. She is around seventeen, graceful, flirtatious, and strikingly lovely, with sun-kissed skin and dark curls. Betrothed to a distant Dornish cousin to secure some minor alliance, Myriah isn’t particularly enthused about her arranged match. She does however catch the eye of Prince Viserys Targaryen. Viserys becomes infatuated with her , drawn by her beauty and perhaps by the idea of claiming a Dornish lady like his brother did. Myriah finds Viserys’s attention flattering at first – he is a prince, after all – but it quickly turns uncomfortable as his advances grow arrogant and presumptive. Personality-wise, Myriah is kind but somewhat naive, unused to the viciousness of court politics. She becomes friends with Princess Rhaenys, teaching the little girl some Dornish songs and dances, and in turn is protected by Elia and Doran from any backlash. Myriah’s role illustrates the perils of being a young woman at court – she’s valued for her beauty and marriageability, but her own desires are seldom considered.
- Prince Lewyn Martell – Uncle to Doran, Elia, and Oberyn, and a seasoned knight of the Kingsguard. (While technically Kingsguard have no official house allegiance, Lewyn remains emotionally tied to his family.) He is in his late fifties, distinguished and still deadly with a spear. Lewyn survived the brush with war – in canon, he died at the Trident, but here, since the battle was averted, he continues to serve in the Kingsguard under King Rhaegar. Lewyn is dour yet fiercely loyal. He was overjoyed that his niece Elia and her children survived the Mad King’s threats, and this renewed his dedication to protecting the royal family. He is as a stalwart protector and often stands guard over young Prince Aegon’s nursery or accompanies Queen Elia on travels, knowing how close he came to losing them. Lewyn offers a Dornish perspective within the Kingsguard: he has a more flexible view of duty than some of his compatriots, believing that protecting the spirit of the realm (innocents, family) can at times supersede strict orders. This perhaps influenced his acquiescence to Rhaegar’s coup against Aerys. Quiet and somewhat in the background, Ser Lewyn nonetheless provides counsel to Rhaegar on combat and Dornish politics. He also keeps a subtle eye on Viserys when the latter mingles with Martell kin, reporting any concerning behavior to Prince Doran. In sum, Lewyn Martell is the elder statesman of House Martell’s presence, representing honor and loyalty. His continued presence is a comfort to Elia (family by her side) and a warning to enemies that the Martells are not to be trifled with.
House Tyrell (Lords of Highgarden, Wardens of the South)
- Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden – A jovial, portly man with a courtier’s manners and an inflated sense of importance. Mace outwardly appears foolish or buffoonish to some – he loves to take credit for victories he didn’t win and recite the glory of Highgarden – but he is shrewd in the pursuit of family power. During the near-war, Mace Tyrell kept the Reach out of the fray until it was clear who would prevail. Once Rhaegar took the throne, Mace hastened to swear fealty and hosted lavish feasts declaring support for “our enlightened new Dragon King.” He has since been navigating how to make the Tyrells indispensable in this Dragon’s Peace. Mace’s main strategy is marriage alliances. With Elia Martell as Queen and Lannisters marrying Baratheons, Mace has set his sights on the next generation: he is quietly pushing for a betrothal between his heir Willas Tyrell and Princess Rhaenys . The idea that a future Queen of Westeros might be of Tyrell blood tantalizes him. Mace encouraged the friendship that bloomed between young Willas and Rhaenys when the Tyrell heir visited King’s Landing . Aside from that, Mace flatters King Rhaegar with hosts of Reach knights in tournaments (though the Reach’s famed cavalry saw no war, they shine in jousts, something Mace uses to remain relevant). Personality wise, Mace is affable, grandiloquent, and somewhat vain. He delights in titles and royal attention. But underneath the bluster, he can be calculating – he never forgets that Highgarden controls the realm’s largest food production, and he leverages this by providing generous shipments of grain to King’s Landing (ingratiating himself) while subtly reminding the crown how vital Tyrell support is. Mace’s relationship with his children is notable: he’s proud of Willas’s intellect, indifferent to second son Garlan, and doting on his youngest Loras and only daughter Margaery (the latter two are still very young children in this timeline, largely off-page in this book). Mace loves to brag about the lineage of his wife Alerie Hightower and his demonstrable descent from Garth Greenhand, etc. In a Westeros where open war was avoided, politicking is everything, and Mace is a man who knows how to play the long game with a cup of Arbor wine in hand and a hearty laugh – while quietly moving pawns to position Highgarden for greatness.
- Ser Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden – Willas is the eldest son of Mace Tyrell, around adulthood in this story. In canon he was crippled by Oberyn Martell in a joust; here, that accident never happened (the tourney where it occurred likely took a different course). Thus, Willas has full mobility and an active presence. He is a studious, good-hearted, and clever young man. Willas’s interests skew toward scholarship, agriculture, and engineering. Willas is mild-mannered and polite, lacking the arrogance one might expect of a Tyrell lordling. He inherited his mother’s calm and his great-uncle Garth the Gross’s stoutness (though not grossness). Willas walks with a slight limp (perhaps a minor injury from a joust, but nothing debilitating) which actually makes him more relatable to some. He formed a genuine friendship with Princess Rhaenys during a visit to court: the two read books together and chased cats through the Red Keep gardens. There is an innocent fondness there, which both Mace Tyrell and Rhaegar have noted for future possibilities. Willas, for his part, is a bit smitten with the idea of Rhaenys (though she is just a little girl, he sees her as a bright companion; their age gap is roughly 10 years, which in medieval terms is not unheard of for a betrothal). Beyond that, Willas manages the administration of Highgarden’s duties more than his father does. He is essentially the acting Castellan of Highgarden, overseeing the bannermen’s disputes and the ordering of the harvest, which he does diligently and fairly. Lords of the Reach respect Willas’s intellect and even temperament – some quietly think he’ll be a far better lord than Mace in time. At court, Willas comports himself diplomatically. He bears no ill will toward Oberyn Martell (since he was not maimed by him here), and in fact he admires Dorne’s innovations. He is courteous to all, making a point to be kind to those often overlooked (he notably engaged Tyrion Lannister in a long conversation about irrigation techniques, which delighted Tyrion as few bother to treat him seriously). Willas represents the young generation poised to build a better future. Through his friendship with Rhaenys and his learned ideas, Willas embodies the potential of peace – that with war averted, perhaps minds like his can turn toward creation instead of destruction. Of course, should turmoil come, one wonders if this gentle inventor might have the steel to protect his own. But for now, Ser Willas is a symbol of hopeful unity, the Reach’s blooming flower who may one day entwine with the dragon’s line.
House Arryn (Lords of the Eyrie, Wardens of the East)
- Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale – An aging lord, hearty and dignified, with graying hair and a fatherly demeanor. Jon Arryn is revered as the elder statesman among the great lords. He was the foster father to both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, and when Aerys called for their heads, Jon famously raised his banners in defiance – in canon, starting the rebellion. In this timeline, Jon still declared he would protect his wards, but Rhaegar’s swift actions made outright war unnecessary. Instead, Jon became a crucial mediator. He was present at the Trident parley, calming tempers and urging Ned and Robert to accept Rhaegar’s peace offer . His steady hand helped prevent further bloodshed. Afterward, Jon Arryn bent the knee to King Rhaegar and was invited to serve on the small council. Ever modest, Jon declined a permanent position at court, preferring to return to the Vale – he said the Vale had need of him and younger men could serve in King’s Landing. Indeed, Jon had his new wife Lysa (Catelyn’s sister) to think of, and soon a newborn son. So he left King’s Landing, but not before offering Rhaegar frank counsel: “Rule justly and the realm will forgive much.” Jon Arryn’s Vale remained peaceful and loyal in the subsequent years. Jon himself is a man of quiet honor and great wisdom, if not tremendous vigor (he’s in his late fifties and the long trip to war and back took a toll on him). He is content governing his mountain lords and overseeing the upbringing of his sickly infant son, whom he named Rickard Arryn (in honor of Rickard Stark, to further show solidarity between Vale and North) . Jon also sees to the fostering of young Lord Renly Baratheon for a time, polishing the boy’s courtly skills. At times, King Rhaegar corresponds with Jon Arryn for advice, and Rhaegar heeds Jon’s words carefully. The trust between them is strong – Rhaegar knows Jon could have fought for Robert’s claim but instead chose peace and showed the crown true friendship. If any crisis arises, Jon Arryn would likely be called upon again as a voice of reason and stability. His dynamic with his much-younger wife Lysa is delicate; he’s patient with her mood swings and tries to provide the affection she needs, but her instability (and secret resentment at being wed off) makes the marriage strained. Still, Jon Arryn perseveres with kindness. Overall, he stands as one of the few unambiguously honorable leaders in this changed world – a guiding mentor figure to Ned Stark and a living reminder of a more chivalrous era. So long as Jon Arryn is in the Vale’s high seat, the East remains the Vale of Arryn – stable, strong, and supportive of the realm’s peace.
- Lady Lysa Arryn (née Tully) – Wife to Jon Arryn and younger sister of Catelyn Stark. Lysa’s life took a different turn in this timeline only in that the backdrop of war was removed – her forced marriage to Jon still occurred (likely arranged by her father Hoster Tully during the lead-up to conflict), but it happened without the bloody rebellion. Now in the Vale, Lysa is technically content: she has a secure position as Lady of the Eyrie and has finally given Jon the heir he desperately wanted. She bore a son named Rickard Arryn (Lord Rickard Stark) – in canon this child would be Robert “Robin” Arryn, sickly and weak. Here we can assume baby Rickard Arryn is similarly frail and difficult, having survived infancy by a thread . Lysa, always emotionally delicate, is fiercely protective of her baby boy. Motherhood has made her both softer and more volatile: she pours all her love into little Rickard, rarely letting anyone else hold or nurse him, and flies into fits of anxiety over his health. Lysa’s mental state is not great – she is isolated in the Eyrie’s lofty height, away from her family, and still traumatized from events like the near-war. She harbors secret resentment towards her father for marrying her off to an old man and jealousy toward Cat who married a young Stark. Lysa’s only comfort aside from her baby is the correspondence she keeps with Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish, her once-suitor now in King’s Landing. Petyr writes to her under the pretense of financial matters (since he’s Master of Coin) but also slips in endearments. This attention thrills Lysa and she keeps it well hidden from Jon. As a result, Lysa supports Petyr’s agendas from afar – she whispers to Jon that Petyr’s ideas for revenue or his loyalty are admirable, nudging Jon to favor Littlefinger in council discussions. Jon, oblivious to the depths of Lysa’s attachment, simply sees a wife trying to engage in his duties. In public, Lady Lysa presents as a nervous, polite noblewoman, hosting ladies of the Vale at courtly feasts, but she seldom leaves the Eyrie due to her son’s frailty (she refuses to subject him to travel). People note she’s grown plump and often has red eyes from crying, but attribute it to new motherhood nerves. She’s a figure of tragedy in the making – her emotional instability and secret longing for Littlefinger’s affection make her vulnerable to manipulation. In summation, Lady Lysa is a broken bird in a gilded cage, at once pitiable and frustrating: a woman who got what she thought she wanted (marriage and child) yet is more unhappy than ever, her heart in conflict between duty to her kind husband and obsessive love for a past flame.
House Tully (Lords of the Riverlands)
- Lord Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun – The lord of the Riverlands is an older man in declining health, but still vigorous in his leadership when needed. Hoster is known for his hearty laugh, his love of family, and his sharp political instincts. He brokered the marriages of his daughters Catelyn and Lysa into the Stark and Arryn families as part of the grand alliance against the Mad King – an alliance that ultimately transformed into Rhaegar’s peace coalition. Thus, Hoster considers himself something of a quiet architect of the realm’s stability. He’s proud that both his daughters are now influential Ladies in the North and Vale, respectively, and that through them the Tully words “Family, Duty, Honor” resonate in those regions. With the war averted, House Tully didn’t suffer the devastation it might have. Hoster has maintained strong ties to the North and Vale, exchanging correspondence with Lord Rickard Stark (an unusual friendship born of shared relief at survival) and with Jon Arryn (his good-son by marriage). Lord Hoster’s focus now is on his heir Edmure Tully, a boy in his late teens full of energy and not a little vanity. Edmure chafes at the idea that he missed out on winning glory in war; he frequently spars and boasts of how he would have distinguished himself if fighting had broken out. Hoster affectionately rolls his eyes at Edmure’s antics and tries to instill in him the importance of good governance over glory. The Riverlands themselves benefit greatly from peace – they were spared being a battleground, so fields are full and trade flows. Hoster ensures Riverrun sends generous supplies downriver to King’s Landing to support the new king (partly out of gratitude, partly to keep the crown friendly). Personality-wise, Hoster is genial but formidable when roused. He can play the doting father one moment and the hardened lord the next if his bannermen quarrel. He’s had some issues with Walder Frey (as always) but cleverly placated the Freys by visiting The Twins with gifts and subtle flattery, ensuring the cantankerous Walder feels respected despite not getting a Tully marriage (Walder famously complains he was ready to offer a granddaughter if one of Hoster’s girls hadn’t been “snatched up” by northerners/Valemen). Hoster Tully’s role in Book One is largely off-stage but significant as a link between great houses: he’s a living symbol of how marriage alliances stitched the realm together peacefully. Should tensions rise, many will look to Riverrun as a neutral meeting ground, given Hoster’s kinship with Stark, Arryn, and through them, Baratheon and Lannister by extension. Hoster’s health is one concern – years of worry over his girls and the near war have given him a bad stomach; Maesters whisper he has the beginnings of a wasting illness (in canon, Hoster had a slow decline). But he’s hanging on, determined to see his son Edmure wed suitably (perhaps eyeing a match with a Westerlands minor house to calm Lannister-Tully relations after the rebellion-that-wasn’t). All told, Lord Hoster Tully stands as the Father of the Trident, content that his family-centric strategy spared the Riverlands from another dance of dragons and wolves. He prays it will stay that way, and in the meantime, he cherishes letters from Catelyn about his baby granddaughter in Winterfell and from Lysa about his sickly grandson in the Eyrie, dreaming of the day he can hold them and know his legacy is secure.
- Ser Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun – A young knight in his late teens, ruddy-haired and eager to prove himself. Edmure is, at this point, a bit frustrated: the elders talk of near battles and heroism, while he feels he’s accomplished nothing of note. In an attempt to earn distinction, Edmure trains assiduously and has taken to patrolling the Riverlands for outlaws, which in this peaceful time are few. Nonetheless, he once managed to thwart a bandit raid on some smallfolk, an event he boasts about to anyone willing to listen (earning some eye-rolls from his more seasoned knights). Edmure has a good heart – he truly wants to protect his people and live up to “Duty” in the Tully words – but he’s also somewhat vain and yearns for glory and respect. With his sisters married off, Edmure also quietly shoulders loneliness at Riverrun; he misses the lively household they had. He pesters his father Hoster about arranging his marriage soon, half out of desire for companionship, half out of wanting a grand wedding tourney to put him on the map. Hoster is considering matches (perhaps a Frey girl? Edmure balks, wanting someone more attractive; or a Westerling or a Royce). Edmure’s attitude toward the new regime is positive – he likes King Rhaegar well enough, mostly because the King’s singer’s soul appeals to Edmure’s own romantic side (Edmure loves songs of chivalry and often imagines himself as the gallant hero). Still, Edmure sometimes feels overshadowed by bigger names: the King’s actions ended a war, Jaime Lannister is winning fame in tournaments, even northerners like Ned Stark have love stories sung about them (Ashara Dayne and Ned’s dance has already become whispered legend among bards). Edmure wants his name in a song. This impatience might lead him into rash acts – like challenging a famed knight to a joust to prove his worth or volunteering the Riverlords’ forces perhaps too eagerly if any conflict arises. Overall, Edmure Tully in is a youth on the cusp of manhood, full of bravado and insecurities. He adores his sisters and is excited to be an uncle (he sent Cat a carved wooden trout for baby Arya), and he is fiercely loyal to his house’s allies (he idolizes Uncle Brynden the Blackfish and tries to emulate him). His journey will likely see him humbled and tested, as true responsibility always humbles the frivolous. But within Edmure is the potential for the stalwart Lord he might become – if he can move past dreaming of songs and start acting with the wisdom that true honor demands.
Others & The Royal Court
- Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard – A legendary knight in his mid-fifties, Barristan the Bold is the paragon of Kingsguard chivalry. After the tragic events surrounding King Aerys’s end, Barristan remained in service, seeing Rhaegar’s ascent as the best hope for the realm. The existing Lord Commander, Gerold Hightower, retired honorably to the White Sword Tower shortly after Rhaegar’s coronation (by mutual agreement, as he was aging) . Barristan Selmy was raised to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in his stead, a choice universally praised. As Lord Commander, Barristan is wise, courteous, and utterly devoted. He serves as one of King Rhaegar’s closest advisors on matters of combat and justice, albeit always in his capacity as a royal protector, not a lord. Barristan’s presence often assures those uncertain of Rhaegar – if Barristan the Bold, the most honored knight in Westeros, believes in Rhaegar, that’s proof of the King’s goodness, many say. Barristan himself carries some guilt for not foreseeing or preventing the madness of Aerys; he channels that into unflinching service to Rhaegar, determined that this reign will not go down the dark paths of the last. In council, Barristan is usually quiet, speaking only to advocate for honorable solutions or caution when he senses dishonor. Barristan has a soft spot for the royal children – he often brings little Rhaenys lemon cakes and is seen rocking baby Aegon to sleep on occasion. Yet, in battle, he remains fearsome. Barristan’s character exemplifies the old school knighthood: honor, courage, and loyalty above all. He is respected by all sides – even those who dislike Rhaegar cannot dislike Selmy. Going forward, Barristan stands as the shield at Rhaegar’s side, ever watchful for threats. He also has taken on training of young squires; rumor is he has his eye on the bold Brienne of Tarth. In summary, Ser Barristan Selmy provides the moral backbone and steel blade of the Kingsguard, a reassuring figure that even in this changed world, the ideals of nobility live on.
- Ser Arthur Dayne, “The Sword of the Morning”, Kingsguard – The most famed knight of the Kingsguard and King Rhaegar’s dearest friend. Arthur Dayne is in his early thirties, tall, noble, and deadly with his ancestral blade Dawn (a pale white sword said to be forged from a fallen star). In the canon timeline, Arthur died at the Tower of Joy; here, he lives on, having been entrusted by Rhaegar to guard Lyanna Stark at the Tower of Joy during the rebellion’s onset. When Rhaegar brokered peace with the Starks, Arthur himself brought Lyanna back to the Trident meeting as a show of good faith . That act made Arthur somewhat legendary – a Kingsguard who kept his vows (protecting the royal secrets) but also facilitated peace. Afterward, Arthur returned to King’s Landing and has remained at Rhaegar’s side. Arthur is chivalrous, honorable, and reserved, with a dry wit that surfaces among close friends (like Rhaegar or Barristan). He is often considered the deadliest warrior in Westeros, yet he carries a humble demeanor. His loyalty to Rhaegar is absolute – he would follow him to the ends of the earth. Arthur’s continued presence has also impacted others: for instance, Ashara Dayne, his beloved younger sister, came to court to serve Elia partly because Arthur was there to watch over her. Arthur supports the budding romance between Ashara and Ned Stark; he gave Ned a friendly warning to treat his sister well or answer to him (half-jesting). In matters of the realm, Arthur is not political, but he provides Rhaegar with frank counsel on martial issues and on personal ones too (like reminding Rhaegar that Elia’s happiness is paramount after all she endured). Notably, Arthur has a close camaraderie with Prince Lewyn Martell, his fellow Kingsguard – the two often practice together and reminisce of Arthur’s squireship under Lewyn. His nickname, Sword of the Morning, symbolizes hope – and indeed, Arthur often serves as a ray of hope and stability for Rhaegar. When the King is burdened by prophecy or guilt, Arthur reminds him of the real, present duties and the people who believe in him. If ever dark forces threaten, one can be sure Ser Arthur Dayne will stand in their path, Dawn blazing like the coming of light, for he embodies the very ideal of knighthood reborn in this alternate age.
- Ashara Dayne, Lady-in-waiting at court – A noted beauty from Dorne, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne. Ashara is in her early twenties, with long dark hair and haunting violet eyes. She came to King’s Landing to serve Queen Elia Martell as a lady-in-waiting , but her journey also intersected with her own long-held heartache: at the Tourney of Harrenhal years ago, she and Eddard Stark shared a fleeting, meaningful connection (a dance that neither forgot). In this timeline, with Ned visiting King’s Landing for Rhaegar’s great council and peace talks, Ashara and Ned reunite and their quiet spark rekindles into a tender romance . Ashara is gentle, cultured, and perceptive. She offers Elia good counsel on matters of court (for example, she helps Elia navigate which ladies at court are gossip-mongers versus genuine, and she’s quick to detect insincerity). But behind her courtly grace, Ashara’s eyes hold a certain sadness. The rekindling with Ned brings her cautious joy. Ashara is currently in anxious limbo. She loves Ned truly – his honor, his quiet strength, his surprising tenderness – but she fears that, as a second son, his duty may bind him elsewhere if Rickard or Brandon say so. Ashara’s dearest confidant is her brother Arthur; he supports her love and would happily welcome Ned as kin. Yet, should things go awry, Arthur worries for Ashara’s wellbeing (in canon, heartbreak led her to tragedy). At court, Ashara remains poised. She deflects the flirtations of others and focuses on her duties: organizing the Queen’s events, playing the high harp on evenings to entertain the royal children, and accompanying Princess Elia on charitable visits to septs and orphanages (Ashara’s kind heart shines in such work, aligning with Elia’s values). Many find Ashara enchanting, but she is remarkably humble and kind for one so beautiful, making even court ladies who could be jealous instead become her friends. The question that lingers is whether she and Ned will be allowed their happy ending in this world or whether duty and fate will interfere once more.
- Lord Varys, called “The Spider”, Master of Whisperers – A eunuch from Lys with a hairless head and a plump, perfumed demeanor, Varys is the spymaster of the Iron Throne. He served King Aerys and now serves King Rhaegar – or so everyone hopes. Varys was instrumental in foiling Aerys’s final wildfire plot: it’s hinted he was the one who alerted Rhaegar to the imminent danger, thereby saving the city . This earned Rhaegar’s trust, and Varys retained his position on the small council. Varys presents himself as obsequious, soft-spoken, and harmless, constantly downplaying his own importance even as his web of “little birds” (informants from street children to servants) bring him information from every corner. He is extremely intelligent, secretive, and manipulative, though he claims to have the realm’s best interests at heart. In this peaceful era, Varys actively works to hunt down any plots against the King. He reports that “shadows of the past” still lurk but Varys’s true motivations remain characteristically murky. He has expressed subtle concern about Rhaegar’s growing obsession with prophecy – that he shares quietly with the King, advising balance. Publicly, Varys remains the King’s staunch supporter, sweetly praising “this blessed peace our wise king has wrought.” He keeps a careful eye on court factions: he noticed Littlefinger’s rise with interest (two spiders in one web can tangle). Varys occasionally appears to clash with Littlefinger behind closed doors, as Baelish’s money-driven schemes can upset the social order Varys tries to maintain. For example, Varys opposed Littlefinger’s suggestion to cut the Master of Whispers’ stipend in favor of funding a new harbor project – a move Baelish made to diminish Varys’s resources. Rhaegar, mediating, ensured Varys’s network remained funded (he values information as the lifeblood of ruling). Varys outwardly thanked “the generous king” but inwardly marked Baelish as a potential threat. Regarding the Great Houses, Varys works to keep them mollified. He helped facilitate the match between Robert and Cersei (feeding Tywin flattering reports that Robert was smitten and would be a pliable husband – a slight exaggeration). He sends anonymous gifts to Lysa Arryn (to keep her fond of King’s Landing, hoping to tether the Vale closer). He even had agents spread heroic tales of Stannis’s naval improvements, to bolster the Baratheon brother’s reputation and keep him loyal. All of these little manipulations are aimed at one goal: preventing conflict. If anything defines Varys in this timeline, it’s that he has seen the horrors of war barely avoided and is determined never to let the realm bleed if he can stop it. But as with any spider, one wonders – is it truly for the realm, or for some deeper plan? Varys’s commitment to stability could either make him an invaluable ally to Rhaegar… or the one most likely to betray him should he deem the King a threat to the realm. For now, though, his whispers keep the King one step ahead of his enemies, and his presence in the Red Keep’s secret passages ensures that few secrets remain hidden from the Spider’s gaze.
- Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish, Master of Coin – A minor lord by birth (House Baelish holds a small sliver of land in the Fingers of the Vale), Petyr Baelish has climbed high for someone so low-born. He was once fostered with the Tullys of Riverrun and nursed an unrequited love for Lysa Tully. In this timeline, Petyr still dueled Brandon Stark for Catelyn’s hand and lost – a scarring humiliation. He recovered and, using his wits, eventually made his way to King’s Landing. When Jon Arryn stepped down as Master of Coin to return home , a vacancy opened. Through a mix of impressive accounting in Gulltown’s port and clever flattery of the right people (plus perhaps a recommendation from Lysa via letters to Jon), Petyr Baelish was appointed Master of Coin. Now seated on the small council, Littlefinger presents as amiable, witty, and ever-helpful with crown finances. He has significantly increased crown revenue by instituting new port fees and leveraging loans to stimulate trade. King Rhaegar, less experienced in monetary matters, values Petyr’s acumen – though Rhaegar also keeps a careful eye (with Varys’s guidance) to ensure the realm isn’t too far in debt. Littlefinger cultivates an image of a charming jester-like courtier who delights in gossip and seemingly has no strong allegiances. In truth, Petyr is extremely ambitious, cunning, and holds deep grudges. Though outwardly he supports the peace, chaos can be a ladder… and part of him wouldn’t mind seeing these great houses at each other’s throats eventually, so he can climb over the wreckage. For now, though, Petyr bides time. He’s woven himself into Cersei Lannister’s confidences; the neglected young Lady enjoys Petyr’s flattering attention and gossip. Through her, Petyr gains insight into the Baratheon-Lannister dynamic and even feeds her discontent (playing on Cersei’s hatred of being “just a lord’s wife” rather than a queen). Similarly, Petyr writes ardent letters to Lady Lysa Arryn, keeping her emotionally ensnared and willing to advocate for him in the Vale. Petyr’s management of the treasury has also allowed him to place his own agents in key positions (like harbor masters, toll collectors) who skim off coin for him, making him secretly one of the richest men in King’s Landing. No one suspects the Master of Coin might be pilfering; his books are immaculate, if anything showing excess revenue he generously attributes to others’ good governance. Littlefinger’s plots are currently in their seedling stage. Littlefinger’s long-term goals likely include elevating his station dramatically – perhaps even sitting on the Iron Throne via some unlikely scheme. Where Varys seeks stability, Petyr doesn’t mind a little chaos – provided he’s safely above it. In sum, Petyr Baelish is the concealed dagger in the heart of King’s Landing: polite, helpful, and smiling, all while aiming for the day he can twist circumstances to cut down those who once looked down on him. Only a few, like Varys, harbor suspicions, but as Petyr himself might say with a sly grin, “I’m just a petty lord from the Fingers. What influence could I possibly have?”
- Grand Maester Pycelle – The elderly Grand Maester on the small council, Pycelle has weathered many reigns. He served the Mad King obsequiously and has smoothly transitioned to serving King Rhaegar. Pycelle is cunning in a self-serving way; he aligns himself with whoever holds power (especially if they are backed by Tywin Lannister, whom Pycelle has long secretly admired and served). In this new era, Pycelle publicly proclaims the wisdom and mercy of King Rhaegar, but behind closed doors he often acts as Tywin Lannister’s informant. When Tywin was Hand again, Pycelle basically followed Tywin’s lead on council . For instance, when Rhaegar proposed lowering tariffs to help poor regions, Pycelle conveniently produced a convoluted report (ghostwritten by Littlefinger at Tywin’s behest) about how it might harm the economy . Pycelle is shrewd enough to pivot – he began currying favor with Prince Doran Martell, bringing him frequent herbal remedies for his gout and droning on about Dornish history to flatter him. Doran, perceptive, tolerates Pycelle but keeps him at arm’s length. Pycelle’s true allegiance is still to the Lannister cam and personality-wise, Pycelle feigns being a doddering old man who sleeps through meetings and spouts platitudes. It’s partially an act – he uses it to be underestimated. However, he is genuinely old (almost 70) and his strength is fading. He still has a lecherous eye for young women and keeps a stash of potions to pep up his bedroom abilities. Pycelle’s medical skills are adequate but not extraordinary; fortunately, peace means fewer injuries to treat. He did competently tend to Queen Elia’s health, recommending rest and certain Essosi tonics that somewhat improved her frailty (Elia politely thanks him, though she trusts her own Dornish maester more). Pycelle is a symbol of the old regime’s lingering influence (the collusion of the Citadel/ Lannisters, etc.). Pycelle can be subtly dangerous: he’s willing to poison minds or bodies if it serves his perceived masters. He once slipped a mild essence-of-nightshade into a Martell ally’s wine to make them too ill for a council session where Tywin wanted a policy passed without dissent (no one discovered this minor crime). As things evolve, if he senses the winds change (say, if the Lannisters regain upper hand or a conflict looms), Pycelle will try to position himself favorably. For now, Grand Maester Pycelle is that annoying yet entrenched fixture of King’s Landing: pompous, loquacious, and always playing both sides of every coin while pretending to be just a sleepy old man.
- Ser Gregor Clegane, “The Mountain”, hedge knight turned outlaw – A gigantic, fearsome knight from the Westerlands, standing nearly eight feet tall and known for his brutality. In canon, Gregor was Tywin’s rabid dog who committed atrocities during the sack of King’s Landing; in this timeline, there was no sack, but Gregor still finds ways to unleash his cruelty. Initially, Ser Gregor was among those stormlords who followed Robert Baratheon to the Trident (Gregor’s motives likely being loot and violence rather than loyalty). When war ceased, Gregor was left restless. Now an outlaw (you will find out why in the story), Gregor has gathered a small band of cutthroats and sellswords in the wilderness of the Riverlands, burning holdfasts and terrorizing villages. He’s essentially become a monstrous brigand lord, too skilled to be caught by local lordlings, and too minor for the Iron Throne to yet mobilize a whole army for (especially while focusing on bigger political issues). The common folk whisper Gregor is a “demon in human form,” telling tales of his gigantic shadow looming over hapless victims. Prince Rhaegar has placed a bounty on Gregor’s head, and Ned Stark, while visiting the Riverlands, even attempted a search for him, but the Mountain is elusive and extremely dangerous. Gregor’s continued survival is a dark stain on the King’s peace – a reminder that even without war, violence lurks. Tywin Lannister publicly disowned Gregor’s actions, calling him a rogue knight, but privately Tywin likely sees Gregor as a potential tool still. If chaos were useful, Tywin knows Gregor can always be aimed at enemies. Meanwhile, Gregor lives for blood and coin, caring nothing for politics. His younger brother Sandor serves in the King’s Landing City Watch and spits at the mention of Gregor, but is also haunted by him (the origin of Sandor’s burn still happened, making him hate Gregor with a passion). Gregor’s role is peripheral but significant as a foreshadowing of conflict – his atrocities may eventually force the King’s hand, or serve as catalyst for further Westerosi unrest. The Mountain represents the unquelled brutality that a peaceful regime still struggles to eliminate. He is the roaring beast outside the gates, a threat that must eventually be dealt with, and when he is, it will likely exact a heavy toll…
(Thus concludes the list of principal characters introduced in Book One. Alliances and enmities are outlined as of the beginning of the story, and are sure to evolve as events unfold.)
Chapter 3: Credits & Disclaimer
Chapter Text
PROLOGUE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
In the annals of Westeros, the deeds herein recorded spring from the great tapestry first woven by the quill of George R. R. Martin in his A Song of Ice and Fire, and the visions brought to the screen in HBO's Game of Thrones. This chronicle, The Dragon's Peace, is but a humble, transformative telling — a work of admiration and invention, wrought without coin or profit, and owing its roots to the foundations laid by the original master of the realm.
All novel plotlines, characters, and histories unique to The Dragon's Peace are the creation of ChroniclesofVampy, spun in the spirit of homage and imagination.
ON THE ILLUMINATION OF THIS CHRONICLE
The images and art herein are the labors of many skilled hands, each the rightful master of their own craft. Their works are displayed solely to enrich the telling, in the spirit of non-commercial celebration.
Should any artist or rightful holder desire the removal of their work, or wish their name to be inscribed more fittingly in these records, send word to ChroniclesofVampy, and it shall be done without delay or contest.
Cover - rinthecap
State of the Realm - Kudriaken
CHARACTERS BY HOUSE
Rhaegar - Kudriaken
Elia - ildraws
Viserys - naekvalkk
Rhaenys - ildraws
Aegon - archamion
Daenerys - dalberadiata
Rickard - Ulvar
Brandon - chillyravenart
Ned - EtceteraArt
Lyanna - elvishness
Catelyn - kada-kade
Robert - ildraws
Stannis - efpizza
Renly - sleazyjanet
Tywin - Naomimakesart
Jaime - m-malyar
Cersei - epicladyrae
Tyrion - The-Ez
Doran - zuralgaa
Oberyn - The-Ez
Myriah - helaenarts
Lewyn - ildraws
Mace - Lukasz Jaskolski
Willas - pembroke
Jon - yeah-13
Lysa - gracielikegrapes
Hoster - dewitteillustration
Edmure - sofikiii
Barristan - Riccardo Moscatello
Arthur - fkaluis
Ashara - souryam
Varys - lupotterdraws
Littlefinger - lifelessmechartwork
Pycelle - Joshua Cairós
Gregor - Joshua Cairós
CHAPTERS
Prologue: Jessica Drummond
One: Debustee
Two: ildraws
Three: Jairo Victor
Four: fraudiest
Five: mourningstorms
Six: Game of Thrones Ascent
Seven: blndraws
Eight: salialenart
Nine: naomimakesart
Ten: snoguts
Eleven: ildraws
Twelve: ebieart
Thirteen: badwriterrr, RamZu_
Chapter 4: Prologue
Chapter Text
[King’s Landing, the Red Keep – 281 AC]
The throne room stank of smoke and fear. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stepped over a trail of charred cloth – the remains of a cloak or a man’s tunic, he could not tell – as he advanced toward the Iron Throne. The air rippled with heat. Green wildfire residue clung in oily splashes to the black marble floor, hissing and spitting where overturned braziers had spilled the alchemical flame. At the base of the dais, two corpses smoldered. One wore the red-gold armor of a Targaryen Kingsguard; Rhaegar glimpsed the face – Ser Jon Darry, eyes staring molten coins – and forced himself not to flinch. The other was Rossart, the King’s favorite pyromancer, identifiable only by the flash of his emerald robes amid a heap of burned flesh. Rhaegar had cut the man down himself, moments ago, when Rossart leapt between him and the throne brandishing a jar of wildfire. Now the shattered jar’s contents were eating a dark scar across the floor, burning out in noxious wisps. And on the Iron Throne, King Aerys II Targaryen clutched the neck of a terrified servant girl, holding a Valyrian steel dagger to her throat. The Mad King’s robes were disheveled, his silver-gold hair half-burnt on one side. The girl in his grasp sobbed, a thin line of red trickling from where the dagger pressed. Behind them, the tall Iron Throne loomed – an asymmetry of twisted blades, glowing green in the reflection of wildfire embers.
“Traitor son,” King Aerys was saying in a clacking, high voice. He glared down at Rhaegar from the steps, eyes bright with lunacy. “Would you threaten your own sire? I am the king! The king!”
Rhaegar’s heart twisted. The man before him was gaunt, half-mad, and lost – a feral animal backed into a corner. Father. He remembered being a boy of seven, watching this man hold court with grandeur, listening wide-eyed to Aerys’ tales of Balerion and old Valyria. That man was gone. The creature on the throne now wore the same face but none of the light behind the eyes. Years of paranoia and cruelty had burned it all away. “I threaten no one, Father,” Rhaegar said, sword in hand. Smoke curled from the bloodied blade of his longsword, Dragonbane. Jon Darry’s blood, he thought with a stab of grief. And Rossart’s. The sword felt leaden in his grasp. “Lower the dagger. Let the girl go. No more innocents need die today.” He took one cautious step up the dais, boots leaving prints in sooty residue. Aerys barked a laugh – a thin, cracked sound, half madman’s cackle, half sob. “Innocents? What care did you have for innocents when you conspired with our enemies?!” Spittle flew from the King’s lips. “Did you think I did not know? Varys told me everything – the Starks were coming for me, and you… you vanished to plot with them! With traitors! And now you come with sword drawn, in open defiance of your king…” Rhaegar’s jaw clenched. “I left to save Lyanna Stark,” he said, voice low but carrying. Behind him, he sensed movement – Ser Jaime Lannister, white cloak torn and crimson with someone’s blood, rose shakily to his feet near a pillar.
The young knight’s face was a mask of confusion and anguish as he beheld the scene: the hall littered with bodies, the King screaming at his heir. Rhaegar did not dare take his eyes off his father, but he addressed Jaime firmly, “Ser Jaime – please see to Lord Stark and his son.”
At the side of the hall lay the torture device that had nearly claimed Lord Rickard Stark’s life: a tall wooden frame with chains, now scorched and crumbling. Rhaegar had shattered the mechanism with one swing of his sword upon entering – a desperate act that spilled burning coals across the floor. The coals had scorched Rhaegar’s boots and ignited Rossart’s robes, which gave Rhaegar the opening to cut the pyromancer down. Within the device, Lord Rickard hung limp in blackened armor, alive but barely. His son Brandon was nearby, cut free from the strangling apparatus that had choked him; Brandon’s face was purple, but he gasped shallow breaths. They needed immediate aid. Jaime Lannister hesitated only a heartbeat. Rhaegar could sense the young knight’s loyalty knifing him from both sides – sworn to protect the King, but aghast at Aerys’s crimes, sworn to obey Rhaegar as Prince, but reeling at what that obedience now meant. Finally Jaime gave a taut nod and stumbled toward the Starks.
Good.
King Aerys’s eyes slid to Ser Jaime as the knight moved. “Yes, go, Ser Jaime! Go fetch your father’s gold!” Aerys spat. “No doubt Lord Tywin is waiting at the gates to butcher us all. But he’ll find the last laugh is mine… yes… mine.” Aerys’s lips twisted into a grin. The dagger in his hand trembled against the captive girl’s throat. “Rossart!” he suddenly screeched. “Rossart, where is my wildfire?!” “Rossart is dead,” Rhaegar said, ascending another step. His sword hand was steady, but his heart thundered against his ribcage. The King was one twitch away from slicing that poor girl’s throat. She was a kitchen maid, no older than fifteen, her cap fallen off to reveal hair the color of flax. Rhaegar did not know her name – only that she’d had the misfortune to be in the throne room carrying wine when Aerys’s wrath erupted. Just one of countless innocents in the Red Keep. I must save her. “Father, there will be no wildfire. It’s over. Surrender the blade. I beg you.” Aerys stared at him, and for an instant Rhaegar glimpsed something like clarity in those violet eyes – a crack in the armor of madness. Aerys’s lips quivered. “Over…?” he echoed, almost a child’s voice. “No. No, it is not over. It only ends when I say.” The moment passed; suddenly the King dragged the knife, and the girl yelped as a thin red line opened on her pale throat. “Stay back!” Aerys shrieked at Rhaegar. “One more step and I’ll cut her open like a sow. Is that what you want, Your Grace?” He giggled hysterically at his own mockery.
Rhaegar froze where he stood, halfway up the steps to the throne. The heat from wildfire and burning tapestries had drawn sweat to his brow. He could smell himself singed – his cloak had caught a spark earlier and still smoked at the hem. “Release her,” he said softly. Father, don’t do this… “Let her go and I swear by the Seven I will show you mercy.” “Mercy? Mercy?” King Aerys bared his teeth. “What mercy did you show me, traitor? You’ve destroyed me! My own blood, my blood...” His voice broke, then rose to a shriek, “You think you can steal my throne and not bleed for it? I am the dragon!! And the dragon does not beg.” With a sudden, savage shove, Aerys threw the serving girl at Rhaegar. The girl stumbled down the steps right into Rhaegar’s arms. He dropped his sword and caught her, trying to keep his balance – her weight slammed into his chest. She was sobbing, clutching at him. Rhaegar smelled fear and sweat and wine stains on her dress. Over her shoulder he saw King Aerys snatch up something from behind the throne – a large, ornate jar. The King’s eyes met Rhaegar’s, and Aerys gave a ghastly grin.
Wildfire.
Aerys flung the jar with all his might toward the base of the throne where Rhaegar stood. “Burn them all!” the King howled. Time seemed to slow. Rhaegar twisted, shielding the serving girl with his body as the jar hit the step beside them and exploded in jade-green fire. The impact was like a thunder clap – Rhaegar felt liquid flame splash his back, intensely hot. He lurched forward with the girl, rolling down the few steps to the floor. She was shrieking; he realized some wildfire had splattered onto her skirt, now alight in green flame. Rhaegar smothered the fire with his smoking cloak, patting frantically until the girl’s skirt stopped burning. His back screamed with pain – a patch of wildfire had caught on his left shoulder. He bit back a cry and tore off the cloak, hurling it aside where it sizzled. Above, King Aerys was screaming, “Burn! Burn!” in a cracked, ecstatic voice. Rhaegar’s discarded sword lay out of reach. He pushed the serving girl further from the throne’s base. “Run,” he gasped. She was whimpering, but she nodded and crawled away out of immediate danger, towards where Ser Jaime was with the Starks. Rhaegar looked up. Aerys had one last wildfire jar in hand. “Fire and blood!” the King babbled, prying at the lid with manic strength. In seconds he’d hurl it – and if it struck the floor fully intact, it could engulf the whole hall. Rhaegar’s skin prickled with horror. Jaime Lannister stood across the room, eyes wide and useless; Rickard Stark’s armor was soaked in flammable oils from his near-execution; wildfire sparks danced hungrily near that slick. If one more jar went up, Rickard Stark would die screaming in flame, and likely Brandon too, and all others here. Elia and the children… Rhaegar’s mind flashed to his wife and little ones, locked safely (for now) in Maegor’s Holdfast. If the throne room went up… if wildfire touched the caches rumored beneath the Red Keep’s floors…
No.
Rhaegar Targaryen moved. He bounded up the steps two at a time, closing the distance to the throne. Aerys tore the lid off the jar – Rhaegar saw a glimpse of the viscous green liquid sloshing within, already igniting from the air contact. The King raised it to smash on his own throne room floor, eyes wild. Rhaegar lunged. He grasped his father’s wrist with one hand and the jar with the other. For an instant, father and son struggled silently. Aerys—tall, willowy, no warrior—actually held on with surprising strength, his face an inch from Rhaegar’s, teeth bared in a grimace. “You will not have my throne!” he spat, spittle flecking Rhaegar’s cheek. The jar wobbled between their hands.
“Father,” Rhaegar gasped, tears in his eyes from the effort, from the agony of this moment. “Please… no more… let go.” Perhaps something in Rhaegar’s voice gave the old king pause. Aerys’s eyes flickered, and his lips quivered. His grip slackened fractionally. In that instant, Rhaegar wrenched the jar free and spun to the side, hurling it away. The jar sailed toward the empty far end of the hall. It hit the floor near the great oak doors with a crystalline shatter – green flame whooshed up, a pillar of emerald fire blazing harmlessly distant from any people. The corridor beyond would catch, but the throne room itself was spared.
Rhaegar exhaled a short, trembling breath of relief. That was when King Aerys drove a dagger into his side.
The thin blade punched through the mail under Rhaegar’s arm, sliding between his ribs. It was pure shock – Rhaegar made a choked sound and staggered. The Mad King yanked the dagger out, screaming incoherently, and struck again at his son’s neck. Rhaegar caught Aerys’s wrist just in time; the dagger’s point pricked his jawline but went no further. They grappled, Aerys scratching at Rhaegar’s face with his free hand. The pain in Rhaegar’s side was hot and wet – he felt blood begin to soak his undershirt. They lurched against the Iron Throne. Rhaegar’s back struck the throne’s metal protrusions – a half-molten blade cut through his tunic. The hall seemed to spin around him for a moment, his strength ebbing. Aerys pressed forward with surprising fury, eyes bulging, the dagger inching toward Rhaegar’s throat. “I will bathe in your blood!” Aerys hissed, flecks of foam on his lips. “Usurper’s spawn! Abomination!” Rhaegar’s boot slipped on a smear of wildfire residue and they crashed to the side, onto the dais steps. Aerys landed atop him, knocking the wind from Rhaegar’s lungs. The dagger came down in a frenzied stab toward Rhaegar’s face – he caught Aerys’s wrist with both hands this time, halting the blow an inch from his eye. The point trembled, so close he could not focus on it. He blinked sweat from his eyes and looked at his father. King Aerys’s silver hair hung in burned, stringy locks; his face contorted with malice; his teeth gnashed. Rhaegar saw nothing of the father he’d loved in that face. Not a glimmer. Only madness and hate.
No crown can pardon what my father did. The memory of his own words – spoken to Ned Stark on the trident field – rang in Rhaegar’s mind . Words he had meant. Words he now had to live by.
“I’m sorry,” Rhaegar whispered. With a sudden burst of strength fueled by desperation, he twisted his hips and reversed their positions, shoving the King off and pinning Aerys beneath him on the step. The dagger clattered free from Aerys’s grasp and skittered down the steps. Aerys let out a shriek of rage and began to shout for help – “Guards! GUARDS! Kill the trait—” Rhaegar drove his gauntleted fist into Aerys’s mouth. The Mad King’s cry became a gurgle as blood and broken teeth spilled over his lip. Dazed, Aerys coughed wetly, still trying to scream. His nails scrabbled weakly at Rhaegar’s surcoat, tearing at the embroidered dragon sigil. Outside, through the tall windows of the throne room, the sky was blue and cloudless. Peaceful. The world unaware of the horror within. Rhaegar’s side throbbed; hot blood dripped from the dagger wound under his arm. Each pulse of pain seemed to beat time for him, slow and heavy. He heard Arthur Dayne’s voice in memory: “ If the gods should judge between you and Aerys, they would choose you, my friend. You know what must be done.”
Arthur had known. Jaime had known. They all knew.
Aerys’s hands were at Rhaegar’s throat now, trembling, too weak to squeeze effectively. Rhaegar covered one of those hands with his own and gently pulled it away. Pale, long-fingered, a little burn-scarred – the hands of the man who taught me to play harp. Rhaegar felt his vision blur with tears he could not spare. He grasped his father’s throat between his left hand’s thumb and forefinger. Aerys gargled, kicking feebly. His violet eyes widened in realization at what his son meant to do. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. “For Elia,” Rhaegar said softly, voice breaking. “For Rhaenys. For Aegon. They would have all burned.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and fell onto Aerys’s cheeks, mingling with the King’s blood. “And for the thousands you would have killed… I’m sorry.” With his other hand, Rhaegar reached back and pulled a half-fused sword blade from the Iron Throne – a jagged blade from some ancient foe’s sword, its edge still sharp. Aerys made a wet, mewling sound, whether plea or curse, Rhaegar could not know. He almost faltered. Kinslayer. The word loomed in his mind, a shadow of doom.
Will I be accursed?
His children’s faces flashed in his mind – little Rhaenys laughing as he played harp, baby Aegon gripping his finger with absolute trust. Then Elia’s face: “Bring them back to me,” she had wept when he left her, locking the nursery door behind him. Bring them back. Rhaegar plunged the jagged blade into his father’s chest.
Once, twice, a third time.
Aerys Targaryen arched and gasped. Blood gushed out over Rhaegar’s hands, hot and slick. The Mad King’s eyes fluttered, then fixed on some distant point beyond Rhaegar’s shoulder. His hands slipped from Rhaegar’s surcoat and fell limp on the step. Prince Rhaegar, now King of Westeros, slumped back against the Iron Throne’s base. The hall was very quiet save for the crackle of small fires and the distant shouts of men outside the doors. Rhaegar stared at what he had done. King Aerys lay dead, red blood pooling beneath his corpse and creeping down the steps of the throne like a crimson carpet. The smell of it—metallic, potent—mingled with the acrid odor of burnt flesh and the bitter tang of tears in Rhaegar’s throat. It felt as if the world had stopped. What have I done? Seven save me… Rhaegar wanted to keen, to let out the agony inside, but he found he had no voice. It was caught somewhere deep in his chest along with his pounding heart.
No more innocents, no more innocents…
Chapter 5: Chapter One: Rhaegar
Chapter Text
Rhaegar Targaryen stood in the echoes of his father's madness. The air in the Red Keep’s throne room was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burnt flesh. Green wildfire still guttered in a few puddles on the stone floor, casting eerie light on the pillars. King Aerys lay sprawled before the Iron Throne where Rhaegar had struck him down. The Mad King’s eyes were open, staring sightless at the vaulted ceiling. The sword was stained with his own father’s blood…
For a long moment, no one moved. Jaime Lannister stood a few paces away, his white Kingsguard cloak spattered with soot and ash. The young knight’s face was as pale as milk. He had just witnessed what he never expected to see: Prince Rhaegar rising against his sire. And winning. Rhaegar’s chest heaved with each breath as he looked from his father’s corpse to Jaime. His heart thundered, not with triumph but with a profound sorrow and nausea. In slaying Aerys, he had broken the deepest taboo of gods and men— kinslaying, regicide. Yet if he had not, countless innocents would have burned. Elia... the children... Rhaegar’s mind flashed with fear for his family.
“Your Grace...” Jaime Lannister’s voice was unsteady as he broke the silence. The Kingsguard knight slowly went to one knee amid the soot and blood. His golden hair was plastered to his brow with sweat. “Your Grace, what—what are your orders?” he managed. Jaime’s sword was in his hand, but he lowered it, offering fealty with his gaze as much as his posture. Rhaegar realized then that all eyes in the hall were on him. A handful of courtiers and servants had peeped in from doorways once the sounds of battle ceased. Grand Maester Pycelle hovered near a pillar, his chain of office jangling as he trembled. Lord Varys emerged from behind the drapery of a hidden passage, dusting off his hands, his expression a mask of mild distress. These and others who had not fled the Red Keep were witnessing the end of a dynasty’s madness and the birth of something new. And they were awaiting the new king’s words.
Rhaegar drew a breath and squared his shoulders. He lifted the blade that had killed his own father—and raised it high. The king’s blood slaked the steel, dripping crimson onto the floor. “Hear me!” Rhaegar’s voice rang out, stronger than he felt. “King Aerys is dead.” He forced himself to say it firmly. “He sought to burn this city and innocents within it. I stopped him. I did what I had to do... to save the realm from tyranny and madness.” A murmur rippled through those present. Some looked at the fallen king’s body with dread or disbelief. But Rhaegar pressed on, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “I take up the burden of the crown. For the good of the Seven Kingdoms, I claim the Iron Throne as Rhaegar of House Targaryen, first of my name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.” He lowered the sword and let it clang to the stone at his feet. “I swear to rule justly, in peace and honor, so that we never again see horrors as we have this day.”
For a heartbeat, there was only the crackle of dying flames. Then Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, dry-washing his wrinkled hands. “All hail Rhaegar, King of the Seven Kingdoms,” the old man quavered, bending his knee as best he could. Others followed swiftly. Lord Varys swept into a deep bow, his silk robes pooling around him, murmuring praises about the realm’s savior. A few household knights and lords who had arrived late to the hall knelt as well, voices rising in a hesitant cheer of “Long live the King!” Jaime Lannister stayed on one knee, hand over heart as he repeated the words. Rhaegar closed his eyes for half a second. His hand throbbed from gripping the sword so hard, and his soul throbbed with grief for what he had done. Father... He let that thought trail away. Aerys had given him no choice. Perhaps the gods would judge him harshly, but better his soul be scarred than the realm turned to ash. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the Iron Throne looming before him, the twisted swords of Aegon’s conquered foes still glowing faintly green from wildfire’s heat. The throne his father had occupied in madness... now it must seat a better king. A king he must become.
“Ser Jaime,” Rhaegar said quietly. The young knight looked up. “Rise.” Jaime did, lanky and uncertain, awaiting command. “Find Ser Barristan and Ser Lewyn,” Rhaegar commanded, naming the other Kingsguard still in the Red Keep. Barristan Selmy and Prince Lewyn Martell had been defending the gates or the royal family—Rhaegar prayed they yet lived. “Tell them to secure Queen Elia and my children at once, and bring them to me.” In truth, Rhaegar wanted nothing more than to rush to Elia’s side himself and see with his own eyes that she and little Rhaenys and Aegon were safe. Aerys had threatened their lives not an hour past; the memory twisted his heart with dread. But the weight of kingship was already descending on him. He had to show command. Jaime bowed and hurried off, his white cloak vanishing around a corner. Rhaegar turned next to Varys. “Lord Varys, see that all remaining wildfire caches in the city are found and safely disposed of. We do not want any lingering flames or surprises.” The Master of Whisperers—if he still held that office in a regime that had literally gone up in flames—pressed his hands together and simpered. “At once, Your Grace. Thank the gods you prevented the worst... truly, smallfolk will sing of this deliverance.” He smiled slipperily. Rhaegar didn’t trust that smile; he did not trust Varys generally. But the eunuch was nothing if not efficient.
As Varys scurried off to organize his little birds, Rhaegar gave further orders to those in the hall. He bid Pycelle send ravens to every lord in King’s Landing and beyond announcing the Mad King’s death and Rhaegar’s ascension. “Summon those lords still in the city—Prince Doran Martell, Ser Jon Connington if he can be found,” Rhaegar said. Jon Connington, his close friend, had been Hand of the King until Aerys exiled him; Rhaegar wasn’t even sure if Connington was still in the capital. “Also the High Septon, and any other witnesses of rank.” He realized the importance of shoring up legitimacy quickly. There were armies in the field ready to tear the realm apart. Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark led hosts north of the Trident even now, hungry for Targaryen blood. They needed to know the threat in King’s Landing was ended—and that Lyanna Stark still lived, unharmed.
Lyanna…
Rhaegar’s stomach twisted thinking of her, hidden away in the Tower of Joy far to the south. She had been his dream at Harrenhal, his song of spring, but loving her had nearly destroyed them all. Later, he told himself. One war at a time.
Pycelle toddled off to fulfill the orders, leaving Rhaegar momentarily alone with the Iron Throne and his father’s corpse. The dead king’s mouth was still twisted in a snarl.. Rhaegar swallowed back bile. Aerys had been consumed by madness in the end, threatening to burn his own family alive. My father died long before tonight, Rhaegar thought with sorrow. Whatever he became in these past years... that was a stranger wearing my father’s face. Yet the blood guilt was Rhaegar’s to bear. Cautiously, he approached his father’s body and knelt. The smell was awful—Aerys had emptied his bowels in death. Rhaegar put a hand on his father’s forehead, brushing back the thin, silvered hair matted with sweat. “May you find the peace in death that eluded you in life,” he whispered, a last prayer for the father he once adored. Will I become him, one day? The thought flickered unbidden. Aerys too had been a young prince once, full of hope. Madness and cruelty had corroded him slowly. Rhaegar felt tears prick his eyes. He steeled himself and rose.
By the time Ser Barristan Selmy arrived with Princess Elia and the children, others had gathered. Tywin Lannister appeared in the hall’s doorway like a specter, having forced entry to the keep after wildfire explosions shook the city. The Lord of Casterly Rock’s hard green eyes surveyed the scene—Aerys dead, Rhaegar crowned by acclaim—and his lip curled in something like surprise. Behind Tywin came a cadre of Lannister guards, but they hesitated once they saw no battle left to fight. Lord Tywin did not kneel; he merely inclined his head to Rhaegar, gold armor glinting with reflected firelight. Rhaegar would have to deal with him soon, but not this instant. Elia rushed past Tywin with little Princess Rhaenys in tow. When Rhaegar saw his wife—her dark hair unbound, her face smudged with ash but unharmed—a great weight lifted from his shoulders. Elia Martell flew across the hall and into Rhaegar’s arms, Rhaenys toddling behind her crying “Papa! Papa!” Rhaegar dropped to his knees to gather them close, heedless of the ash staining his black armor. “Thank the Mother, you’re safe,” he murmured into Elia’s hair. He could feel her trembling. “I’m safe... we’re safe because of you,” Elia whispered. Her eyes glistened with tears as she pulled back to search his face. Rhaegar cradled her cheek. There was so much he needed to say—apologies for putting her in danger by his foolish pursuit of Lyanna, gratitude for her loyalty—but it would have to wait.
Prince Lewyn Martell, Elia’s uncle and a Kingsguard knight, entered with baby Aegon swaddled in his arms. The infant prince wailed in confusion at the lingering smell of smoke. Lewyn handed the babe to Rhaegar. “All is well, Your Grace,” Lewyn said softly, with a look toward King Aerys’s body. His tone made it clear he understood what had transpired. Rhaegar nodded grimly and held his son tightly. Aegon was only a few moons old, warm and alive against his chest. All that I do, I do for them , Rhaegar thought, kissing the infant’s silver tuft of hair. Elia put an arm around Rhaegar as they rose together. Her strength steadied him. Around them, the court and gathered lords observed with a mix of wariness and relief. “We must tend to the realm now,” Rhaegar said softly to Elia, pressing his brow to hers briefly. She nodded and managed a small, brave smile. The fear was fading from her black eyes, replaced by that quiet Martell resolve he so admired. The High Septon arrived in his crystal crown, breathless, accompanied by a handful of septons and septas who had been praying in the Sept of Baelor when chaos erupted. Seeing Rhaegar alive and King Aerys dead, the High Septon raised his hands. “Blessed be the Seven, who have delivered us from evil,” he intoned. Some in the hall murmured amens.
Rhaegar gently relinquished baby Aegon back to Elia and stepped forward to face the holy man. “Your Holiness,” he said formally, “Will you anoint my reign in the light of the Seven?” Perhaps it was unorthodox to hold a coronation so quickly, but Rhaegar sensed how fragile the moment was. If Westeros was to avoid fracturing, they needed a king immediately, not a drawn-out interregnum or debate. The High Septon hesitated only a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.” He gestured for Rhaegar to kneel. Rhaegar did, in a puddle of his father’s spilled blood. The High Septon anointed Rhaegar’s forehead with holy oil from a small vial one of his septas carried. “In the sight of the Seven, I proclaim Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” Someone—Rhaegar never saw who—placed the heavy circlet of the Targaryen kings upon his silver hair. It was still warm from the flames, but he bore the heat without flinching. A crown of fire and blood, he thought. So be it.
Rhaegar rose as King.
Tywin Lannister finally took a knee then, bowing his proud head. Rhaenys clapped her little hands at the sight of “Grampa Tywin” kneeling, though she scarcely understood why. The hall rang to a new chorus of “Long live King Rhaegar!” The words reverberated, and Rhaegar felt tears threaten once more. He blinked them back and lifted his chin. “Thank you, my lords... my friends,” he said to those assembled. His voice did not waver. “With your help, we shall restore peace and justice to Westeros. The nightmare is over.” Even as he said it, he wondered if that was truly so. The wildfire had been extinguished in King’s Landing, but beyond these walls, armies still marched and hatred still simmered. Soon after, Rhaegar convened a quick council of whatever loyal lords and advisors he could gather. They met in the ruined small council chamber, its windows still rattling from distant screams and the smell of smoke seeping in. There, Rhaegar’s first order was to send envoys to the approaching rebel host. “ They must know the Mad King is dead and the city safe,” he told the council. Jon Arryn’s forces from the Vale and Ned Stark’s Northmen would be converging with Robert Baratheon’s stormlanders, thirsty for Targaryen blood. If they assaulted King’s Landing unaware of the change, disaster would follow.
“We can send a raven, Your Grace,” offered Grand Maester Pycelle. “Ravens may not be believed, not after all that’s happened,” Rhaegar said. “Better to send someone in person under a flag of truce.” He looked around the table at the uneasy faces: Prince Doran Martell, who had hurried to the keep as soon as word spread his sister was safe; Ser Barristan with his arm bandaged from a burn; Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the former Hand, coughing from smoke inhalation; and others. Tywin Lannister sat in stony silence, offering nothing, his green eyes calculating. “I will go myself,” Rhaegar decided. “I shall meet Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon under the banner of peace.” Gasps met his declaration. Elia, seated beside him, clutched his hand under the table. “Sire, that is too dangerous,” Barristan Selmy protested. “Robert Baratheon is said to be in a black rage. If he sees you—”
“He will see me unarmed and bearing terms of peace,” Rhaegar said firmly. “If I send an emissary, Robert might cut him down out of hand. But he won’t kill a man who isn’t fighting him, not before the eyes of half the realm.” Rhaegar prayed he was right about that. Robert had been his friend once, in another life. Now the Storm Lord likely wanted his head on a spike. But Robert also cared about his honor and reputation. Murdering an unarmed king who came to parley would make him no better than Aerys. Jon Arryn and Ned Stark would stay Robert’s hand from such dishonor, Rhaegar hoped. Tywin Lannister cleared his throat. “Your Grace, if you mean to parley, it would be prudent to bring along insurance... perhaps the Lady Lyanna Stark herself?” the Lion of Casterly Rock suggested coolly. “Having her safe return to show will go far to appease House Stark and deprive Lord Robert of his pretext.” Rhaegar met Tywin’s gaze. He did not like the phrasing—pretext—as if Robert’s wrath over Lyanna were but a veil. Perhaps it was. Tywin had hardly forgotten that Aerys spurned his offer of Cersei to wed Rhaegar years ago. The Lannister likely saw this crisis as an opportunity to prove his worth again. Still, Tywin’s suggestion had merit. Rhaegar nodded slowly. “Ser Barristan, you are my finest sword and the soul of honor. Will you ride to the Red Mountains and bring Lady Lyanna to our parley? Treat her with every courtesy due a noble lady of House Stark.”
Barristan inclined his head. “At once, Your Grace. I shall return her safely or die in the attempt.” The old knight rose without another word, clearly eager to be off. Rhaegar trusted Barristan absolutely, but Arthur Dayne had been guarding Lyanna at the Tower of Joy already. Perhaps Ser Arthur was better to fetch her, but Arthur’s duty was her safety, not negotiation. Either way, Rhaegar was resolved Lyanna must be present when he faced Robert. Only her own words could quench Robert’s wrath. And only seeing her unharmed would stay Ned Stark’s fury. Elia’s grip on Rhaegar’s fingers tightened. He could sense her unease—sending for Lyanna must pain her. Rhaegar gave her a brief apologetic look. “It’s the surest way to avert war,” he whispered. She lowered her eyes and nodded, ever dutiful. Within the hour, Rhaegar had donned plain armor and ridden out with a company of loyal knights beneath a peace banner. The crown he left in King’s Landing; he wanted to meet his would-be foes not as a conqueror, but as a man seeking reconciliation. Still, he brought along the royal standard, a three-headed dragon on black, to make clear he was now king. They galloped hard up the kingsroad. By dusk the next day, Rhaegar’s party reached the outskirts of the great rebel host near the crossing of the Trident. The fields were trampled and a thin drizzle of rain slicked the ground to mud. As promised, Rhaegar bore no weapon but a simple dagger at his hip. Arthur Dayne had not yet returned with Lyanna, but Rhaegar prayed they would arrive soon. Time was short; every hour risked a bloodbath if one side or the other lost patience.
A trumpet sounded as Rhaegar’s peace banner was spied. Through the haze of evening, he saw the mass of Northmen, stormlanders, and men of the Vale assembling warily. A line of horsemen rode out to meet Rhaegar between the armies on the open field. At their head, Eddard Stark sat astride a gray destrier, his face solemn under his helm. Beside Ned rode Lord Robert Baratheon on a great warhorse of golden chestnut. Even at a distance, Robert looked as large as the bear of his sigil, his antlered helm adding to his fearsome aspect. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully followed closely, along with their bannermen. Rhaegar signaled his own escort to hang back at a respectful distance. He urged his black courser forward alone, mud flecking its barding. The drizzle had become a cold steady rain by the time the two parties approached striking distance. They halted perhaps twenty yards apart. Rhaegar raised his empty hands in the universal gesture of peace. “Lord Stark! Lord Baratheon! Lord Arryn!” he called. “I come to talk, not fight. Will you meet with me?” His voice had to carry over the drum of rain on armor. Ned Stark dismounted first. He removed his helm. Even dim and wet, Rhaegar could see the fury in his gray eyes—and the grief. Ned’s jaw clenched, but he nodded stiffly. “We’ll hear you, Your Grace,” he said, voice cold as the northern wind. Robert Baratheon made a disgusted sound and leapt off his horse, not waiting for any courtesy. He ripped off his antlered helmet and threw it to the ground; his black hair was plastered to his forehead. Rainwater streamed down his thick beard. Jon Arryn muttered something to Robert, likely caution, but the younger man paid no mind.
Rhaegar swung down from his saddle and took a few steps forward, hands still visible and open. Mud squelched around his boots. “Lord Stark,” he began, gaze resting on Ned. A streak of white had come into Ned’s dark hair at his temple since Rhaegar last saw him, and new lines marked his young face. He went through hell because of me, Rhaegar thought. Guilt tightened around his heart. “Your father and brother live,” Rhaegar said, voice gentle. Ned’s eyes widened a fraction. He clearly hadn’t expected that. “Lord Rickard and Brandon are safe in King’s Landing under my protection. I stopped Aerys before he... before he could do them final harm.” Rhaegar swallowed, recalling the horrifying tableau he’d interrupted—Rickard Stark strung up above wildfire flames, Brandon bound in a strangling device. Brandon nearly died regardless, but the maesters had tended him. Ned said nothing, but a shudder of relief or disbelief went through him. Rhaegar took a breath and went on, “I know words can’t erase what my family has done to yours. Nor can any crown pardon the crimes of my father. Lord Eddard... Ned... I come before you with no weapon in hand, seeking to make amends.” He took one more step, then sank down to his knees in the mud. A collective gasp arose from both sides. Rainwater ran down the back of Rhaegar’s neck, cold and persistent, but he ignored it. He raised his voice so all could hear. “The Targaryen dynasty owes House Stark a debt of blood and honor. I beg your forgiveness for the atrocities committed by King Aerys.” Rhaegar’s words carried across the field. On the rebel side, men shifted and murmured. Ned Stark’s stern mask cracked, showing naked pain. The memory of his father’s charred flesh and the murder of his friends was in his eyes. Rhaegar lowered his head.
“I am sorry, for everything.”
Ned’s throat worked. Jon Arryn put a hand on the young lord’s shoulder, cautioning him. Then Lord Arryn called out, “King Rhaegar, if that is truly who you are now—will you abide by the terms we agreed on when we raised our banners?” The older man’s voice was clear and authoritative. Rhaegar lifted his head, kneeling in the sodden field. “If by terms you mean justice and the safety of the innocent, yes, Lord Arryn. I have spared the city and I intend to deliver justice. There will be no more burnings, no more violence, if I have any say.” His violet eyes locked with Ned’s grey ones. “I will release Lyanna Stark at once. Unharmed. You have my word as both king and knight.” Ned exhaled a breath as if he’d been holding it for a year. The tautness in his stance eased. “Then where is she?” he demanded softly, hope and hurt warring in his tone. Before Rhaegar could answer, Robert Baratheon stepped forward, mud splashing around his heavy boots. “Damn your word!” Robert spat. He had a massive warhammer strapped to his back, and his hand twitched as if he longed to draw it. Rain coursed down his face. “You— you lying dragonspawn.” His voice was thick with wrath. “You think kneeling and pretty speeches will wash away what you’ve done?!”
Rhaegar rose slowly from his knees, arms still out to show peace. “Lord Robert, I know I’ve wronged you,” he began, trying to keep his tone calm. Robert’s face went purple. “Wronged me? YOU STOLE MY BRIDE!” he roared. Behind Rhaegar, his guards shifted uneasily. Several rebel archers on Robert’s side nocked arrows, unsure if this parley was collapsing. “I took nothing that wasn’t freely given,” Rhaegar said, a bit more firmly. The time had come for truth. “Lyanna Stark is not your property, nor any man’s. She is her own woman, and I love—” Robert exploded, lunging forward. “Don’t you dare speak of love!” Spittle flew from his lips. In a flash, the Storm Lord ripped his warhammer from its sling. For one terrifying moment, Rhaegar thought Robert would smash his skull in right there. He was unarmed and wearing no helm; one blow from that hammer would end the Dragon’s Peace before it began.
He braced himself.
But Eddard Stark was faster. Ned thrust himself in front of Robert, throwing both arms wide. “Robert, no!” he shouted. On Robert’s other side, Jon Arryn seized the younger man’s hammer arm. “Stop this madness!” Jon barked. “You are not in this alone, Robert.” His lord’s voice momentarily cut through Robert’s rage. More armed men rushed between Robert and Rhaegar. Some were Arryn’s knights, others Stark men who wouldn’t see their lord’s friend dishonor himself. A tense ring formed, holding Robert at bay. Panting, eyes wild, Robert glared over Ned’s shoulder at Rhaegar. “I’ll kill you,” he swore, voice breaking. “I’ll kill you for what you did to her.” It sounded as much a plea as a threat. Rhaegar’s heart clenched. He realized with a stab of pity that Robert looked almost on the verge of tears behind his fury. To him, Lyanna’s loss was a wound that would never heal. At that instant came a new commotion from the direction of Rhaegar’s rear guard. Horsemen approached at a gallop, shouting for passage under peace banner.
Arthur Dayne’s voice rang out clear: “Make way! Make way, in the King’s name!”
Rhaegar turned to see Ser Arthur riding hard, a dark shape clinging to him on the saddle. His white Kingsguard cloak streamed behind him. The shape dismounted even before the horse fully stopped. It was a woman in a sodden blue cloak, her long brown hair loose. Lyanna Stark.
Rhaegar felt the breath leave his lungs. Lyanna was thinner than when he last saw her, but very much alive. She stumbled a step on the muddy ground but recovered, striding forward with Arthur Dayne at her side shielding her. Ned Stark let out a shocked cry of “Lyanna!” and broke away from restraining Robert. He rushed to his sister, nearly slipping in the mud as he went. Lyanna halted a few yards from Robert and Rhaegar, her face pale and eyes hollow above dark circles. Rhaegar could only stare; she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, even drenched in rain and visibly heartsick. What have I done to her?
Lyanna drew a breath. “Robert.” Her voice carried across the field, quiet but firm. Robert Baratheon froze in place. “Lya...” he muttered, lowering his hammer slightly. She lifted a hand. “Robert, I’m sorry.” Tears glistened in her gray eyes, rain mingling with them on her cheeks. “I never meant to hurt you.” Robert shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “He forced you...” he began, desperate. “Tell them, tell them he kidnapped you—” “No.” Lyanna’s word was like a slap. She raised her chin, though her lips trembled. “No, Robert. I went with Prince Rhaegar by my own choice.” Gasps and murmurs rippled through friend and foe alike. Rhaegar felt simultaneously proud and anguished, wanting to run to Lyanna and enfold her in his arms, but not daring to move. This was her moment, her truth to speak.
Robert looked as though she had struck him with that warhammer. “That’s not... that can’t...” His fingers flexed on the haft of his weapon. “He bewitched you, or threatened—”
“No,” Lyanna said again, louder this time. Ned had reached her now and stood at her elbow, breathing hard. Confusion warred with relief on his face. Lyanna managed a faint, apologetic smile to her brother. Then she stepped past him, closer to Robert and Rhaegar. Rain plastered her gown to her slim frame, and Rhaegar noticed Ser Arthur hovering protectively just behind.
“I rode with Rhaegar because I loved him,” Lyanna said, voice breaking on the admission. “We thought... gods forgive us, we thought we were meant for each other. That tourney at Harrenhal—” She laughed bitterly. “It feels a lifetime ago. But in that moment, I believed it was magic.” Her eyes flicked to Elia, who stood among Rhaegar’s party now, holding little Aegon tightly and watching in tense silence. Lyanna swallowed. “We…were wrong. We were selfish and wrong.” Robert’s hammer hit the mud with a squelch as he let it drop from nerveless fingers. The mighty Robert Baratheon looked utterly lost. “Lya... you... you never loved me?” he whispered, and the raw hurt in his voice made even Rhaegar flinch.
Lyanna approached Robert slowly. He loomed over her, but she did not waver. “I cared for you, Robert. I always did. But... not in the way you wanted.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for the pain I caused you. We both are.” She glanced back at Rhaegar, and for an instant their eyes met. Rhaegar felt his throat tighten. In Lyanna’s gaze he saw only regret and heartbreak. The passionate, laughing girl he had run away with was gone; a wiser, sadder woman stood in her place. He wanted to speak—to tell her he was sorry too, that she had been the song of his soul in a world of duty—but no words came. Ned stepped up and gently pulled Lyanna back a pace from Robert, sensing the other man’s torment. Jon Arryn picked up Robert’s hammer and motioned for two of Robert’s bannermen to take the shaken Storm Lord’s arms. “Robert,” the Lord of the Eyrie said carefully, “We have no cause to continue this war. The Lady Lyanna is unharmed and was not abducted against her will. The Mad King is dead, his reign ended by his own son. Surely... surely that is enough.” His tone was almost pleading.
Robert opened his eyes and looked at Lyanna once more. She gave him a tiny, sorrowful nod. Something broke in Robert then. He ripped free of his bannermen’s hold and turned away, trudging a few steps through the muck like a man in a nightmare. “Robert!” Ned called, but Robert ignored him. Suddenly Robert whirled on Rhaegar with hatred blazing anew. For an instant Rhaegar thought the Storm Lord would attack him barehanded. But Robert simply pointed a shaking finger at him. “I’ll never bend the knee to you,” he snarled hoarsely. “Never, you hear me? Dragon or no, I’ll die before I call you king.” He spat into the mud. Rhaegar inclined his head, accepting Robert’s fury. “I won’t ask you to kneel, Lord Baratheon,” he answered quietly. Robert gave a derisive snort and strode off through the rain, pushing past anyone in his way. His closest men hurried after him, picking up his helmet as they went. They mounted their horses and thundered off toward the southern road, back to the Stormlands.
Ned Stark watched his friend depart with deep sadness etched on his face. But he turned to Rhaegar and Lyanna, duty overriding sorrow. Gently, Ned guided Lyanna behind him and faced Rhaegar directly. The rain began to slacken at last as they regarded one another. Rhaegar realized he was still bareheaded; water dripped from his hair down his brow. In contrast, Ned now wore his Stark honor like polished armor. Rhaegar took a tentative step forward. “Lord Eddard,” he said, voice soft, “Your sister is free to go with you. I release her from any pledge or oath to me. She belongs with her family.” His words seemed to ease Ned; he nodded shortly. “And your brother and father are being tended in King’s Landing,” Rhaegar continued. “Lord Rickard suffered greatly, but he endures. Brandon is bruised but alive. I swear to you, no harm will come to them under my protection.”
Ned’s icy gaze thawed by a degree. He studied Rhaegar a long moment, as if searching for falsehood. Finding none, he said gruffly, “If that is true, then... then I thank you, Your Grace.” He almost choked on the honorific, but he said it. “You saved my family from the fire. For that, I—” Ned shook his head slightly. “We have much to forgive, and much to atone for on both sides.” Rhaegar dared a small, sad smile. “We do.” He extended his hand to Ned. After a pause, Ned clasped it. Both men’s gloves were slick with mud; it was a grim, bedraggled pact, but it was real. “No more war,” Rhaegar vowed quietly. “I will do all in my power to ensure a lasting peace from this day forward.” Jon Arryn stepped up then, nodding approval. He placed a hand over Rhaegar and Ned’s joined ones. “By the gods, let us make it so,” he said. “This folly has gone on long enough. The realm needs healing.” Hoster Tully voiced his agreement, and others followed. In the gathering dusk, beneath a ragged banner of truce, the Dragon and the Wolf made their peace.
That night, the armies of the Trident dispersed. The Northmen and riverlords built fires to dry out and quietly thanked the gods they would not have to die fighting come morning. Ravens flew to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms with news: King Rhaegar Targaryen had saved King’s Landing from wildfire, slain the Mad King, and brokered a truce with the rebels. The Dragon Prince had become a Dragon King, and Robert’s Rebellion had fizzled like a spent candle. Back in King’s Landing, Rhaegar embraced Lord Rickard Stark like a brother when they brought the Stark patriarch into the throne room the next day. Rickard was gaunt and hollow-eyed from his captivity, but alive. Rhaegar went to one knee before him in front of the court and formally begged his forgiveness. Lord Rickard, bound by honor and moved by the sight of his son and daughter returned safely to him, grudgingly accepted Rhaegar’s oath to make amends. Brandon Stark, brusque and fiery-tempered, struggled more with his anger—his throat still bore bruises from Aerys’s cruel device—but even he admitted that were it not for Rhaegar, he’d be dead. They left King’s Landing for Winterfell soon after, with Lyanna alongside them. When they parted, Rhaegar promised Lyanna softly that he would never cease trying to atone for the pain they’d caused. She only nodded, tears in her eyes, before turning away to join her brothers on the road north. Rhaegar watched until the Stark banners disappeared from sight.
Only one great lord refused to forgive or forget: Robert Baratheon. Though his allies urged him to bend the knee with them, Robert would not come to court to pay homage to the new king. He remained at Storm’s End, fuming in isolation. In time, Rhaegar knew, that bitterness might fester into danger again. But for now, Robert was alone and bereft of allies, his rebellion extinguished by the truth of Lyanna’s choices and Aerys’s death. He could nurse his hatred, but he could not challenge the throne—not when all other great houses had acknowledged Rhaegar as rightful king and savior of the capital. The realm was weary of war and welcomed the Dragon’s Peace with cautious relief.
On the evening of his triumph, King Rhaegar sat alone in the royal apartments, finally allowing himself a moment to breathe. Elia had fallen asleep with the children in the nursery, exhausted by the day’s tur moil. Moonlight filtered through the window as Rhaegar removed his sword belt and black armor. He paused, catching a glimpse of himself in a polished looking glass. A tall, lean man with long silver hair and
haunted violet eyes stared back. Was this truly the face of a king? He felt like a ghost in his own skin. Rhaegar thought of his father—how gleeful Aerys would have been had wildfire consumed the city and all his perceived enemies. It would have been a holocaust. Instead Aerys lay on a slab in the sept’s vault, awaiting a quiet funeral with only a few mourners. Rhaegar had ordered he be laid to rest without fanfare, a king who had lost any love his people once bore him. Even Mother Rhaella had not shed many tears at the news; her grief for the gentle man Aerys had been was long since spent from the years of his abuse.
There in the solitude, Rhaegar finally let his composure crack. His shoulders shook, and a sob tore from his throat as he buried his face in his hands. He wept for the innocent lives nearly lost, for the trust shattered between houses, and for the blood on his own hands. He wept for Lyanna, for Elia, for Robert, and yes, even for his father. All the songs and prophecies he had clung to seemed distant and hollow now. I saved the realm, he thought. But who will save my soul? In the end, peace had been won not by noble heralds of destiny, but by a son forced to murder his father. He did not know how long he sat there weeping silently. Eventually a warm presence draped across his back —Elia, awake and concerned. She said nothing, just held him. Rhaegar grasped her hand and kissed it, grateful beyond words for her love. “It’s over,” he whispered to her. “The war is over.” Elia pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “Yes, my love,” she said softly. “Now peace begins.” Rhaegar inhaled a steadying breath and nodded.
Peace.
The Dragon’s Peace, born from dragon’s blood and sorrow. He would make it worthwhile. He would make it last. With Elia by his side and the realm behind him, he swore he would do all he could to justify the crown that fate had thrust upon him. Tomorrow, the work would truly begin. Tonight, at least, the new king allowed himself to mourn and to hope, in equal measure.
A better king than Aerys, he resolved silently. I will be a better king.
Chapter 6: Chapter Two: Elia
Chapter Text
Elia Martell sat straight-backed in the throne room of the Red Keep, her hands folded calmly in her lap, as the Great Council of 281 AC assembled before the Iron Throne. Only a fortnight had passed since the tumult that made her husband Rhaegar king. King’s Landing was still finding its balance after so much blood and fire, but today was a day for reconciliation. Elia smoothed a stray wrinkle from her flowing gown of deep Dornish violet silk. Appear calm , she reminded herself. Appear confident . She was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms now – a role few in this court ever expected a Dornishwoman to fill. Many skeptical eyes watched her. She would give them nothing to scorn. Her dark hair was gathered in an elaborate net of pearls atop her head, and on her brow rested a slim coronet of gold wrought with the sun-and-spear sigil of House Martell entwined with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. That morning, in a private ceremony at the Sept of Baelor, Rhaegar had officially crowned her as his queen consort. He had done so with solemn reverence, placing the circlet on her head before the assembled court and praising her courage and loyalty for all to hear. Elia’s cheeks had flushed with emotion at his words. He will not set me aside. He never intended to , she had told herself, banishing the last ghosts of doubt. Seeing Rhaegar stand before lords and smallfolk alike and proclaim her his one true queen – after all they had endured – had been a balm to wounds she hadn’t realized were still raw.
Now the business of the realm awaited. Elia watched as lords great and small filtered into the throne room under the eyes of vigilant Kingsguard. Banners of every Great House adorned the hall today: the golden lion of Lannister, the direwolf of Stark, the crowned stag of Baratheon, the trout of Tully, and more. Most of those lords had arrived only in the past few days, summoned by raven to King’s Landing to advise and affirm the new king. Rhaegar wanted the legitimacy of their counsel – and, truthfully, to gauge which of them might pose problems. Though open war had been averted, Elia knew well that grudges and ambitions lingered. Peace would need tending, like a fragile garden. Rhaegar sat on the Iron Throne above her, clad in Targaryen black and red with the crown of Aegon I shining in his silver hair. He held himself with quiet dignity, though Elia could sense the tension in his posture. To his right stood Ser Gerold Hightower, the old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and to his left Prince Lewyn Martell – her uncle – who still wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard as well. Arthur Dayne had not yet returned from escorting Lyanna Stark home, but the rest of the Kingsguard lined the dais below the throne, giving the gathering a sense of martial formality. At a sign from Rhaegar, Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat and called the session to order in a reedy voice. “Lords of the realm, pray attend! His Grace King Rhaegar I Targaryen thanks you for answering the realm’s call in this time of transition. May the Mother grant wisdom to our counsels this day.”
Elia’s gaze drifted over the faces of those assembled as Pycelle droned through formalities. She spotted Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, standing with a contingent of Reach lords. The stout Mace looked a bit out of sorts; perhaps he had hoped to arrive earlier to join the fighting that never came. Instead of glory, he got a peace council. Not far from him was Prince Doran Martell, Elia’s elder brother, representing Dorne. Doran met Elia’s eyes and gave her a slight nod and a warm smile. She smiled back gently. Knowing Doran was here in King’s Landing gave her comfort. Her brother’s keen intellect and calm demeanor would be a boon to Rhaegar’s reign.
“Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock!” the herald announced. The tall, rigid figure of Tywin moved to the fore, cutting through lesser lords with cold efficiency. Elia watched him keenly. There was the man who had once sought to make his daughter Rhaegar’s queen. A man humiliated by her father-in-law’s excesses and insults. Tywin’s blond hair was receding and shot with silver now, but he still radiated lordly command. His hard green eyes flicked to Elia for the briefest moment as he stepped forward to address the King. Elia inclined her head in polite greeting; Tywin responded with the faintest of nods. Though he had come with Lannister forces to the capital—albeit too late to “save” it—Elia did not trust him. Not yet. Tywin’s voice carried through the hall. “Your Grace. The Westerlands stands with you.” That was all he said, but it was enough; the assembled lords murmured approval. Tywin had, in effect, bent the knee in his taciturn way. Rhaegar’s face remained unreadable, but he gave a slight bow of his head. “We are glad to have Lord Tywin’s wisdom once again,” the king proclaimed. “I hereby reinstate you, Lord Tywin, as Hand of the King—your counsel served the realm well for twenty years, and we shall need it in the days to come.”
A ripple of surprise went through the crowd at how swiftly Rhaegar acted. Elia allowed herself a small breath of relief. This had been decided in private, but one never knew if Tywin would accept public restoration. The golden lion’s pride had been deeply wounded by Aerys. For an instant, a flush of color came to Tywin’s cheeks. Was it triumph, or humiliation? Elia could not tell. But the Lord of Casterly Rock bent his knee properly now. “I serve the realm, Your Grace,” he said in a measured tone. “I pray I never fail it.” Elia noticed how Tywin did not say “serve you” – only the realm. Clever, proud man. He will serve Rhaegar grudgingly, she thought, but he will serve so long as it profits him. Still, bringing Tywin back into the fold was necessary. The Westerlands might have risen in rebellion too if Tywin felt spurned again. Now, perhaps, his vanity was salved. “Long live the King’s Hand!” bellowed Mace Tyrell, eager to be heard. A few cheers followed, and Tywin gave Mace a thin, cool stare – no love lost between those two houses. As the council proceeded, Elia found herself both participant and observer. She was one of only two women of rank present – the other being the Lady Lysa Arryn, born a Tully, standing beside her much older husband Lord Jon Arryn. Elia noted Lysa’s eyes were red; she clutched a handkerchief to her bosom. Word was she was newly pregnant and overly emotional. Elia felt a pang of sympathy. Lysa was younger than she by a few years and had been wed to Jon in haste during the rebellion. At least the girl’s marriage had survived the war, unlike poor Lyanna’s betrothal.
Elia listened as one by one, the great lords pledged fealty and made their petitions. Lord Hoster Tully politely requested justice for the murder of his loyal bannermen executed by Aerys (Rhaegar assured him reparations would be paid to their families). Lord Jon Arryn spoke simply, saying the Vale was ever loyal to the true throne now that a just king sat on it. He also mentioned, with a polite smile, that he hoped King Rhaegar would bless his recent marriage to Lysa Tully; Rhaegar graciously offered public congratulations, and the match drew mild applause from those assembled. When it came time for the North, Elia’s heart tensed. Brandon Stark had already departed with his father, but a few northern lords remained in King’s Landing – those who had ridden south and were freed after the coup. One stepped forward now: Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte, a minor lord but the highest-ranking northerner present. The grizzled Glover bowed stiffly. “Winterfell remembers Your Grace’s mercy,” he said in a thick northern accent. “Lord Rickard Stark bade me tell you he will not forget that you saved him and his son from the Mad King’s fire. The North will keep the King’s peace, so long as the King keeps faith with the North.” Rhaegar nodded solemnly. “I intend to. The North shall ever be an equal part of this realm, with its honor respected.” His eyes flicked to Elia then. She knew what he was thinking – that as a Dornishwoman, she too had demanded respect for her people’s customs and honor when she wed into the Iron Throne. The old wounds of Dorne’s past, of how poorly some outsiders understood them, ran deep. Rhaegar’s reign needed to bridge such divides.
Elia took that as her cue to contribute. Rising gracefully from her seat, she stepped forward next to Rhaegar’s throne. “Lord Glover,” she said warmly, her voice carrying, “I have prepared tokens of the crown’s goodwill for your lord and his house.” She gestured to a steward at the side, who brought forth a carved weirwood box inlaid with opal and jet. Inside, on a velvet cushion, lay an exquisite silver filigree brooch in the shape of a direwolf, its eyes two small amethysts. Elia had personally commissioned it from the royal jeweler as a gift for Rickard Stark’s wife, Lady Lyarra. Though Lady Lyarra had passed years ago, Elia knew a gift honoring the Stark sigil would still be appreciated in Winterfell. “Please convey this to Lord Rickard Stark as a symbol of friendship between our houses,” Elia said. Galbart Glover accepted the box, peering at its contents with surprise. “That’s... most gracious, Your Grace. I’m sure Lord Rickard will be deeply honored.” He bowed again, more deeply this time. Elia smiled gently and returned to her seat. The truth was, she had arranged more than the one brooch – gifts were to be sent out to many houses. Fine Dornish sand-silk for the ladies of House Tully, a cask of rare Arbor gold wine from the royal cellars for the Tyrells, even an ancient Valyrian steel dagger engraved with a seven-pointed star destined for Jon Arryn, who loved historical curios. Each offering was chosen to mend fences and soften hearts. Rhaegar had been uncertain that such gestures would matter, but Elia knew better. Peacemaking lived in these little acts as well as grand treaties. She had learned at her father’s court in Sunspear that courtesies and courtesy gifts could salve bruised pride when words alone would not.
As the herald moved on to lesser houses, Elia’s thoughts wandered for a moment to those who were not present. Robert Baratheon, for one, glaringly absent. Ravens had flown to Storm’s End, bidding Lord Robert come and help rebuild the realm alongside his peers. He had refused. The maester’s reply said Robert was “indisposed with a lingering fever.” Everyone understood that excuse for the poor lie it was. Robert’s bitterness ran hot and unyielding. Elia worried for the ramifications – would he plot revenge? Raise trouble down the line? Rhaegar had been willing to offer him leniency, even a place at court if he would only bend the knee. But Robert spurned that. Instead, Lord Arryn had quietly suggested a different salve for Robert’s wounded pride.
“My lords,” King Rhaegar spoke up after a lull, “there is another matter I would address, concerning the Stormlands and Westerlands both.” His voice held that measured, thoughtful quality that always drew men’s attention. “Before this unfortunate conflict, there was an arrangement in place for a marriage between Lord Robert Baratheon and Lady Lyanna Stark. That match cannot proceed, as both parties have wisely agreed.” A few chuckles murmured through the hall; indeed, everyone knew that tale’s end now. Ned Stark had quietly spread the word that his sister would not wed anytime soon. Some folks whispered the Wolf Maid might take vows as a Silent Sister out of shame, but Elia suspected Lyanna simply needed time to heal amongst her own.
Rhaegar continued, “Yet I believe it is still in the interest of the realm to see Lord Robert wed, to help bind the wounds of war. To that end, with the agreement of both House Lannister and House Baratheon, I announce a new marriage pact: Lord Robert Baratheon will take to wife Lady Cersei Lannister.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Their union will join Storm’s End and Casterly Rock in alliance and bring together two houses that lent aid to end the Mad King’s tyranny.” The hall erupted in murmurs. Elia kept her expression serene, but inwardly she noted how Tywin Lannister’s lips curved ever so faintly in satisfaction. This was his prize, after all – a great marriage for his daughter, even if not a royal one. Tywin’s gaze flickered toward where Cersei stood among the Lannister bannermen. The famed beauty looked radiant but stiff, her green eyes fixed on Rhaegar with an inscrutable expression. Elia had exchanged only a few words with Cersei since all this began, but that had been enough to glean the girl’s disappointment. Cersei had dreamed of being Queen. Now she would be a mere lady of Storm’s End. A far cry from what she – and her father – once desired. Still, Cersei stepped forward now when nudged by her uncle Kevan, and curtsied. “House Lannister thanks Your Grace for arranging this... great honor,” she said. There was a slight edge to her tone that Elia did not miss. Cersei’s eyes then cut to Elia, flicking over her rich Dornish gown and the coronet on her head. The younger woman’s painted lips pressed thin. Elia felt a pang and tried to summon some kindness in her smile. Poor thing , she thought. To be forced into marriage with a man who truly loves another – or did – and to give up her own ambitions of queenship.
It was a fate Elia would not wish on anyone, even a woman rumored to be as vain as Cersei. Perhaps in time, Robert and she would find happiness or at least tolerance. But Elia had doubts. She had seen Robert’s eyes blazing at Lyanna’s reveal; he would carry that torch and that humiliation forever. Would he make Cersei suffer for it? Possibly. The thought made Elia resolve to keep an eye on the young lioness at court, at least until the marriage took place and Cersei departed for Storm’s End. Cersei might need a friend, or at least an ally, in the meantime. After some formal congratulations were offered for the Lannister-Baratheon betrothal, the council turned to other alliances. Lord Hoster Tully proudly announced that his daughter Catelyn’s betrothal to Brandon Stark, broken by war, had been reaffirmed with King Rhaegar’s blessing. “They were meant to wed a year past,” Hoster boomed, “and by the gods, they shall wed before this year is out. We will celebrate a union of Riverlands and North, standing together in peace.” Applause met this; it was a bright spot to have at least one love match rejoined after so much chaos. Elia recalled Catelyn Tully from her time fostering at court – a pretty young woman, surely relieved her betrothed had survived Aerys’s dungeons. The North and Riverlands bond would hold firm now. Nearby, Jon Arryn smiled and added that he too was grateful for his recent marriage tying the Vale to the Riverlands. “I shall take good care of your daughter, Lord Hoster,” he vowed to Tully. Lord Arryn’s hand lightly caressed Lysa’s shoulder; the girl flushed with either pride or embarrassment. Perhaps both.
As all these marriages were discussed, Elia could not help noticing Cersei Lannister subtly slip out of the hall, her face like stone. How that must have stung her, to hear of other women content with their matches while she swallowed a bitter exchange. Elia considered following to speak some words of comfort, but duty kept her by Rhaegar’s side. Focus returned to pressing issues of governance. Now came talk of filling offices on the small council, rebuilding war-damaged fleets and roads, and managing the Crown’s debt. Lord Tywin dominated much of the fiscal discussion – gold was his forte – but Elia noticed a mounting tension in the room. Some Reach and Westerlands lords bristled at Prince Doran Martell’s presence on council (Rhaegar had invited him as Master of Laws to honor Dorne’s loyalty). There was murmuring when Doran calmly suggested lowering tariffs on Dornish wines to spur commerce. Tywin had sniffed that the treasury needed income, not free favors for one region. Doran politely countered that higher volume of trade would yield more coin in the long run. The exchange was civil, but Elia saw the narrowed eyes around Tywin.
Sensing the atmosphere growing strained, Elia cleared her throat and interjected smoothly to shift the focus. She asked Lord Hightower for news of King’s Landing’s rebuilding, praised the Tyrell quartermasters for bringing in grain shipments to feed the city, and generally practiced the art of gentle redirection. Before long, she saw a flicker of gratitude in Rhaegar’s violet eyes. The Great Council was back on track. Eventually, the formal session concluded. King Rhaegar rose and thanked all assembled for their loyalty and wisdom. “Together, we will make this a reign remembered for peace and prosperity,” he promised. The lords thumped chests and applauded. A fragile optimism filled the hall, like the first gentle breath after a storm. As courtiers dispersed, Elia descended from the dais to mingle. She wanted to speak with her brother Doran first – it had been too long since she saw him last, and they had much to catch up on. But scarcely had she taken a step when a commotion near the training yard doors drew her attention. A voice rang out, boisterous and familiar. “...and I say any man here who calls himself a warrior, Dornish or otherwise, come test your mettle!” the voice crowed. Elia’s heart skipped.
Oberyn. Oh, Seven save me.
She excused herself swiftly and moved through the crowd toward the yard. Sure enough, there was Oberyn Martell – her younger brother, the “Red Viper” of Dorne – striding about in a loose fighting stance, a spear in one hand and a curved dagger in the other. He was circling none other than Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, who stood like a granite cliff with a greatsword. A small crowd of knights and onlookers had formed a ring around them.
Elia’s stomach clenched. Why is Oberyn sparring Gregor Clegane? Gregor towered over Oberyn, glowering from beneath his helmet. Even in play, the man was a brute known for injuring opponents. And Oberyn... oh, Oberyn looked to be goading him. The Viper grinned lazily at Gregor. “Where’s that famous strength? Too slow to catch me, ser?” he taunted after slipping away from a sword swing. Gregor growled something unintelligible and charged. Oberyn twisted aside with a laugh, his spear haft cracking Gregor on the backside as he darted past. The crowd chuckled.
Elia pushed forward. “Prince Oberyn!” she called sharply. “Brother!” Her voice had the tone she used to scold him as a boy. Some of the crowd parted to let her through. Oberyn glanced over his shoulder mid-spar, and that fleeting distraction was all Gregor needed. With a roar, the hulking knight swung his practice blade in a flat arc aimed at Oberyn’s midsection. “Seven hells—!” Oberyn had to dive forward into a roll to avoid being disemboweled (even blunted tourney swords could bruise or break ribs). He came up kneeling in the dust, a bit breathless. Ser Gregor stomped toward him, but by then several Kingsguard had stepped in. “Yield, both of you,” barked Ser Gerold Hightower. The White Bull had followed Elia out and now interposed himself, white cloak swirling. “This is supposed to be friendly sport, not murder.” Gregor Clegane lowered his sword reluctantly and backed off, breathing like an enraged bull. Oberyn rose to his feet, dusting himself off with an almost casual air. “Of course, just sport,” he said, though the glint in his eye suggested he enjoyed pushing Gregor to the edge. Elia marched straight to Oberyn and seized his ear like he was still ten years old. “Have you lost your senses?” she hissed under her breath in Rhoynish. “You only arrived last night and already you make trouble? This is King’s Landing, Oberyn, not a back-alley tavern brawl!”
Oberyn yelped, then laughed as she released him. “Hello to you too, dear sister,” he quipped, rubbing his ear. Switching to the Common Tongue, he added loudly, “Forgive me, good folk! I was merely testing the mettle of the King’s knights. A bit of martial exercise to clear the morning cobwebs.” He tossed aside his spear and gave an exaggerated bow in Gregor’s direction. “Ser Gregor here is quite formidable.” Elia shot Gregor an apologetic look. The hulking knight was clearly furious at being made a fool of. His piggish eyes darted between Oberyn and Elia. “Your Grace,” he muttered with a curt bow, then he stomped off, shoving past onlookers. Ser Gerold sighed and ordered the yard cleared. The crowd dispersed, some laughing about the spectacle, others shaking heads. Once they were relatively alone, Oberyn slung an arm around Elia’s shoulders. “Truly, sister, I wasn’t going to kill him,” he said lightly. “Not today, anyway.” Elia pinched the bridge of her nose. “You shouldn’t be provoking the Mountain at all. He could have taken your head off!” Oberyn shrugged. “I doubt it. I’m quicker than that oaf. Though Seven, he is strong – nearly cracked a rib back there.” He touched his side and winced slightly. Then he gave Elia a winning grin. “But did you see me whack his enormous arse with my spear? Gods, it was satisfying.”
Despite herself, Elia’s lips twitched. Oberyn’s irrepressible humor had always been her weakness. “You’re impossible,” she sighed, but she squeezed his hand affectionately. “I’m glad you’re here, truly. Just... please, be careful. King’s Landing is not Dorne. These lions and stags and wolves are not as easily charmed by your antics as the sand snakes and scorpions.” Oberyn gave a mock salute. “Understood. I’ll be on my best behavior.” Then he smirked wickedly. “Unless someone insults our sister’s honor, of course. Then I’ll have to cut out their tongue.” “ Seven save me,” Elia muttered, though she knew he meant it with love. “Just try not to duel anyone else before lunch.” They walked back toward the main keep arm in arm. Oberyn lowered his voice. “So, Tywin Lannister as Hand again? I heard the announcement. And his daughter shipped off to Robert.” He clicked his tongue. “That lion’s pride must be smarting still. He wanted Rhaegar for her, after all. Now she gets the boar instead of the dragon.” Elia nodded, scanning for anyone eavesdropping. “Tywin accepted graciously enough. I doubt he’ll cause trouble in the short term – Rhaegar will keep him busy restoring order. As for Cersei and Robert... a necessary match.”
Oberyn arched a dark eyebrow. “If you say so. I’ll wager a barrel of Dornish red that Lady Cersei causes mischief before the year’s out. She didn’t look the pliant sort to me.” Elia silently agreed but didn’t want to gossip. “Perhaps she’ll surprise us all and make a fine Lady of Storm’s End,” she said diplomatically. Oberyn snorted. “And perhaps I’ll take the white and become a celibate knight.” They both laughed at that. It felt good – normal, even – to jest with her brother after so much strain. For a moment Elia could imagine they were back at Sunspear, children playing at war and chivalry in their own courtyard. But reality intruded as a Kingsguard cleared his throat nearby. “Your Grace, Prince Oberyn,” the knight said respectfully, “His Grace King Rhaegar requests the Queen’s presence in the solar for the afternoon council.” “Thank you, ser,” Elia replied. She turned to Oberyn and squeezed his hand once more. “We’ll speak later? Dine with me tonight.” “I wouldn’t miss it,” Oberyn said, eyes warm. Then he gave a little bow. “Go on, Your Grace. Keep our valiant king in line.”
Elia left her brother and made her way to the royal solar, where Rhaegar often held smaller meetings. There she found him with Lord Tywin and Prince Doran and a handful of key counselors – Master of Coin Littlefinger, Master of Whisperers Varys, and Grand Maester Pycelle. They were hunched over a table strewn with parchment and coin ledgers, deep in talk. Rhaegar looked up with a smile of relief when Elia entered. “Ah, my Queen – just in time. We could use your sense here.” Elia took her seat beside him, glad to be included. Tywin was in the midst of outlining steps to replenish the treasury. “...increase duties on luxury imports from Essos temporarily,” he was saying, “and demand repayments on certain Crown loans extended during Aerys’s reign.” Littlefinger interjected smoothly, “With respect, my lord Hand, raising tariffs might discourage trade precisely when we need it to rebuild. Perhaps better to sell off some royal lands or jewelry hoards to raise cash quickly. I know of a Tyroshi banker willing to buy dragonbone ornamentation at very favorable prices —” Tywin’s look could have frozen wildfire. “The crown jewels will remain where they are. We’ll not pawn the realm’s glory to some Essosi moneylender.”
Doran Martell coughed into his hand, polite but pointed. “An alternate idea: we might ask each Great House to contribute a voluntary bond to the Crown – a gesture of support for King Rhaegar’s reign. Many might do so gladly to show loyalty.” Rhaegar tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t appear to demand tribute, though. It must seem voluntary indeed, and preferably be accompanied by honors or offices bestowed in return, so lords feel rewarded for their contributions.” As they discussed, Elia added her input sparingly, mostly to reinforce Doran’s gentler suggestions. She knew Tywin’s brusque approach would win few friends, even if his financial sense was sound. Through it all, Varys smiled and offered little, simply agreeing with whomever held the floor at the moment. Elia distrusted that. When the topic turned to reorganizing the City Watch – Rhaegar planned to remove those officers who had been deep in Aerys’s pocket and perhaps introduce more Dornish and Reachmen to balance the ranks – Tywin openly frowned. “The gold cloaks have kept this city orderly for decades. Replacing too many at once courts chaos, Your Grace,” he said. Elia suspected Tywin’s true concern was that his own agents within the Watch would lose position.
“Not replacing, my lord,” she spoke up with a mild smile. “Supplementing. Many Dornish and Reach knights are idle after the aborted war; employing some in the Watch will not only improve the Watch’s reputation with smallfolk but also integrate King’s Landing’s defenders. We want the realm to see all regions represented in protecting the capital.” Tywin met her gaze coolly. “The Queen makes a point,” he allowed after a moment, in a tone that implied he still disagreed but would not fight it now. “However, quality must trump token inclusion. The City Watch is no place for unqualified men granted sinecures simply because they hail from Dorne or the Reach.” Elia inclined her head graciously. “Naturally. Only the best men – regardless of origin.” Beside her, Doran hid a small smile. He could tell as well as she that Tywin bristled at any dilution of his power, but he was too savvy to openly counter the King and Queen on something that sounded so reasonable. At last, the meeting concluded. Dusk was nearing. Tywin excused himself curtly, and Varys drifted away to attend to “whispers.” Only Rhaegar, Elia, and Doran remained a few moments in the solar’s golden lamplight. Rhaegar rolled a cramped shoulder. “Seven above, I forgot how tedious coin-counting can be.” He gave them both a rueful grin. “Thank you, Doran. And you, my love,” he said to Elia, “for tempering Lord Tywin’s... rigor. I could not do this without you two.” Prince Doran bowed his head. “We are here to help. I only wish Oberyn were as inclined to temperance.” He chuckled. “I heard about his sparring match. Elia, you may need to leash that brother of ours.”
Elia groaned softly. “I already scolded him. Perhaps I should find a suitable paramour for him to occupy his energies, so he spends less time vexing Ser Gregor.” Rhaegar laughed under his breath. “I recall Oberyn’s appetites. Yes, keeping him happily distracted might save us some bloodshed.” Then he sighed, expression turning more serious. “I should also speak with my brother Viserys on proper conduct with the Dornish. And earlier, he was pestering me about being named Prince of Dragonstone.” Elia pursed her lips. At ten years old, Viserys had a certain pride and brashness that worried her at times. “Give him a little ceremonial task, perhaps,” she suggested. “Something that lets him feel important. Helping to lead a progress through the city, or presenting a royal decree.” Keeping Viserys busy and flattered would prevent him from brooding. The lad had been through so much upheaval – fleeing King’s Landing with Rhaella during the trouble, then returning after Aerys’s death, fatherless and often overlooked in the focus on rebuilding which in the end made him return to Dragonstone with Rhaella not long after the funeral. Before that, Elia made sure to have him dine with them frequently, and Rhaegar had promised to start training him in arms as well. Viserys hero-worshipped his older brother, but also chafed at being a child in a court of powerful adults.
“We’ll think of something,” Rhaegar agreed, rubbing his temples. “For now, I—”
A knock on the door interrupted. Grand Maester Pycelle entered, bowing. “Your Graces, apologies. I have just received an urgent raven from Dragonstone.” Elia’s heart skipped. Dragonstone. Where Rhaella and Viserys had gone. “What news, Maester?” she asked, exchanging a glance with Rhaegar. Pycelle adjusted his chain and cleared his throat. “It seems Queen Rhaella’s confinement approaches faster than expected. Her ladies report signs of early labor, though the babe is not due for another moon’s turn. The princess... ah, the Dowager Queen, I should say... she is asking for her son to come to Dragonstone at once, if possible.” Pycelle peered over his glasses at Rhaegar. Rhaegar shot to his feet. “Mother is in labor? Early?” His voice tinged with alarm. “She’s older now, that could be dangerous.” Elia rose and took his arm, steadying him with a touch. “You should sail to her, my love,” she said gently. “She’ll want you there for the birth. And Viserys must be worried too, so far from us.” “Yes,” Rhaegar said, already moving, though he squeezed Elia’s hand in thanks. “I’ll leave at first light – no, tonight. The winds are fair. With a swift ship I can reach Dragonstone by tomorrow evening.”
“I will prepare your travel provisions and escort,” Elia said, falling into the rhythm of action. She signaled for a servant to summon the captain of the guards. Rhaegar paused to cup Elia’s face. “Thank you,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to her brow. His eyes shone with anxiety and resolve. “Look after things here until I return. I won’t be long.” Elia nodded. She knew he hated leaving her and the children even for a short while. But Queen Rhaella was family and duty. “Go, and give Rhaella my love,” she whispered. “I will pray to the Mother for a safe delivery. We’ll be fine here.” In truth, the thought of Rhaegar crossing the sea in autumn unsettled her, but she hid her worry behind a composed smile. Within hours, under cover of twilight, Rhaegar set sail for Dragonstone on the royal galley White Hart, accompanied by Ser Jaime Lannister and a score of picked men. Elia stood on the docks at the King’s Landing harbor to see him off, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the salt breeze. Rhaegar embraced her and the children tightly before boarding. Little Rhaenys tugged at her father’s cloak, not understanding why he must leave. “To help Grandmother have her baby, sweetling,” Elia explained, kissing her daughter’s dark curls. Rhaegar knelt and promised Rhaenys he’d bring back a new aunt or uncle for her to play with. That mollified the girl somewhat, though she still pouted adorably as Ser Jaime hoisted the King aboard the ship.
As the White Hart’s oars began to sweep and its sails unfurled in the moonlight, Elia held Rhaenys and baby Aegon close on the dock. She watched until the ship was a dark silhouette on the glittering black water of Blackwater Bay, pointed toward the narrow sliver of moon on the horizon. “Mother above, watch over them,” Elia murmured, her words whisked away by the sea breeze. The night was unusually warm for autumn – heavy clouds obscured most of the stars. In the distance, faint flashes of lightning hinted at a brewing storm out over the narrow sea. Elia felt a subtle unease tug at her. She whispered a silent prayer for Rhaella’s health and Rhaegar’s safe voyage. Prince Doran, who had come to the docks with her, offered his arm as they turned to head back to the Red Keep. “He’ll be alright, Elia,” her brother assured softly. “Rhaegar has the gods’ favor, I’m convinced of it.” Elia mustered a smile for Doran and her children. “I know,” she replied, drawing Rhaenys nearer for warmth. Yet as they climbed into the waiting wheelhouse, Elia cast one more glance at the dark expanse of the bay. Far out, lightning flared again, just for an instant, illuminating the tiny outlines of ships on the horizon. Then all was black once more.
Please, let them arrive in time. Elia closed her eyes and rested her head against the cushioned seat as the carriage rattled up the hill toward home. With the king away, she would shoulder the mantle of royal authority in the capital for a few days – a task she was prepared for, but not one she relished doing alone. Still, it was her duty now. And Elia Martell never shied from duty. She would keep the peace in King’s Landing, occupy her restless brother, mind the pride of lions, and protect Rhaegar’s interests until he returned with good news and a healthy babe in arms.
As the carriage passed through the Lion Gate, Elia took a deep breath. The smell of the sea gave way to the scents of the city night – baked bread, distant dung fires, the spice of late-night street vendors. King’s Landing already felt calmer than it had in years. The Dragon’s Peace was taking hold. They would make sure it endured. Elia vowed to herself and to the unborn child on Dragonstone that she would do everything in her power to see this new era bloom into the golden age Rhaegar dreamed of. Keep faith. She tightened her arm around Rhaenys, who had fallen asleep against her shoulder, and kissed her daughter’s brow. The storm clouds would pass, and dawn would come. It was the promise she clung to as the wheelhouse bore them onward into the quiet heart of the capital.
Chapter 7: Chapter Three: Viserys
Chapter Text
Wind howled around the Sea Dragon Tower, rattling the shutters of the chamber where young Prince Viserys Targaryen huddled beneath a heavy wool blanket. Outside, a fierce storm raged over Dragonstone. Thunder boomed, and with each crash, the boy flinched despite himself. He was ten years old, almost a man grown as he kept insisting, but tonight the fury of the elements made him feel very small. A brazier in the corner cast flickering shadows on the rough stone walls, and each time lightning flashed through the cracks of the shutters, those shadows leapt like phantoms. Viserys squeezed his lilac eyes shut and tried to remember the lullaby his mother used to hum when he was younger and frightened of storms. “High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts...” he repeated softly to himself. But the song brought him little comfort now. Not with Mother crying out in pain down the hall. Another muffled scream filtered through the thick oak door of his mother’s bedchamber, followed by hurried voices of midwives. Viserys’s hands balled into fists under the blanket. He hated feeling helpless. Queen Rhaella – Mother – had gone into labor a few hours ago, a full month earlier than expected. At first, she had tried to keep Viserys calm, smiling through her contractions and telling him stories of when he was born on a sunny morning at The Red Keep. But soon the pains grew too strong. The maester and midwives ushered Viserys out, despite his protests that he wanted to stay and help. What could a ten-year-old boy do in a birthing room? Nothing, he’d been told firmly, except pray to the Mother Above and stay out from underfoot.
So he had retreated to his own chamber next door, heart pounding with fear for the only parent he had left. Please let Mother be alright... please, gods, please , he had prayed over and over, staring at the Dragonmont beyond his window as storm clouds rolled in from the east. The gods had yet to answer. Instead they sent this gale to lash the island, as if the very world protested the new life struggling to enter it. Viserys threw off the blanket in frustration and slid off the window seat. He was dressed in a simple black tunic and breeches – in the haste of Mother’s unexpected labor, no one had thought to put him in bed. Not that he could have slept through the noise of the storm or the noise of Mother’s agony. He paced the cold stone floor, wishing his brother Rhaegar were here. Rhaegar would know what to do. Rhaegar always knew what to do.
A clap of thunder exploded directly overhead, so loud it shook dust from the rafters. Viserys startled, and in his fright an angry tear escaped his eye. He dashed it away, furious at himself. I am the blood of the dragon , he scolded inwardly. Father always said dragons don’t cry. But Viserys felt far from a dragon right now. He felt like a scared little boy about to lose his mother.
He tiptoed to the door connecting his room to the Queen’s. A heavy tapestry covering it muffled much sound, but as he pressed his ear to the wood, he could make out Mother’s labored moans and the maester’s soothing murmur. “Breathe, Your Grace, keep breathing... That’s it... The babe comes forth...”
Viserys’s throat tightened. Part of him desperately wanted to barge in and hold Mother’s hand. He hated that she was in pain and he was barred from helping. Another part of him quailed at the idea of seeing the blood and birth – he’d heard women sometimes died whelping children, even noble ladies with maesters at hand. His own sister-in-law Elia almost hadn’t survived Prince Aegon’s birth, he’d overheard Rhaegar say once. And Mother was older than Elia, and this baby was coming too early. A sudden scream – his mother’s voice, raw and anguished – tore through the door. Viserys jerked back, heart pounding. It sounded worse than before. Were things going wrong? Terrible images filled his mind: his mother pale and still, like he’d seen Father in the Great Sept being prepared for cremation. Father... Viserys screwed his eyes shut. He remembered Aerys’s funeral pyre back in King’s Landing, the smell of burning flesh and incense, the way Rhaegar’s face had been grim as he consigned their father’s remains to flame. Viserys had stood in the Sept beside Mother, holding her trembling hand, not entirely understanding. Aerys had been mad, he knew that, and cruel – Viserys still had a scar on his ear where Aerys had once struck him in a rage – but he was still Father. Viserys didn’t like thinking about him too much. It churned up too many conflicting feelings: fear, shame, and a sickly kind of love for the man Aerys might have been in better days.
Suddenly, above the next roll of thunder, Viserys heard shouting from somewhere outside – muffled by stone, but unmistakable. Men were calling out, the words lost in the storm’s roar. He spun toward the arrow slit window. All he could see was inky blackness and horizontal sheets of rain. Lightning forked, illuminating the courtyard below for half a heartbeat. Viserys pressed his face to the glass. There – movement! A gate lantern bobbing, figures rushing towards the main keep. Another flash of lightning lit them stark-white for an instant. He caught the gleam of armor and silver hair – “ Rhaegar!” Viserys gasped aloud. It must be. Who else on Dragonstone had hair like that? Perhaps one of Mother’s ladies, but no – that had been a tall figure striding with purpose despite the wind. Hope surged in Viserys’s chest. He’s come. He’s here! Rhaegar must have received the raven and sailed through the storm to reach them. Relief and admiration flooded the boy. Only his big brother would be brave (or mad) enough to brave the Narrow Sea in a tempest just to reach their mother in time. Viserys didn’t think twice. He yanked open his chamber door and dashed into the drafty stone hallway. A distant crash echoed from the far stairs – likely the main doors flung open by the wind. Torchlight flickered wildly along the corridor as gusts blew in. Viserys ran toward the entry hall, feet swift on the worn basalt floors.
He nearly collided with Ser Jaime Lannister at the stair turn. The Kingsguard knight was soaked to the bone, but even drenched and wind-tousled he cut a dashing figure in white and gold. Jaime caught Viserys by the shoulders to steady him. “Easy, young prince,” he said, breathless. “You shouldn’t be running about – where is your clo–” “Rhaegar – my brother, is he here?” Viserys burst out, shrugging off Jaime’s hold. He peered past the knight. Yes, there was Rhaegar, half-supported by a steward as he struggled out of a sodden cloak. The King’s silver hair lay plastered to his skull and his clothes were drenched, but he was here, alive and real. Viserys darted around Jaime and barreled straight into Rhaegar’s midsection, almost knocking the taller man off balance. “Viserys!” Rhaegar’s voice was warm with surprise. He dropped the cloak and wrapped an arm around his little brother. Despite the chill of the storm outside, Rhaegar radiated comforting heat. Viserys clung fiercely, suddenly feeling every ounce of terror and anxiety he’d held in all night. For a moment he could not speak, just pressed his face against Rhaegar’s soaked doublet, which smelled of salt spray.
Rhaegar smoothed Viserys’s damp silver hair back from his face. “I’m here now, little brother. It’s alright.” His violet eyes, so like Viserys’s own, searched the boy’s face. Perhaps he saw the tears Viserys was trying valiantly to blink away, because Rhaegar bent to press his lips to Viserys’s brow. “I came as fast as I could. How is Mother?” he asked gently. Viserys sniffed and scrubbed his eyes dry with the heel of his hand. He must look childish, crying. He hoped Jaime wasn’t watching too closely. Straightening, Viserys tried to sound composed. “She’s... she’s still laboring. It sounds bad,” he admitted in a small voice. “They say the babe is early and she’s so tired...” A worried crease appeared between Rhaegar’s brows. “Then we haven’t a moment to lose.” He peeled off his sodden gloves and handed them to a steward. Ser Jaime came up, having shed his drenched white cloak. Rhaegar issued swift orders: “Jaime, make sure the ship’s maester brings his medicines and joins ours in Mother’s chambers immediately. Send two of our guards to help him with the chests. The storm upset my stomach on the voyage; I doubt Maester Colemon enjoyed it either, but he has some potions that might ease Mother’s pain.” Jaime nodded and hurried off, golden hair dripping water as he went. Rhaegar turned back to Viserys. “Come, show me to her.”
Viserys took his brother’s hand and led him down the corridor toward the Queen’s apartments. Rhaegar’s boots squelched, leaving a trail of seawater on the stones, but he paid it no mind. They reached the closed door and paused. Mother’s cries had quieted somewhat, replaced by low moans and the indistinct voice of the maester giving encouragement. A scream of wind from outside rattled the tower. Rhaegar glanced at the arrow-slit windows, frowning at the storm’s ferocity. Then he squared his shoulders. “Viserys,” he said softly, voice rough with concern, “perhaps you should wait outside. Childbirth... it can be a messy affair. I don’t want you to be frightened.” Viserys bristled. He’d been relegated to the side long enough. “I won’t be scared,” he insisted with a stubborn set to his jaw. “She’s my mother. I want to be there.” Rhaegar opened his mouth to argue, but then seemed to think better of it. He squeezed Viserys’s shoulder. “Alright. Just stay near me and do as the maester says.” Viserys nodded fervently. Relief and gratitude swelled in him. With Rhaegar beside him, he could face anything, even blood and screaming. They pushed into the bedchamber together.
The air was stifling and thick with the coppery tang of blood and sweat despite a dozen candles burning. Queen Rhaella lay propped against a mound of pillows on the great canopied bed, her white nightgown stained with perspiration and streaks of red. Two midwives hovered at her knees, and Maester Gulian bent over her, wiping her brow with a cool cloth. At the foot of the bed, a younger serving girl held a basin of water and some linens, her eyes round with worry.
Mother looked so small and frail amidst the bedclothes. Viserys’s heart clenched. Rhaella was normally a stately woman, always impeccably dressed and poised, even in grief. Now her silver hair clung lank to her face and her eyes – the same violet eyes all Targaryens shared – were glassy with exhaustion and pain. She gasped for air, mouth trembling. Seeing her like this terrified Viserys. He felt Rhaegar’s hand steady on his back, anchoring him At their entry, Maester Gulian straightened. “Your Grace!” he exclaimed, startled but clearly relieved to see Rhaegar. He made to kneel, but Rhaegar waved him off. “How fares my mother?” Rhaegar asked without preamble, striding to the bedside. Viserys hurried in his wake. Rhaella turned her head toward Rhaegar’s voice, a flicker of hope crossing her face.
The old maester pursed his lips. “Her Majesty is laboring hard, but the babe... the babe is turned, I fear. I cannot yet get it to present properly. We are trying all we can.” He kept his tone calm for Rhaella’s sake, but Viserys heard the underlying worry. Turned? What did that mean? Rhaegar went to one knee beside the bed and gently took Rhaella’s hand. “Mother, I’m here,” he said softly. Rhaella’s eyes focused with difficulty. “Rhaegar,” she breathed, a faint smile ghosting her lips. Her grip tightened on his. “You came... through the storm.” “Nothing could keep me away,” Rhaegar replied. He leaned in and kissed her forehead tenderly. “You’ll be fine, Mother. Just a little longer and it will be done.” She winced as another contraction rippled through her. Viserys hung back a step, unsure what to do or say. The midwives looked up at the newcomers with some annoyance at the crowding, but said nothing; one did pointedly shoo the serving girl away to fetch more linens. “Viserys,” Rhaella gasped after the pain passed. She spied him and extended her other hand weakly. Viserys rushed forward and clasped it between his own. Her skin was hot and clammy. “My brave boy,” Rhaella whispered. She tried to smile, but it crumpled as tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
Viserys shook his head fiercely. “I’m not frightened,” he lied, voice cracking. He wanted to say so much more – that he loved her, that she had to be alright, that he’d be the best brother to the new baby – but the words tangled behind the lump in his throat. Instead he just held tight to her hand, as if by holding on he could keep her anchored to life. The storm thundered beyond the walls, and rain lashed the shutters as if trying to break in. Rhaella squeezed her eyes shut, breathing shallowly. Rhaegar murmured a low chant, a prayer to the Mother Above, and Viserys tried to mimic it in his head. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, shelter our queen in your arms… Suddenly Rhaella arched, a cry tearing from her lips that made Viserys’s blood run cold. Maester Gulian hurried back to his position. “Bear down now, Your Majesty, bear down, that’s it,” he urged. “The babe is moving.” One midwife braced Rhaella’s feet; the other had her hands positioned under Rhaella’s shift, ready to receive the child. Rhaegar moved behind their mother, supporting her back with his arm so she could push. Viserys stayed by her side, feeling her grip on his hand become viselike. She screamed again, and he realized with horror he could see blood now – fresh bright blood soaking the bed and streaming down onto the rushes. Far too much of it. Viserys swayed on his feet at the sight.
“It hurts!” Rhaella sobbed, her composure shattering at last. “Seven save me, it hurts so much, I can’t—”
“You can, Mother, you can,” Rhaegar said, voice thick with emotion as he supported her. Over her shoulder, Viserys saw his brother’s face was drawn, jaw clenched. Rhaegar caught Viserys’s frightened gaze and tried to give him a reassuring nod, but his eyes were fearful.
A violent gust rattled the shutters, and one flew open, letting in a lash of rain and a brilliant jagged bolt of lightning that lit the room white. The midwife holding Rhaella’s legs yelped, nearly losing her grip. Viserys startled, blinking at the sudden glare. For an instant, the strange thought flashed through his mind that the lightning was Aerys’s spirit come to punish them all. Father had always loved storms... Maester Gulian barked for someone to secure the window. Viserys jumped into action, anything to distract from the horror on the bed. He ran to the window and dragged the shutter closed, fighting the wind’s resistance, then dropped the latch into place. Rainwater dripped onto the floor, but the intrusion was sealed. When he turned back, the midwives were exclaiming encouragement. “One more push, my lady – the head is out! That’s it, now the shoulders—” Rhaella gave one last, gut-wrenching cry and fell back against Rhaegar’s chest, trembling violently. An instant later, a thin, reedy wail filled the air. The newborn’s cry.
“It’s a girl,” breathed the midwife who held the tiny, squalling babe in her arms. The baby looked so small, slick and red and furious at having been thrust into the world too soon. “A little princess,” the midwife added with a tired smile. She quickly tied and cut the cord while the second woman wrapped the child in a clean linen. Relief whooshed through Viserys. A sister. He had a baby sister. His knees felt weak. Rhaegar let out a shuddering exhale, his eyes shining as he craned to see the infant. “Thank the gods,” he murmured. “Mother, you did it!” Viserys exclaimed, stepping back to the bedside with a tremulous grin. At first he thought Rhaella had simply closed her eyes in exhaustion. But Maester Gulian’s expression stopped him cold. The old man’s face had blanched. “Your Majesty? Rhaella?” the maester said urgently, moving to check her. Rhaella’s eyes were half-open but unfocused, her chest barely moving. And the blood – the blood hadn’t stopped. If anything, it pooled faster now that the babe was born. The midwife holding the baby paused, alarm crossing her face as she noticed the Queen’s ashen pallor. Viserys’s grin died. He rushed to his mother’s side, panic clawing at him. “Mother? Mother!” He gently shook her limp hand. She did not respond. Rhaegar was pale as milk, still supporting Rhaella’s upper body. “Maester, she’s bleeding too much,” he said, voice tight with dread.
“I see, Your Grace.” The maester’s hands moved swiftly, instructing the midwives to pack clean linens between Rhaella’s legs, to no avail. Bright red blood soaked through everything. Rhaella gave a small, shuddering sigh. “No, no, no,” Viserys moaned, climbing onto the bed and taking her face in his hands. Her skin felt deathly cold now. “Mother, please, wake up!” Hot tears spilled over, and he didn’t care who saw. “Open your eyes! You have a daughter now, you have to name her, you have to—” “Viserys,” Rhaegar choked, gently pulling him back. He slid out from behind Rhaella’s limp form, easing her down onto the pillows. Maester Gulian pressed two fingers to the Queen’s neck and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Viserys knew what that meant. “No,” the boy whimpered. He shook his head wildly. “No, she can’t... she can’t be...” The word dead would not come, but the truth hung in the air like a leaden weight. The storm beyond the walls suddenly went silent in Viserys’s ears. All he could hear was the thin crying of the newborn princess, and his own ragged breathing. Rhaegar knelt on the mattress beside their mother and carefully gathered her into his arms. He cradled her against his chest, rocking ever so slightly. His eyes were closed, tears leaking from beneath the lashes. “I’m here, Mother,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m here. Be at peace... please, be at peace.”
Viserys had never seen his brother cry before. The sight of it cracked something inside him.
Viserys collapsed against Rhaegar, sobbing uncontrollably now. Rhaegar’s free arm came around him and held him tight as they wept together over Rhaella’s still form. The midwives were sniffling too, and even Maester Gulian’s eyes were damp as he murmured a prayer for the Queen’s soul. Lightning flashed again outside, illuminating the tableau of grief within.
It might have been minutes or hours later – Viserys couldn’t tell – when the infant’s cries finally subsided into soft whimpers. The midwife holding her cleared her throat gently. “Your Grace,” she addressed Rhaegar hesitantly, “the babe... the princess needs warmth and milk. Shall I...?” Rhaegar stirred from his anguish. He drew a deep breath and released Viserys enough to look at him. “Viserys,” he said quietly, voice raw, “Mother is gone.” Viserys nodded miserably, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His tears were slowing, leaving him hollow and numb. “We have to be strong now, you and I,” Rhaegar continued, laying Rhaella tenderly back onto the pillows and closing her eyes with trembling fingers. He reached for a corner of the sheet and drew it up over her face. Viserys bit his lip hard to stop a fresh sob at that finality. “We have a new little sister who needs us,” Rhaegar said.
The midwife stepped forward and carefully placed the swaddled baby into Rhaegar’s arms. The infant fussed softly, a tiny fist poking out of the linen. Rhaegar held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He rose from the bed, helping Viserys down as well. “Come, let’s get her by the fire,” Rhaegar said. They moved across the chamber to where embers still glowed in the hearth. Rhaegar nodded to Jaime Lannister, who had entered quietly at some point and now stood with head bowed in sorrow. “Ser Jaime, stoke the fire, please,” Rhaegar requested hoarsely. Jaime obeyed, adding fresh logs and fanning until flames licked up, bathing the area in warm light. Rhaegar sank into a cushioned chair near the fireplace, cradling the baby princess. Viserys hovered beside him, scrubbing at his swollen eyes with the heel of his hand. The babe’s face was scrunched and red, her wisps of silver-gold hair damp. She looked so very small in Rhaegar’s big arms. When she started to squirm and root at the fabric of the swaddle, Viserys fretted, “She’s hungry.” “A wetnurse has been arranged, Your Grace,” offered one of the midwives softly. “I’ll fetch her in.”
Rhaegar nodded his thanks. While they waited, he looked down at the baby, brushing a fingertip across her cheek. His tears had dried, but grief etched deep lines around his eyes. “We should name her,” he murmured. Viserys swallowed and ventured, “Mother wanted a girl called Daenerys, after Grandfather Aegon’s daughter.” He remembered Rhaella musing on it once at Dragonstone, saying if she ever had another daughter, she might like to name her Daenerys.
A faint smile touched Rhaegar’s lips. “Yes. Daenerys Targaryen.” He tried the name and the baby made a little mewling sound as if in agreement. The first Daenerys Targaryen had died young and tragically, Viserys recalled from tales, but he did not mention that now. “She has Mother’s eyes,” Viserys observed quietly. The baby’s lids had fluttered open to reveal irises of purple, the Targaryen eyes. Perhaps they all looked similar as newborns, but something in her gaze – unfocused as it was – reminded him of Queen Rhaella’s gentle expression. The thought made his chest ache. At least a piece of Mother lives on in her , he tried to console himself. The wetnurse arrived, a kindly-faced fisherman's wife with plenty of milk. Rhaegar passed baby Daenerys into her arms. The woman cooed soothingly and sat by the fire to nurse the infant, affording the royal brothers a moment alone.
Viserys stood silently, staring into the flames. Now that the shock was ebbing, a swell of conflicted emotion washed over him. Sorrow, certainly, so heavy he thought it might drown him. But also fear – fear of the future without Mother, fear of what might happen next. He even felt a stab of resentment. Why did the gods take Rhaella, yet leave him here motherless? Why did this little squalling girl get to live when their sweet mother did not? It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. As if sensing his turmoil, Rhaegar reached out and gently drew Viserys closer. Viserys sank against his brother’s side, comforted by the solid warmth of him and the soft silk of his damp tunic. They watched baby Daenerys suckle hungrily at the nurse’s breast, unaware of the tragedy that had accompanied her birth. Outside the storm was finally breaking. The thunder grew distant, the rain easing to a steady patter. After a long while, Rhaegar spoke softly. “Viserys, I promise you this – I will always take care of you and Dany.” He used the familiar shortening of her name for the first time. “You’re my brother, and she’s our blood too. We have to protect her, teach her, and love her enough for both Mother and Father now.” Viserys looked up at Rhaegar’s face, at the determined grief there. His brother had just lost a father weeks ago, and now their mother, yet still Rhaegar spoke of duty and love. Viserys felt a flicker of shame for the resentful thoughts he’d harbored about the baby. It wasn’t Dany’s fault Mother was gone. And Rhaegar was right – they were all each other had now.
“I’ll help,” Viserys said quietly. He reached out to touch Daenerys’s tiny hand where it rested against the wetnurse’s arm. Her fingers were so small, but they curled instinctively around his index finger and held tight. “I’ll protect her too. I won’t let anything bad happen to her, ever.” Rhaegar managed a tender smile and pulled Viserys into a one-armed embrace. “I know you will. You’re her big brother. One day she’ll look up to you just like you look up to me.” Viserys wasn’t so sure he could ever be as good a brother as Rhaegar, but he straightened a little at the thought. “I’ll try,” he vowed. The baby gripped his finger even tighter, as though she understood his promise. In the hearth, a log shifted and sent a flurry of sparks spiraling up the chimney. The sudden light drew Viserys’s eye to the window he’d shuttered earlier. The rain had stopped, and through a crack in the clouds a thin sliver of sky was visible. For an instant, he saw something streak across the dark – a red streak, like a smudge of blood across the canvas of night. “Rhaegar, look,” he said, pointing.
Rhaegar followed his gaze. The red comet burned brightly for a moment, then faded as it passed beyond the window’s view. “A comet,” Rhaegar said softly, almost to himself. He rose, guiding Viserys to the window. Together they opened the shutters and breathed in the damp, salty air. Sure enough, a red comet trailed across the sky, its tail shimmering. Even as they watched, it began to disappear behind the ragged edge of a remaining storm cloud. Viserys shivered slightly. “What does it mean?” he asked. In old tales, comets heralded great events – the fall of kings, the birth of dragons. Rhaegar was silent for a long moment and Viserys could’ve sworn he looked confused for a few seconds..and then guilt. The wind stirred his silver hair, and in the faint moonlight his eyes looked almost alight with some inner fire. Finally he said, “Change. It means change is upon us.” He put a hand on Viserys’s shoulder. “ The gods saw fit to send us this little girl on the wings of a storm, and marked her coming with a red comet. She is... important. I feel it.” Viserys glanced back at Daenerys, now sleeping contentedly in the wetnurse’s arms after her first meal. She looked peaceful, oblivious to the blood and tears that had accompanied her arrival. He swallowed. “Important how?” Rhaegar glanced to the side and then gave a thoughtful smile. “Perhaps one day we’ll know. But come – you should rest, little brother. It’s nearly dawn.”
Only now did Viserys notice the faint gray light creeping into the night sky outside. His head throbbed with exhaustion and crying, and every muscle felt leaden. But he hesitated. “I don’t want to leave her... or you,” he admitted in a whisper. The prospect of going back to his empty room, knowing his mother’s body lay cooling in the next chamber, filled him with dread. “You won’t, not tonight,” Rhaegar assured him gently. He turned to Ser Jaime, who still stood respectfully by. “Ser Jaime, have a bed prepared here by the fire for Prince Viserys.” Jaime bowed and moved to arrange it at once. Rhaegar took Daenerys from the wetnurse and settled into the chair again with her cradled against his chest. The nurse withdrew discreetly to a nearby pallet. Viserys sank onto the hastily made bed of cushions and blankets that Jaime laid out. He was drained in body and spirit. Curling on his side under a soft coverlet, he watched Rhaegar rock little Dany, humming a low Valyrian lullaby despite the tears still drying on his cheeks.
Fire breather, winged leader but two heads to a third sing…
Viserys’s eyelids grew heavy as the lullaby and crackling fire soothed him. His last waking sight was the silhouette of his brother and baby sister against the firelight, and the faint red streak of the comet through the open window. I’ll never leave them , he thought as sleep claimed him. We only have each other now. And in the dawn light that slowly brushed away the darkness, Viserys dreamed of a great red dragon flying across a star-strewn sky, a tiny silver dragonling perched upon its back, leading them all toward a new day.
As one we gather and with three heads we shall fly as we were destined. Beautifully, freely.
Chapter 8: Chapter Four: Lyanna
Notes:
As promised, the first four chapters have been released for the fanfic's debut! From now on, two chapters will be released every Sunday around 9pm with the first Sunday being August 17, 2025. Thank you for your kudos and comments!
Chapter Text
[Winterfell, The North – 282 AC]
Lyanna brushed down her mare in Winterfell’s stable yard, trying to calm her racing thoughts with the steady rhythm of the currycomb. The mare, a smoky grey courser, nickered softly; Lyanna’s touch was gentle despite the storm behind her stern face. All morning, Winterfell had been a hive of preparations: banners of House Stark—grey direwolf on ice-white field—draped from the ramparts, and the kitchens roared with fires for the feast to come. King Rhaegar Targaryen was on the king’s road north and would arrive by midday. The Dragon Prince, now King of the Seven Kingdoms, under her family’s roof. Lyanna’s stomach fluttered with a mix of anticipation and dread. She yanked a tangle from the horse’s mane perhaps a bit too hard; the mare snorted in protest. “Easy, girl,” Lyanna murmured, forcing herself to slow down. The air was crisp with the bite of the coming winter, and each breath she took clouded faintly before her. She preferred the cool hush of the stables now to the chaos inside the castle. In here, she could be alone with her anxieties. The familiar scents of hay and horseflesh steadied her. Her leather riding gloves were already on, and she considered saddling the mare and galloping out beyond the castle walls just to clear her head. It was a childish impulse, the sort she might have indulged in happier times. Wolf blood , her father Lord Rickard often chided—Lyanna had a streak of wild willfulness that ran hot in her veins, just like her eldest brother Brandon. Yet that wild girl who raced through the Wolfswood and tilted at rings was a ghost of the past. The months since the Trident had tempered her with sorrow and shame. She’d almost brought a war to Westeros. She had broken the heart of a good man…a man and wounded her own family’s honor for the sake of love—and in the end, love had not conquered all. Instead, duty and mercy had.
Lyanna set aside the comb and pressed her forehead to the mare’s warm neck, closing her eyes. She could hear the distant sounds of the courtyard: the clank of portcullis chains, the barking of hounds, the barked commands of Winterfell’s master-at-arms arranging Stark guardsmen in their ranks to receive the royal party. He will be here soon. The thought made her heart give a peculiar thump. The last time she saw Rhaegar Targaryen, he was standing in the mud of the Trident battlefield, crownless but alive, as Robert Baratheon—her betrothed of old—tried to kill him. In that moment Lyanna had spoken truth before thousands: that she had gone with Rhaegar of her own free will. She could still see Robert’s face, twisted with hurt and fury, as she apologized to him…should she had even apologized? The memory of Robert’s eyes, bright with tears of betrayal before he turned and stormed away, would haunt her for the rest of her days. He had loved her, in his way—fondly imagining her as a plump wife bearing him rosy-cheeked heirs and singing songs in his castle. But Robert had never truly known her. He loved a phantom, a pretty Stark maiden of his fantasies. And she... she had loved the dragon prince, or thought she did.
Lyanna’s cheeks burned with old shame. Love had kindled so brightly at the Tourney of Harrenhal, only to scorch everything in its path. Her choice to run with Rhaegar had nearly doomed her father and brothers. If Rhaegar hadn’t slain his own father—Mad King Aerys—when he did, her father and brother Brandon would have died screaming in wildfire. The realm would have plunged into bloody rebellion. Instead, by some strange mercy of the gods, disaster had been averted. Rhaegar had broken taboo and committed kinslaying to save them all. In doing so, he spared Lyanna the horror of being the cause of a war. Still, the North remembered the near-tragedy. Rickard Stark had lost good men—friends, bannermen—burned by Aerys before Rhaegar intervened. Lyanna’s folly could not be easily forgotten by her people, nor wholly forgiven by her kin. A distant horn sounded from the outer gatehouse. Lyanna lifted her head. The King’s party was approaching; she could hear the muffled cheers beyond the walls from the smallfolk crowding outside to glimpse the procession. Anxiety coiled in her gut like a frost-snake. Seven hells , she thought, I’m not ready . She set her jaw, squared her shoulders, and stroked the mare one last time. “Duty,” she whispered. “It’s just duty now, nothing more.” If she repeated it enough, perhaps the fluttering in her heart would cease.
“Lyanna!” Her brother Ned’s voice cut through the din. Eddard Stark appeared in the stable doorway, tall and solemn in a doublet of grey wool marked with the direwolf sigil of their House. “They’re nearly here. Father wants us by the gate.” Lyanna took a steadying breath and removed her gloves, tucking them into the belt of her riding skirt. “I’m coming.” As she joined Ned, he offered her his arm. That small gallantry made her smile faintly. Ever since their harrowing return from King’s Landing, Ned had become her shadow and protector. He watched over her with quiet, steadfast care—much as he had as a boy when she’d gotten into scrapes. Though only a year older than her, Ned sometimes seemed the elder soul. The ordeal with Aerys and the brush with war had etched new gravity into his grey eyes. She looped her arm through his, grateful. “How do I look?” she asked under her breath as they walked. She had chosen a gown of dark blue wool trimmed with silver thread; modest and somber, nothing like the silken finery she’d worn in the south. Her only adornment was a carved ivory direwolf pin at her collar. “Like our sister,” Ned said gently, managing a small smile. “Stark of Winterfell.” He paused, then added in a lower voice, “It will be well, Lyanna.” She wasn’t sure if he meant the King’s visit or everything else—her future, her penance. Perhaps both. She nodded and they stepped out into the yard.
The gates of Winterfell stood wide open. Beyond the walls, House Stark’s banners fluttered alongside the red dragon banners of House Targaryen, visible above the heads of the crowd gathered outside. Lord Rickard Stark waited at the gatehouse with Brandon, Benjen, and the highest lords of the North at his side. Rickard’s face was grave and unreadable, as ever. If he harbored lingering anger toward King Rhaegar, he hid it behind duty’s mask. He had agreed to this royal progress as a step toward healing the rift between North and Iron Throne. Still, “the North remembers,” as the old saying went—the memory of near-war and the Stark blood spilt by Aerys’s madness could not vanish in a single year. Lyanna and Ned took their place just behind their father. Brandon stood at Rickard’s other side, broad shouldered and impatient-looking. Her eldest brother was tapping his gloved hand against his sword hilt in a restless rhythm. He caught Lyanna’s eye briefly. Brandon’s mouth pressed thin, and he gave a curt nod. The last few months had been strained between them; Brandon had always been hot-blooded and quick to anger. He had been furious with Lyanna when he first learned of her involvement with Rhaegar, blaming her for the peril that befell their father. They’d argued bitterly in private—Brandon’s temper flaring like a hearthfire stoked by wind, Lyanna shouting back that she never intended anyone to get hurt, that Aerys’s evil was not her doing.
It had taken Ned physically stepping between them to keep the peace. Now, at least, Brandon held his tongue. He had other concerns—his young wife Catelyn, nursing their infant daughter in the keep, and his new duties as heir preparing to assume more of their father’s burdens. Benjen, the youngest Stark, shifted from foot to foot with poorly concealed excitement. Only fifteen, Benjen’s blue eyes were alight at the prospect of seeing dragons and knights from the south. He’d pestered them with questions all week: Would the Kingsguard be coming? Did King Rhaegar truly have violet eyes like the Targaryen of old? Rickard had finally ordered him to be silent during supper last night. Now Benjen bit his lip to keep from grinning too widely. Lyanna felt a touch of affection for her little brother’s enthusiasm. At least someone could look forward to this day without complication. A fanfare of trumpets split the cold air. Through the gate, the royal procession emerged into Winterfell’s courtyard: first a column of mounted golden-cloaked guardsmen bearing the Targaryen standard—a three-headed red dragon on black silk—then lords and knights of the royal retinue. Lyanna saw familiar figures from King’s Landing among them: Ser Barristan Selmy in his Kingsguard armor, face as stern and noble as a marble carving; Prince Lewyn Martell, another white cloak and uncle to the Queen; and there, shining in the winter sun like dawn light on snow, rode Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. At the Tourney of Harrenhal he had been Rhaegar’s champion and her dear friend.
It was Arthur who spirited her to safety at the Tower of Joy when Aerys’s wrath loomed. His familiar lilac-colored cloak (bearing the sigil of House Dayne, the shooting star) fluttered as he guided his horse into the yard. Arthur caught Lyanna’s eye and gave the barest hint of a smile and a nod—warmth rushed through her. That gesture from him, however small, steadied her nerves. She realized she had been holding her breath. Then came the King himself. Rhaegar Targaryen rode at the head of a smaller coterie of nobles: Lyanna recognized Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale riding on the King’s right, and on the left Lord Robert Baratheon’s younger brother, Lord Stannis—cold-faced and dutiful, representing Storm’s End in Robert’s sullen absence. Behind them rode Prince Viserys, the King’s pale-haired younger brother, his chin lifted high with princely arrogance, and Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, wrapped in heavy furs against the northern chill. It was a strange sight to see Doran Martell—slow, cautious Doran—on horseback at Winterfell, but his presence spoke volumes: House Martell stood firmly with the Targaryens. After all, Rhaegar’s queen was Doran’s own sister.
Rhaegar himself cut a striking figure. He wore a cloak of rich black wool edged in red satin, and his tunic was Targaryen crimson, but over his heart he’d pinned a direwolf badge of grey stone. The gesture of wearing the Stark sigil openly did not go unnoticed. A murmur rippled through the Northerners present— approval, perhaps a touch of surprise. Rhaegar’s silver-gold hair gleamed in the cold light, bright as the silver hilt of the sword at his side. He dismounted smoothly, handing the reins to a squire, and strode forward across the yard toward Lord Rickard. Every eye was on the King now. Lyanna’s heart hammered in her chest as she took in the man she had once run away with. He looked both familiar and foreign. Here was the same handsome face—high cheekbones, soulful dark indigo eyes—but it bore new gravity. Fine lines of care etched the corners of his eyes that she did not recall, and there was an undeniable weariness in his gaze, as if he had not slept well in months. He’s changed , she thought. We all have.
Rhaegar paused three paces from where Lord Rickard stood and bent the knee. The King of Westeros knelt in the snow before the Lord of Winterfell. A collective gasp went through the crowd at that act of humility. “Lord Rickard,” Rhaegar said, voice clear and carrying, “thank you for welcoming me to your halls.” Rickard Stark, normally implacable as an ironwood, showed flicker of astonishment. Quickly, he moved forward and gestured for Rhaegar to rise. “Your Grace,” he said in his deep voice, “Winterfell is yours. You honor us with your presence.” He placed the slightest emphasis on honor, and Lyanna knew her father well enough to catch the note of reproof beneath the polite words. Rickard had nearly died because of Rhaegar’s secret affair with his daughter; though Rickard had accepted peace, he was not the kind of man to forget a debt of blood or shame. Rhaegar inclined his head. “ It is I who am honored, my lord. The North’s loyalty under your guidance has preserved the realm through our recent troubles.” He stood, his breath misting faintly as he spoke. “I have come to renew the bond between dragon and direwolf, and to personally offer thanks to House Stark. Your courage and mercy helped save countless lives.”
It was well-said and gracious. Lyanna heard a few muffled sounds of approval from the watching northern lords. Her father nodded stonily. “We did what duty required, as did Your Grace,” Rickard replied. “You kept your word and returned my daughter to me unharmed. For that, House Stark will remember your grace and justice.” He put a slight stress on the word justice—acknowledging Rhaegar’s act of kinslaying and regicide to spare innocents. It was neither praise nor censure, just fact. Lyanna felt heat flush her cheeks. If any of the royal party glanced her way at that moment, they would see her standing just behind her father, stiff and silent. Thankfully, Rhaegar’s eyes stayed on Lord Rickard. “Your daughter’s safety was a promise I gladly kept.” Rhaegar’s voice gentled. “And I thank the Old Gods and the Seven that your family stands whole again.” At that, his gaze flickered—so swift most would miss it—over Rickard’s shoulder to Lyanna. Their eyes met for the first time in nearly a year. Lyanna felt rooted to the ground. Rhaegar’s violet eyes held her for one heartbeat, two. In them, she saw regret and sorrow; saw, too, a quiet relief. Then he was looking to the others—Ned, Brandon, Benjen—acknowledging each in turn. The moment passed, leaving Lyanna shaken and grateful that no one but perhaps Ned had noticed.
Formal words followed. Rickard welcomed the King and his companions, and Rhaegar introduced each notable lord in his retinue. Prince Viserys earned a few curious stares—he was a slight, sharp-eyed youth with near-platinum hair and a petulant set to his mouth, only a boy of eleven name-days or so by the look of him. He seemed displeased by the cold and did not bother to hide a small sneer as he surveyed Winterfell’s rough-hewn keep. By contrast, Prince Doran Martell, bundled in furs and rubbing his gloved hands for warmth, managed a polite incline of the head to the Starks. If Doran Martell showed fealty to King Rhaegar, it reassured them that Rhaegar’s reign had strong backing beyond the North’s ancient rivalries. When the introductions were done, Rickard gestured broadly. “Come, Your Grace. Warm yourself by our fires. We have prepared a feast in your honor.” He glanced skyward. “The gods have graced us with clear skies, but these northern winds bite hard. Our hall will offer better comfort.” Rhaegar smiled a little. “Lead on, my lord.” He paused and looked back to one of the wheelhouses now entering the yard behind the knights. Only then did Lyanna realize that Rhaegar’s children were here.
A gilded wheelhouse bearing the crowned dragon sigil had rolled in, escorted by a dozen of the Kingsguard. The door to it opened and out leapt a small girl wrapped in a plush red cloak trimmed with ermine. Princess Rhaenys, Rhaegar’s eldest child. Lyanna had never met her; the girl was only perhaps five years old, with big purple eyes and glossy black hair that curled wildly about her shoulders. The child looked pure Dornish by her coloring, Elia Martell’s daughter through and through. Rhaenys blinked at the swirling snowflakes, then saw Rhaegar and ran to him with a happy shriek of “Papa!” One of the white knights moved as if to catch the princess, but Rhaegar was quicker—he swept his daughter into his arms and hoisted her up, laughing in surprise. The courtyard relaxed at that bright sound. Many a grizzled northern face softened, beholding the young father with his little girl. Lyanna heard Lady Barbrey Dustin behind her mutter, “Never thought I’d see a dragon snugglin’ a pup,” but it was said almost fondly. Rhaegar kissed Rhaenys’s cheek and murmured to her, then turned to Lord Rickard. “My lord, this is Rhaenys, my bold little dragonling.” Princess Rhaenys looked at Rickard Stark with frank curiosity. “How do you do, Lord Stark?” she piped in a high, sweet voice that carried. “My lady mother sends you gifts from Dorne and her warm regards.” The rehearsed politeness drew chuckles, including a low one from Brandon and a softer laugh from Ned at Lyanna’s side. Even Rickard’s stern countenance cracked; he managed a respectful bow to the child, which made Rhaenys grin.
“And we are honored by Her Grace’s presence,” Rickard replied gravely to the small girl. “Winterfell is yours, princess.” This elicited more laughter. Rhaenys preened proudly and pointed to the wheelhouse. “My baby brother’s sleeping in there. And Septa says he’s your grandson’s friend now!” The courtier closest to Rhaegar —the silver-haired Lord Jon Arryn—nearly choked, turning a laugh into a cough. Rhaegar himself gave a startled blink. Rhaenys continued blissfully, “Septa said baby Aegon will have a wolf friend as little as him. I want to see the baby wolf!” Lyanna’s breath caught. She means Arya. Indeed, Brandon and Catelyn’s infant daughter—named Arya after Brandon’s grandmother—was only a few months old, the only Stark child of that generation. No doubt Rhaenys had overheard talk of the other baby on this visit. And the princess’s outburst had just clumsily announced one of the major diplomatic moves of the royal progress. King Rhaegar cleared his throat, his cheeks touched with a faint embarrassed color. Yet he rallied smoothly.
“Just so,” he said to his lords, projecting his voice. “Prince Aegon, my son and heir, has come as well to meet the North... and we have an announcement. To celebrate peace between our Houses, I have agreed with Lord Rickard’s blessing to betroth Prince Aegon to Lord Brandon’s infant daughter, Arya Stark, once they both come of age.” A hush fell, followed by a surprised buzz from the gathered northerners. Lord Manderly of White Harbor exclaimed, “The King’s own son to a Stark! Seven save us, a Stark queen one day?” Others murmured to each other. Lyanna saw her father’s face soften with satisfaction. Rickard had indeed negotiated this—likely it was part of the price of northern peace. A future Stark queen on the Iron Throne would soothe many wounded northern prides. Brandon stepped forward and raised a hand for quiet. He was flushed with pride. “Winterfell pledges its own blood to bind this pact,” he proclaimed, voice carrying like the natural leader he was. “My daughter Arya shall one day be a queen, and the North and the Iron Throne will be family.” Cheers rang out at that, first from Umber and Glover men, then a ripple through the rest. Even those who still eyed the Targaryen king warily could find no fault with such a promise. A Stark on the throne in the next generation was more than any had dreamed when they rode south to war a year ago.
Lyanna clapped politely with the others, though her feelings were mixed. Little Arya was but a babe at Cat’s breast, oblivious to the great fate now laid upon her tiny shoulders. Poor child , Lyanna thought, to have your life decided ere you can even speak . And yet... perhaps it was better this way. Arya Stark and Aegon Targaryen would grow up never knowing each other as strangers—they would be groomed for their roles, prepared for their marriage from the cradle. There would be no illusions of romantic folly to lead them astray. It would be duty, plain and simple, a marriage that served the realm’s peace. Lyanna swallowed the lump in her throat. If only I had been so groomed , she reflected bitterly. She’d been betrothed to Robert Baratheon, but foolish girl that she was, she’d kicked against convention, chased a crown of blue winter roses and a silver prince’s smile. In her youthful arrogance she’d believed love was worth any price. Too late she learned the cost. “Lyanna.” Ned’s low voice jolted her from her thoughts. She realized the King and his entourage were moving inside and the courtyard was dispersing. Ned touched her elbow gently. “We should join the feast. Father’s looking for you.” Indeed, Rickard stood waiting as lords filed past, his eyes on his daughter.
Lyanna nodded and followed with Ned. The Great Hall of Winterfell was ablaze with torches and row upon row of candles. High on the walls, hunting tapestries stirred in the draft as the doors opened to admit the royal guests. The long feasting tables had been arranged in a horseshoe shape to focus toward the raised dais at the front, where the Stark family’s seats flanked the king’s place of honor. Already servants were ladling hot carrot soup into trencher bowls and filling cups with mulled wine. The hall smelled of roasted boar and stewed apples, hearty fare for a winter evening. As Lyanna made her way toward the dais, she saw many pairs of northern eyes on her. Some looks were sympathetic—Lady Dustin, with whom she’d shared words in the past, gave her a small nod; others were more judgmental. Lady Barbrey Ryswell, an older kinswoman, pursed her lips and whispered to her daughter behind a gloved hand. Lyanna’s face heated. She knew what they likely said: There’s the wolf maid who nearly brought us to ruin. Though Rickard Stark had publicly declared that no blame lay with his daughter for Aerys’s crimes, gossipmongers would gossip. She straightened her spine. Let them think what they will. She had made her apology to Robert and to her family. She would carry on with dignity now, do what good she could going forward.
The hall filled quickly. Rhaegar, having handed Princess Rhaenys to a Dornish septa to take the child and baby Aegon (now awake and wailing softly) to the nursery prepared for them, took his seat at the center of the high table, with Rickard Stark on his right and Prince Doran Martell on his left. To Rickard’s right sat Brandon and Catelyn (Lady Catelyn had emerged with baby Arya in arms just long enough for Rhaegar to admire the infant and coo a blessing over her, which clearly delighted Cat, then mother and babe withdrew so the little one wouldn’t be overstimulated by the feast). Ned and Lyanna were seated further down, side by side, with Ned between Lyanna and Prince Viserys. That was a small mercy; Viserys had cast an annoyed glance at being placed so far from his brother, but Ned politely engaged him in talk of horses and hawking to distract him. On the opposite side of the table, Lyanna saw Ser Arthur Dayne seated near Lord Jon Arryn and a few northern lordlings. Arthur caught her looking and gave a subtle wink. She fought a smile. Lyanna tried to focus on the meal as course after course was served: hot soups, buttered parsnips, roasted venison haunches, and trout from the White Knife. Yet she tasted little of it. Her appetite had fled. It was all she could do not to keep staring at Rhaegar, seated just two chairs away. She could hear his voice occasionally as he spoke with her father or Doran Martell in low tones.
He was being an exemplary guest, praising the soup (“there is a hint of pepper, very warming” ), complimenting Winterfell’s walls ( “ancient and strong, the legacy of your line, Lord Rickard” ). It was strange to hear that melodic voice make such small talk. Once, she remembered, Rhaegar would speak of history and prophecy, or sing ballads that brought tears to listener’s eyes. Now he navigated the waters of politics with careful courtesy. He’s performing kingship , Lyanna realized. Everything he said or did was measured to reassure and to charm.
She realized she was clenching her spoon so hard her fingers ached. Forcing herself to relax, she put it down and took a sip of spiced wine instead. The heat of it soothed her throat. Around her, conversation ebbed and flowed. The hall was growing jovial. Lord Umber had already downed enough ale to start a bawdy anecdote about some adventure in the mountains. There was laughter from the serving men at his table. Near Lyanna, Viserys Targaryen prattled to Ned about how backward the North was compared to King’s Landing. “But now that my brother’s making alliances here, perhaps we’ll teach you all some refinement,” Viserys said loftily.
Ned’s face remained politely blank. “We have much to learn from the south, to be sure,” was all he replied in his mild way. Under the table, Lyanna set a staying hand on Ned’s knee to keep him from saying more. Viserys was a child, a very arrogant one, and best ignored. Ned shot her a grateful, rueful look.
Suddenly a voice rose from the hall—Lord Manderly’s booming baritone. “Song!” he bellowed, tankard raised. “It’s not a proper feast without a song. King Rhaegar, won’t you favor us?” A chorus of agreement went up. Rhaegar had been famed for his music in his youth; the memory of him at Harrenhal plucking his silver-stringed harp came rushing back to Lyanna so vividly it hurt. She saw Rhaegar demur with a modest gesture. “Alas, my lords, I did not bring my harp on this journey.” A disappointed groan greeted that. Rhaegar smiled. “But perhaps I might sing, if our noble hosts permit.” He looked to Rickard for approval. Lord Rickard gave a gracious nod. “Winterfell would be pleased to hear the King’s song.” The hall quieted expectantly. Rhaegar stood from his seat, surveying the crowd. Lyanna’s heart fluttered again—please, not that song, not Jenny of Oldstones, she pleaded silently. That mournful tune would open too many wounds. But Rhaegar would not be so cruel, surely. He began with a rich a capella voice, singing an old Northman’s song in the Old Tongue—a surprise that drew gasps of delight. It was the tale of Brandon the Builder raising the Wall, a deep and haunting melody like wind through the weirwoods. Lyanna released the breath she’d been holding. Rhaegar sang beautifully. Even the most hardened Northern lords were moved; Lyanna glimpsed the Greatjon wiping an eye, and Lady Dustin pressed a hand to her chest. When the last note faded, the hall burst into applause that rattled the rafters. “Huzzah! The Dragon has the voice of a wolf!” someone shouted to general laughter and cheers.
Lyanna found herself clapping as well. The song had been well-chosen—a peace offering of music, honoring her people’s heritage. Rhaegar gave a shallow bow and retook his seat. As he did, his eyes flicked to Lyanna for an instant and there was a softness there—a shared memory perhaps of the tourney at Harrenhal, where he’d last performed before a crowd. Lyanna felt the ghost of that night swirl around her: Rhaegar’s fingers moving deftly over the harp strings, the moment he placed the winner’s crown of blue roses in her lap instead of Princess Elia’s. That had been the spark to all of this. She bit her lip and looked away. The feast continued with more songs (a troupe of northern bards hastily struck up a merry fiddle tune after the King’s solemn ballad, to get people dancing). Soon half the hall was cleared for dancing. Brandon Stark pulled Catelyn from her seat and whirled his wife around to the whooping of the younger knights. Even Ned was persuaded by Barbrey Ryswell’s daughter to step a jig, to his blushing reluctance. Lyanna, however, lingered by the dais, half-hiding behind a pillar. She had no wish to dance, not now. Indeed, no lord approached her with an invitation; perhaps they sensed the prickly thorns around the Rose of Winterfell tonight.
She slipped away as the revelry grew louder, out a side door and into the godswood. Snow had begun to fall lightly, dusting the ancient oak and sentinel trees in powdery white. In the center, the Heart Tree—the great weirwood with its carved face—stood silent vigil over the small hot pools fed by subterranean springs. Steam rose ghost-like from the water’s surface, and a thin crust of ice fringed the edges where the heat dissipated. Lyanna drew her cloak tighter and crossed the grove to the weirwood. She felt drawn to the Heart Tree’s melancholy red eyes, as Stark children always were in times of turmoil. The face carved in the pale trunk was somber and knowing. She sank to her knees before the tree, heedless of the damp seeping into her skirts, and breathed in the familiar godswood scent of moss and earth and old bark. For a long moment she stayed like that, her forehead resting against the weirwood’s bole, eyes closed. The Old Gods listened to those without words. So she offered them the turmoil inside her as silent prayer: gratitude that her family lived; grief for those who died at Aerys’s hands; guilt, always guilt, for her part in it; and confusion— so much confusion—about what her life was now meant to be.
A noise of footsteps on the moss made her stiffen and rise. She turned, bracing herself—she had hoped for solitude. But it was Rhaegar. The King stood a few paces away, cloaked in black and red, silver hair catching the moonlight that began to peek through the clouds. He had no guards trailing him; likely he had slipped away from the feast as quietly as she had. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Snowflakes drifted lazily between them. Rhaegar broke the stillness first. “Lyanna.” Her name in his mouth was a soft murmur, tinged with emotion. He stepped forward slowly. “I saw you leave... I hoped I might find you here. You always loved the godswood.” She folded her arms against her chest. “Your Grace,” she said formally, though her voice trembled on the honorific. How absurd, to call him that after all that had passed between them. Yet she could not bring herself to call him Rhaegar, not right now. He was a king, and she a highborn lady who had erred. Those roles needed to stay firm, for both their sakes.
A ghost of hurt flickered across his face at the title she used. But he inclined his head gently, acknowledging her wish for distance. “I won’t disturb your prayers. Only... I wanted to thank you.”
Lyanna blinked. “Thank me?” That was unexpected.
Rhaegar came closer, his boots crunching softly in the thin snow. “For what you did on the battlefield of the Trident. You spoke up when it mattered most. You saved lives, Lyanna, by helping me quell Robert’s fury.” His throat worked. “And... you saved me as well. If not for your testimony... Robert would have pressed his attack, and one or both of us would now be dead.” Lyanna dropped her gaze. Dead—perhaps that might have been easier, she thought darkly. But she pushed that morbid notion aside. “I told the truth, that’s all,” she said quietly. “It was the least I owed. The war was as much my doing as yours. I had to set it right.” Her eyes burned suddenly with unshed tears, remembering Robert’s anguished roar, the way he’d called her “kidnapped” and “bewitched” . She shook her head. “It was all wrong. People nearly died for our folly.” Rhaegar closed the remaining distance between them. He did not touch her—he kept his hands clasped in front of him—but he stood near enough that she felt the slight warmth radiating from him. “I know,” he said, pain in his voice. “Seven hells, I know. Every day I carry that guilt. My selfishness put your family in danger, shattered Robert’s hope, and cast a shadow over my own honor. I will never forgive myself for it.”
Lyanna looked up at him sharply. This was not what she expected to hear from a King. In Rhaegar’s eyes she saw true anguish. It shocked her; she had imagined he would have moved on, consumed by ruling, thinking little of her now beyond a passing regret. But clearly the consequences of their love weighed on him heavily. Some knot in her chest loosened at that realization. Perhaps she wasn’t alone in her torment after all. “I should not have run off with you,” she blurted, her breath clouding between them. “It was mad and willful and... damned stupid.” A tear escaped down her cheek, hot against the chill. She wiped it away angrily. “I hurt my father. I betrayed my betrothed’s trust. I shamed my House. None of it was worth what nearly happened.” Rhaegar’s face crumpled; he reached as if to brush her tear away but caught himself, hand dropping. “You followed your heart. As did I. We were young and thought destiny was ours to take.” He gave a bitter, soft laugh. “I believed in prophecy, in some glorious fate. How naive I was.”
Lyanna sniffed, composing herself. “Did you ever truly love me? Or was it only prophecy?” The question fell from her lips unbidden, raw and vulnerable. She regretted it at once; it was not fitting to ask. But now it hung in the cold air between them. Rhaegar’s eyes widened, then softened with infinite sadness. “Lyanna... I—I cared for you deeply. What I felt was real. At Harrenhal, by the lake, the day I crowned you with roses... it was like waking from a long sleep. I thought you were the one the scrolls whispered of—the wolf maiden the dragon prince must meet, ice and fire. However, I was…proven wrong.” He smiled faintly. “Perhaps that was folly. But in truth, prophecy or no, I... loved you, in my way.” Lyanna’s throat tightened. In my way. Not wholly, perhaps not enduringly. He loved her as a dream, a whisper of song. And he also loved his wife Elia in a different way, a steadier way perhaps. That was the hard truth she had come to accept in her lonely hours. She nodded slowly. “And I loved you in mine.” A simple answer, but honest. She had loved him as a girl infatuated with a hero in a ballad. A love that burned bright and fast, nearly consuming them. The love had been real—but love is not enough.
Rhaegar looked away, up at the heart tree’s bone-white limbs. A few snowflakes caught in his hair like tiny stars. “Elia asked me once, after all that happened... what you were truly like. She deserved to know, I suppose, what kind of woman nearly took her husband.” His tone held deep remorse. “I told her... you were brave, and beautiful, and had the wolf’s own spirit. That you were blameless in Aerys’s crimes. And that letting you go was the hardest choice of my life. But the correct one.” He turned back to Lyanna. “ You should know, Elia never wished you ill. She sends gifts with me for your father, and she asked after your well-being.” Lyanna felt a stab of shame at that. By all rights, Elia Martell should despise her. But from what Lyanna had heard, the Dornish princess had shown nothing but grace—she even had Rhaegar publicly reaffirm her as Queen in a second coronation, and had sent generous goodwill gifts North. Lyanna bowed her head. “Your wife is a noble lady. Far nobler than me.” Rhaegar frowned. “Do not say that. You were young... we both followed something we barely understood.” He hesitated, then quietly added, “There was a time I thought perhaps I would set Elia aside for you—after all, the Targaryens of old had two wives, some of them.”
Lyanna’s eyes snapped up in alarm. Such talk bordered on treasonous memory. Aegon the Conqueror had wed both his sisters, yes, but no king since had dared polygamy. At least without it leading to his death. “That would have been folly and cruelty both,” she said sharply. “To dishonor your loyal wife? To bastardize your children with her? No, Rhaegar. You would have lost the very honor you strive to rebuild. I am glad you did not do such a thing.” He studied her, then inclined his head. “As am I, in the end. I see now it would have been wrong. At the time... well, love breeds madness.” He managed a small, wry smile. “In truth, I am relieved you refused to let me cast her aside. You said, ‘She has done nothing to deserve disgrace.’ You were right.” Lyanna remembered that agonizing conversation in the Tower of Joy. Rhaegar had been torn, speaking of a Prince That Was Promised and the need for a third dragon head. He had been desperate, ready to upend all vows. It was Lyanna who insisted she would not be the ruin of his honor or Elia’s. That had perhaps spurred him at last to realize what had to be done. The next day, he’d ridden for King’s Landing upon news of Aerys’s final heinous plot, leaving Lyanna in Arthur Dayne’s protection. Within a fortnight, Aerys was dead and she was being escorted to the Trident for that fateful parley. So much had happened so fast.
They stood now in silence for a moment, breathing the crisp air. The sounds of distant music from the hall drifted faintly. Lyanna felt a strange serenity steal over her. Here they were, side by side beneath the heart tree, speaking calmly, no longer lovers but something perhaps kinder: two people who had hurt each other and others, seeking forgiveness if not forgetfulness.
“I hear you’ve taken to healing,” Rhaegar said gently. “That you studied herb-lore.” Lyanna nodded. “A little. I spent time with the women in Dorne... one of the matrons at the Tower of Joy was skilled in poultices and birthing tonics. It... occupied my mind, after you left for King’s Landing.” She had thrown herself into any useful task to quell her own fear and guilt. “Since coming home, Maester Walys has let me tend the sick hounds and learn of northern herbs. It soothes me, I suppose, to make small things right where I can.” Rhaegar’s expression was warm with admiration. “The ‘Wolf Maid’ becomes the healer of Winterfell. You’ve a gentle heart, Lyanna. The North is fortunate to have you caring for its folk.” She felt herself blush, but there was gratitude too. It meant something, to be seen doing good after so much ill. “I’m just trying to be of use. I won’t wed—” she caught herself, flushed, and amended, “I haven’t wed, so I find other purpose.”
Rhaegar’s eyes searched hers. “Your father will allow that? For you to remain unmarried?”
She lifted her chin. “He will. I insisted I needed no match yet, and he agreed to give me time. It’s a bit of a scandal, of course—a lord’s daughter past marriageable age with no betrothal. But my father has bigger worries than me. Brandon’s wife gave him a grandchild to secure our line, and Ned—” she faltered, then offered a faint smile, “Ned seems likely to follow his heart soon as well.” She’d seen how Ned looked at Ashara Dayne at Harrenhal, dancing with the graceful Dornish lady in the quiet corners of the hall. Her reserved brother had smiled more in Ashara’s presence than Lyanna had seen in a long while. And Ashara looked at Ned as though he hung the moon. If any love could bridge ice and fire peacefully, perhaps it was theirs. Rhaegar picked up on her implication. “With Lady Ashara? ” he asked, an intrigued lift to his brow. At Lyanna’s nod, he laughed softly. “Truly, the dragon’s peace we strive for breeds strange and wonderful new ties. A Stark and a Dayne... I wish them better fortune than we had.”
“As do I,” Lyanna said earnestly. Her breath misted between them. The snowfall was thickening again; a dusting of white now crowned Rhaegar’s shoulders and the fur trim of Lyanna’s cloak. “We should go in,” she said reluctantly, noticing him suppress a shiver. He was a man of the south, after all, and these godswood nights bit bitterly cold. “Soon,” Rhaegar murmured. He looked around the grove. “This godswood... it’s very peaceful. I envy the old gods their quiet.” He took a step back, leaning lightly against the weirwood’s massive trunk. The carved face loomed above him, its red sap eyes seeming to weep streaks of blood down the bone-white bark. “I have missed peace. This last year, King’s Landing has been all politics and appeasement and restless lords. Coming north, I feared what welcome I might find. I feared you might hate me now.” Lyanna walked to stand opposite him, placing her hand on the weirwood for support. Her fingers found one of the carved grooves of the face—a deep line like a wrinkle of sorrow. “I don’t hate you,” she said softly. “I was angry for a time... mostly at myself, truth be told. But not hate. I could never hate you, Rhaegar.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as if a weight had been lifted. “Thank you,” he whispered. When he opened them again, they were shining—not with tears exactly, but with a kind of earnest hope. “You know, when I knelt before Ned and Jon Arryn on that battlefield and yielded myself to their judgment, I thought for sure they might execute me on the spot in Robert’s name. I was ready to die, if that would satisfy honor. But they spared me—Robert stalked off rather than sentence me, and Ned... Ned bid me live and prove myself a better king than my father. That was perhaps the hardest outcome: to live on, carrying the burden of what I’d done and almost done.” He swallowed. “I strive each day to be worthy of that mercy. Of the second chance I’ve been given.”
Lyanna felt a surge of admiration. The Rhaegar who spoke now was not the dreamy prince of Harrenhal, lost in prophecy and song. He was a man tempered by guilt and responsibility, determined to make amends. Perhaps they both were tempered, in their own ways. She realized, then, that in coming here Rhaegar sought her forgiveness as much as she unconsciously sought his. The godswood had heard their confessions. Now it was time to let go. Lyanna stepped forward over a gnarled root, bringing herself face to face with Rhaegar, mere inches apart. Snowflakes speckled his eyelashes. She gave him a small, sad smile. “I forgive you,” she said, voice soft but clear. “For everything.” Rhaegar inhaled sharply, a slight tremor in that breath. A single tear escaped his eye, quickly freezing on his cheek in the frigid air. He bowed his head. “And I you,” he whispered hoarsely. “From the bottom of my heart, Lyanna, I am sorry... and I forgive you. We were both to blame. And perhaps, both innocent too, in being so young and reckless.” Somewhere above, the wind stirred the bare branches, and a tuft of snow drifted down onto Lyanna’s hair. She realized she was shivering now, the cold finally penetrating her woolen cloak. Rhaegar noticed and gently took her by the shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he murmured with concern. He began to guide her back toward the lit keep. “Come, let’s return before you catch your death.” Lyanna allowed him to steer her, feeling strangely light. As they neared the edge of the godswood, she ventured to ask, “Will I see you on the morrow, before you leave?” The royal visit was to be brief—Rhaegar intended to progress on to Barrowton and the Rills next, to show himself to more of the northern bannermen.
Lyanna paused for a moment and slowly shook her head. “No…I don’t think you will. I believe it is time I retire to my chambers; and we shouldn’t be seen going inside together anyway.” Rhaegar stopped then by the side door; faint music still drifted through the gap—the feast was likely winding down to more drinking and jests by now. There was so much he wanted to say—she could see the disappointment flickering behind his eyes. But he only said, with gentle resolve, “Take care of yourself, Lyanna. And of your family. The realm needs House Stark. I need House Stark. I shall not squander the peace we’ve bought with such pain.” Lyanna looked at him—the man who was once her beloved, now her King—and felt an unexpected swell of loyalty. He had done terrible things and noble things, and at last seemed determined to be the ruler Westeros needed. She believed him. “We will guard the peace in the North, Your Grace,” she replied, a hint of her old spiritedness returning as she set a fist over her heart in a warrior’s salute. “The Starks guard the realm, as we always have. Winter may come, but we will stand by you against it.”
Rhaegar’s face lit with gratitude. Not the dazzling joy of youthful romance, but something steadier and brighter: mutual respect. “Winter is coming, yes,” he said, a strange far-off look in his eyes for a moment. Then he focused and gave her one last searching glance. “Good night, Lyanna. May the gods bless you and keep you... always.” He bowed to her, deeply and with genuine respect. Lyanna nodded and she met his eyes one last time.
“Goodbye... Your Grace.”
There was no more longing in her tone but acceptance. With a forced smile, Lyanna walked into the Keep, saying a proper goodbye to their guests before retiring to her chambers.
Chapter 9: Chapter Five: Rhaenys
Chapter Text
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen huddled beneath the heavy direwolf-fur blankets, watching the last of the feast’s torchlight dance on the stone ceiling. Winterfell had fallen quiet. In the adjoining Great Hall, the songs and laughter of the night had faded to echoes. Now there was only the muffled howl of wind outside and the faint crackling of the brazier in her nursery chamber. She was supposed to be asleep – Septa Amarys had tucked her in quite a while ago – but Rhaenys’s mind still whirled with the day’s excitement. It had been a very long day. She scrunched deeper into the pillows, replaying it all in her head. Arriving at Winterfell in the royal wheelhouse that afternoon, she’d peeked out to see snowflakes swirling in the air like cold white ashes. It was the first time she’d ever seen real snow. It melted in her dark curls and tickled her eyelashes, and she remembered giggling until her Papa scooped her up. “Careful, sweetling,” he’d murmured, holding her against his warm fur cloak as they entered the big, ancient castle of House Stark. Winterfell’s grey stone walls had loomed so tall and stern around them, nothing at all like sunny, golden Sunspear or the alabaster palaces of King’s Landing. Rhaenys had felt like she was stepping into a story – a North story, full of wolves and giants and cold, cold nights. She closed her eyes, breathing in the unfamiliar scents of the chamber. The bedclothes smelled of old wool and pine. A draft snuck through a crack in the shutters, carrying the smell of snow and smoke from the night’s feast fires. It was so different from home.
In King’s Landing her bedchamber always smelled of the lemon oil her mother favored and the salt breeze off Blackwater Bay. Here in the North, the air itself tasted colder – wild and strange. Rhaenys decided she liked it, even if it made her shiver. It made everything feel more like an adventure. An adventure – that’s what Septa Amarys had called this journey. “You are a brave little princess on an adventure to the North,” the septa had said, bundling Rhaenys in layers of mantles and scarves that morning. The Stark castle was exciting. At the welcome gathering in the courtyard, Rhaenys had managed her curtsy just right and delivered Mamma’s polite greeting to Lord Rickard Stark. And everyone had laughed when she declared Winterfell was hers – well, the old lord had told her “Winterfell is yours, princess,” so she only answered in kind! Papa said she’d done beautifully, that she was his “bold little dragonling”. Rhaenys beamed at the memory and burrowed deeper under the furs. She wished her mother could have seen it. Mamma had stayed back in King’s Landing because the maesters worried the winter chill might upset her health. Rhaenys missed her terribly – it was strange traveling without Mamma’s gentle hand to hold – but she was determined to make her proud by behaving as a proper princess should.
At least baby Aegon was here. Rhaenys rolled onto her side and peered at the tiny form snuggled next to her under the blankets. Her brother was fast asleep, his pudgy fist tucked against his mouth. Only a tuft of fine white hair showed above the furs. He smelled faintly of milk and the clove oil the septa used on his cradle rash. Usually Aegon slept in a separate cradle, but tonight the Winterfell servants had pushed a large featherbed into the nursery for both Targaryen children to share. The castle was short on prepared chambers, and Papa wanted Rhaenys and Aegon kept close together where his Kingsguard could guard them. Rhaenys didn’t mind – she liked the feeling of Aegon’s warm little body next to hers. At home, she sometimes snuck into the nursery at night to climb into her brother’s cradle and curl up with him, especially when he was fussy. Septa Amarys often scolded that he’d never learn to sleep alone if his big sister coddled him so, but Septa was snoring in the antechamber at present and couldn’t shoo her away. Rhaenys smiled to herself and gently brushed a white curl off Aegon’s forehead. He was the reason they’d all come up here, after all. Her baby brother – the future King, if the gods were good – was going to have a little Northern girl for a wife someday.
Rhaenys’s smile turned into a tiny pout at that thought. Everyone at the feast had been so excited about the betrothal announcement. Papa had gotten up before all the Northern lords and proclaimed that Prince Aegon Targaryen would be married to Lady Arya Stark when they were grown. The hall had erupted in cheers. Rhaenys understood it was an important alliance – “binding the blood of dragon and wolf,” the heralds said – but a selfish part of her had felt a little… left out. I’m here too , she had wanted to shout. I’m of dragon’s blood and sun’s blood! Her Mamma always told her that: “You, my dearest, were born of fire and sun. The blood of Old Valyria and the blood of Dorne flow as one in your veins.” It made Rhaenys feel special, like she was a living bridge between her Papa’s people and her Mamma’s. But at the feast her royal blood hadn’t seemed to matter – she was just a little girl to be carted off to bed while the grown-ups celebrated Aegon and Arya’s future. Her future remained a mystery. No one talked about her marrying anyone yet, though she knew one day she would have to, as all princesses did.
Perhaps they were waiting for someone important enough. Or perhaps , a small voice in her head whispered, I’m not as important as Aegon because I’m a girl . Rhaenys hugged her brother closer beneath the blankets, feeling a stab of guilt for the uncharitable thought. It wasn’t Aegon’s fault he was born a boy – or born second. She adored him, truly. When he’d been a tiny squirming newborn, Rhaenys had been both jealous and fascinated; he took so much of Mamma’s time and energy to care for, but he was so very cute. Now, one year old, Aegon was all smiles and gurgles and chubby grabby hands. She loved making him laugh by popping her cheeks or shaking his stuffed dragon at him. And the way he looked at her – seven hells, it was like she hung the moon. Aegon’s face would light up whenever Rhaenys came near his cradle. He’d reach out and cling to her finger with absolute trust. Papa once said that when Rhaenys sang to the babe in High Valyrian, Aegon stared at his sister like he understood every word. He loves me , she thought with a swell of affection, and I won’t ever let him feel alone.
Still… she couldn’t help but worry about what the septa had let slip earlier. “The North will have its own princess now, a little wolf to one day sit the Iron Throne,” Septa Amarys had sighed contentedly while changing Aegon’s diaper before bed. A little wolf on the throne – that was how the Northmen saw Arya Stark, perhaps. Rhaenys wondered what that meant for her. Would she be pushed aside when Aegon and Arya were older? Would the court sing songs of the beautiful wolf maiden and forget the dragon-sun princess? I won’t let that happen, Rhaenys resolved stubbornly, tiny fingers curling into fists under the blankets. I’ll make them remember me too. One day , she thought, perhaps she would have a dragon of her own to ride, like the Targaryens of old. (Weren’t there dragon eggs in the crypts beneath Dragonstone, warming under the flames? She’d overheard Lord Connington boasting of them at court.) If one of those eggs hatched for her, the lords of Westeros would have to pay her heed, even if she was a girl. The image danced in her mind: Rhaenys astride a magnificent golden-red dragon, soaring above Winterfell’s towers and making the Northerners gape in awe. The fanciful vision made her giggle softly. Yes, that would show them.
Her quiet laughter died quickly, echoing off the dim rafters. The truth was, in the here and now, Rhaenys felt very small. She was far from home, her mother wasn’t here to kiss her goodnight, and outside these cozy furs lay a castle full of strangers. Friendly strangers (most of them), but strangers all the same. Even the darkness of the room seemed strange. The shadows in the corners were deeper than those in the Red Keep, and when the wind gusted, the old shutters rattled like bones. A log popped in the brazier hearth, and Rhaenys startled at the sudden sound. The others are just down the hall, she reminded herself. Papa’s chamber adjoined the nursery, and two Kingsguard knights were posted right outside the door – she’d seen Ser Barristan Selmy’s pale marble face when Septa carried Aegon in earlier, and Ser Lewyn Martell’s dark, watchful eyes not far behind. They wouldn’t let any harm befall the King’s children. Rhaenys trusted Ser Barristan especially; he was always kind, often bringing her lemoncakes from the kitchens or showing her little tricks with his sword scabbard to make her laugh. And Ser Lewyn was Mamma’s own uncle, her Dornish great-uncle who called Rhaenys “mei sweetling” in a thick accent and snuck her dates and candied oranges. With such protectors nearby, she ought to feel perfectly safe… right?
Even so, the little princess found herself wishing for one more guardian tonight – one that was supposed to be here, according to a certain septa’s story. She pursed her lips, recalling the exact words: “Your brother will have a wolf friend as little as him up in the North.” Septa Amarys had said that on the journey, with a smile and a pat on Rhaenys’s knee. At the time Rhaenys hadn’t questioned it. The North’s sigil was a direwolf; perhaps they truly did give baby wolves as gifts? It sounded wonderful – like something out of a tale. But when Rhaenys eagerly mentioned the “baby wolf” to Lord Rickard in the courtyard, everyone had laughed. Papa had turned red (Rhaenys had never seen him look embarrassed before!) and quickly announced Aegon’s betrothal to baby Arya Stark. Only then did Rhaenys realize her mistake: the wolf friend Septa spoke of was Arya herself, a Stark infant. Not an actual wolf pup. She had felt so silly that she’d buried her face in Papa’s collar while he carried her inside, cheeks flaming hotter than the hearth.
“Septa’s dumb metaphor,” she muttered now into the dark, savoring the new word she’d learned. It meant when you said one thing but meant something else – a very annoying habit of grown-ups. There were no baby wolves for Aegon, only a future baby bride. What a disappointment. Rhaenys had dearly hoped to see a real direwolf while here. She’d overheard the Starks had recently gotten mutts…at least that was what the knights called them. What was one of their names…? ”Ghost..” She imagined a great furry beast, big as a pony, with shining eyes that saw through darkness. How safe she’d feel with such a creature curled at the foot of her bed! As if conjured by her thoughts, a soft scratching sounded at the heavy door. Rhaenys sat bolt upright. For an instant, fear clutched her— something’s outside! —but the scratch was followed by a gentle whump whump of a tail thumping against wood. A muffled whine came next. Rhaenys’s heart soared with recognition. Only one creature made a sound like that. She scrambled off the high bed, careful not to jostle Aegon. Her silk slippers whispered against the rushes strewn on the chilly stone floor. “Ghost?” she called in a hushed voice, one hand on the door latch. On the other side, the whimper turned into an excited yip.
Rhaenys drew back the bolt and pulled open the heavy door just a crack, mindful that Septa Amarys would tan her hide if she found the princess awake and opening doors at this hour. A cold draft immediately snaked in, along with a white blur that slipped through her legs. Rhaenys stifled a squeal of delight as the direwolf pup bounded into the room. Ghost – the name Lady Lyanna Stark had given him – was scarcely larger than a housecat. He was skinny from being the runt of his litter, with disproportionately big paws and ears. And he was white, white as fresh snow, from the tip of his shaggy head to his tail. Only his eyes had color: a strange red hue that flickered in the hearthlight, like two tiny coals. Rhaenys shut the door quickly and knelt. Ghost pranced over to her, tail wagging furiously. “You came!” she whispered, grinning as the pup licked her outstretched fingers. His tongue felt rough and warm. Rhaenys giggled softly and sat cross-legged on the floor so he could clamber into her lap. Immediately Ghost began nuzzling under her chin, seeking her affection. His fur was thick and a bit coarse, but she didn’t mind the tickle. It was real, not one of her ermine-trimmed toys back home.
A soft knock at the door made Rhaenys jump. Ghost’s ears perked, but he didn’t growl – a good sign it wasn’t a stranger. “Princess? Is all well?” came a low female voice. Lady Lyanna. Rhaenys hurried to open it again, Ghost trotting at her heels. Outside in the dimly lit corridor stood Lyanna Stark, wrapped in a simple woolen robe over her nightdress. The girl – no, she was a woman , Rhaenys reminded herself (though not as old as Mamma) – looked concerned, but she smiled on seeing Ghost at Rhaenys’s side. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Lyanna said softly. She didn’t quite meet Rhaenys’s eyes, as if unsure of her welcome. “This little one slipped away from me. He’s supposed to be in the stables with his siblings, but he’s a sneaky thing. Did he disturb you?” “No, my lady,” Rhaenys answered at once. She remembered to straighten her back the way Septa had taught, even though her hair was down and she wore only a woolen nightshift printed with prancing dragons. One must always be polite. “Please don’t be sorry. I’m glad he came. I wasn’t sleepy at all.”
Lyanna’s grey eyes flicked over to the bed where Aegon slept on. “And your brother? He’s alright?” Rhaenys nodded. “Out like a dormouse.” She gently closed the door behind her, stepping into the hall to speak without waking Aegon. Ghost pressed against her leg. “I think Ghost wanted to see me,” the princess added, smiling down at the wolf pup. He gazed up adoringly, tongue lolling. Lyanna’s tense expression softened into something warm. “I think you’re right. He doesn’t usually take to anyone so quickly, but Ghost seems to like you.” She crouched down and ran a hand over the pup’s head. Ghost gave a tiny snuff of contentment. Lyanna’s robe slipped a little as she moved, and Rhaenys noticed the edge of a white bandage peeking from the sleeve over her right palm. It looked fresh – perhaps a knife cut? The northern girl caught Rhaenys looking and hid her hand in her cloak. “You’re hurt,” Rhaenys said, forgetting formality in her worry. “What happened?” “Oh, it’s nothing, truly.” Lyanna wiggled her fingers to show they all still worked. “Just a little accident in the kennels earlier. Ghost’s littermates weren’t as gentle when I tried to pick them up. One nipped me good.” She chuckled lightly. “I suppose I deserved it for interrupting their meal.”
Rhaenys relaxed. Lady Lyanna’s voice was kind, with a musical lilt quite different from both the lilting Dornish accent of her mother and the refined King’s Landing drawl of the septa. It sounded earthier, like wind through the Weirwood leaves in Winterfell’s godswood. And though Lyanna’s face in repose seemed somber, when she smiled it lit up in a way that reminded Rhaenys of… of someone. Who? She couldn’t place it exactly. Not Mamma, not Septa or any ladies she knew. Then it hit her: Lyanna Stark’s smile was a little like her Papa’s, when he was truly happy. There was that same sudden brightness, as if a guarded soul shone through in those moments. “You came to check on us?” Rhaenys asked shyly. Lyanna nodded. “I couldn’t sleep either, and… well, I wanted to be certain you and the Prince have everything you need. This is an old castle, not so comfortable for southern guests.” She bit her lip as if unsure whether to continue, then rushed on in a softer voice, “And I truly wanted to say that I’m sorry if anyone made you feel foolish in the yard today, Princess. Your desire to see a baby wolf was not foolish at all. In fact, it was very brave.”
“Brave?” Rhaenys echoed, puzzled. She hadn’t felt brave; she’d felt like a ninny. Lyanna stroked Ghost’s back thoughtfully. “Many little girls would be afraid of even the idea of a direwolf. But you—,” she glanced up at Rhaenys with something like admiration, “you wanted to see one for yourself. That is a curious spirit. A wolf’s spirit, even.” Rhaenys blushed at the praise. No one had ever compared her to a wolf before. She was a dragon and a sun – those were her houses. But something about Lyanna’s tone made her swell with pride. “Well, I’m not scared of baby wolves,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she admitted, “I was a little sad when they laughed. I really thought there’d be an actual pup for Aegon. He loves doggies.” Lyanna’s eyes shone with apology. “It wasn’t kind of them to laugh. I think they were just surprised. The truth is, until very recently, we didn’t have any real wolves around to show you. Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the Wall in ages. We all thought they were gone, just as you did.”
Rhaenys looked down at Ghost, who had settled happily between them to be petted. “So how did you find Ghost and his brothers?” she whispered, as if trading a delicious secret. Lyanna smiled that gentle, sad smile. “By chance – or fate. A few days ago, my brothers and I were riding back from a hunt in the Wolfswood. We came upon a dead direwolf in the snow, a female. And hiding in the brush nearby was her litter of pups, four of them. Or so we thought it was four. We were about to ride off with the four when I heard a little howl from under a drift. It was this one.” She nodded at the white pup. “He was apart from the rest, buried in the snow. If he’d been left behind…” She didn’t finish, instead giving Ghost an affectionate scratch behind the ears. “Well, we couldn’t leave him. So we took all five pups back to Winterfell. They’re being fostered by a hound mother in the kennels now. Except Ghost here keeps sneaking out to follow me.”
“Five!” Rhaenys gasped, eyes wide as gold coins. “Five baby wolves. Like the four Stark children and… and Arya?” She’d heard someone mention Lord Rickard had four children: Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, Benjen, and baby Arya was his grandchild but raised among them as another child of the house. Five Starks, five direwolves. It had to be fate. Even at five, Rhaenys felt the delicious shiver of a story unfolding. Lyanna chuckled, apparently having made the same connection. “Yes, indeed. My father took it as a sign that the old gods are watching over our family… perhaps over all of us in the North.” Her smile faded slightly as she added, “The day we found them, my brother Ned said the pups were meant to be ours. I think he was right.” Rhaenys listened in rapt silence. Old Nan, the Starks’ elderly servant, had hobbled by Rhaenys’s nursery earlier murmuring about “omens in them wolves”. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who thought these direwolves were special. A sign of protection, maybe, after all the recent almost-war and worry. Ghost hopped back onto all fours and padded over to the nursery door, sniffing at the gap beneath it. The pup let out a quiet rowr as if to say, enough talk, I want to see the baby!
“May he stay with us tonight?” Rhaenys blurted, seizing the chance. She clasped her hands pleadingly. “Please, Lady Lyanna? Ghost wants to see Aegon, I know he does. And I… I’d feel ever so much safer with a brave direwolf guarding us.” There was honesty in that last part she hadn’t intended to reveal, but once the words slipped out, she realized how true they were. The idea of Ghost curled at the foot of her bed, red eyes keen for any danger in the dark, was hugely comforting. Lyanna looked surprised by the request. “Princess, Winterfell is perfectly secure. You’ve two of the finest knights in the realm at your door and—” “—and Ghost tore a piece out of your arm when you tried to take him from his dinner,” Rhaenys interrupted shrewdly, nodding at Lyanna’s bandaged hand. “So he must be fierce! Fierce enough to keep us safe from anything. Ser Barristan and Ser Lewyn can’t come snuggle on the bed, can they?” At that, Lyanna Stark threw her head back and laughed, a soft laugh like bells under a distant curtain of rain. She has a lovely laugh , Rhaenys thought, a little envious. When Lyanna looked at her again, there was a new tenderness in her face. “You remind me of my sister-in-law Cat,” she said. “She’s clever like you – always finding the perfect counter to any argument.”
With a nod, Lyanna relented. “Alright then. Since Ghost is obviously determined to stay by your side, I won’t drag him away.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But you must promise that if your septa awakens and finds him, you’ll blame it on me. I’ll say I thought a direwolf pup would be an apt ‘welcome to Winterfell’ gift for the Prince and Princess.” Rhaenys giggled behind her hands. A gift. She rather liked the sound of that. “It would be a wonderful gift,” she declared. Then, on impulse, she reached out and took Lyanna’s uninjured hand. The Stark girl blinked in surprise. Rhaenys felt shy, but pressed on: “Thank you for being so kind, my lady. And… thank you for Ghost.” Lyanna’s eyes grew shiny and bright – as if tears were threatening to form – but she gave Rhaenys’s small hand a squeeze. “Princess Rhaenys, you are part-dragon, and part sun…even part-wolf if you include the future marriage between ice and fire. All the best parts of each.” She paused, then added earnestly, “We’re glad you’re here. I hope you know that. My family— my father and brothers— they are honored to host you and your kin. What happened last year… it’s behind us now.” Her voice faltered slightly, and Rhaenys had the sense Lyanna was trying to convince herself as much as reassure the child. “This feast, this betrothal – it’s a new beginning. For the North and for the Crown. So you needn’t worry. You and your brother will always be safe under our roof, I swear it.”
Rhaenys didn’t fully understand all the layers in Lyanna’s words. She was aware, in a general way, that something bad had almost happened last year – “Robert’s Rebellion,” the whispers called it – and that Lady Lyanna had been at the center of it somehow. Papa and Mamma rarely spoke of those times around her, but Rhaenys had gleaned pieces: Grandpapa Aerys had done terrible things, Papa had stopped him and saved many lives, and the Stark family had been hurt in the fighting. At the feast tonight, Rhaenys had seen how some Northerners looked at Papa with hard eyes. Not everyone was as friendly as Lord Rickard or Uncle Ned. She sensed wounds remained, even if the adults smiled and spoke of peace. But hearing Lyanna Stark – who had nearly been her Papa’s queen, if rumors were true – say that they were welcome and safe here made Rhaenys’s heart a little lighter. “I believe you, Lady Lyanna,” she said quietly. And she did. Ghost’s presence made it easy to believe. If the old gods of the North had sent these direwolves to watch over the Starks, then surely a white pup choosing to guard a sleeping dragon prince was a blessing too. “The North will guard its little dragon, won’t it Ghost?” Rhaenys cooed, scratching the direwolf under his chin. Ghost yawned contentedly, flashing needle-sharp baby teeth.
Lyanna gave a firm nod. “The North guards its own, and now you are ours by bond. Wolf and dragon, sun and snow.” She rose gracefully, pulling her robe tight around her slim frame. “I should let you sleep, Princess. It’s very late.” Rhaenys realized she didn’t want Lyanna to leave just yet. “Will you… will you come say goodbye tomorrow? When we leave?” she blurted. She knew the royal party would depart at first light – Papa had mentioned wanting to beat the coming snowstorm out of the North. “I’d like to see you again. And Ghost too, of course.” Lyanna hesitated, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll be there in the courtyard to see you off. Winterfell will send you on your way with full honors.” She tilted her head, examining Rhaenys in the flicker of torchlight from the hall. “Are you certain you’ll be alright tonight, with just Ghost? I could sit with you until you fall asleep, if you like.” The little princess considered it – having Lyanna close did make her feel safe, as safe as her septa’s or mother’s presence might. But Lyanna had already done so much, and a stubborn independent streak (inherited from both Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, no doubt) made Rhaenys shake her head. “I’ll be alright. Ghost will be with me. And Papa’s just down the hall if I need him.” She puffed out her chest a bit. “I’m nearly six, you know. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
Lyanna’s lips twitched in amusement. “As you say, Your Grace,” she replied, dipping into a quick curtsey. But instead of the formal farewell Rhaenys expected, Lyanna then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of the girl’s head – a motherly gesture that caught Rhaenys off guard. The older girl’s voice was almost a whisper: “Sleep well, brave little wolf-dragon.” Before Rhaenys could find words, Lyanna turned and padded away down the corridor, her dark hair loose down her back. Ghost gave a low whine and took a step to follow, but Lyanna glanced over her shoulder and shooed him gently with her hand. “Stay, Ghost. Protect them.” The white pup obediently sat on his haunches, though Rhaenys could see his tail twitch longing for his mistress. Lyanna offered one last reassuring smile to Rhaenys and then disappeared around the corner, silent as a shadow. Rhaenys closed the door and bolted it this time. The nursery fell back into hush. She scooped Ghost up – oof, he was heavier than he looked – and carried him to the bed. Aegon was still blissfully asleep, a little drool shining on his chin. Carefully, Rhaenys crawled under the fur covers with Ghost in her arms. The pup wriggled for a moment, then flopped down at the foot of the bed, circling twice before settling atop the blankets. He looked like a little curled cloud. His red eyes stayed open, alert and watchful despite the late hour.
“It’s alright, you can sleep,” Rhaenys whispered to him. She reached a hand down and was delighted when Ghost stretched out to rest his chin atop her ankle. A sleepy huff of breath warmed her toes. The warmth and weight of the direwolf pup by her feet was immensely comforting. Rhaenys exhaled a long sigh she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. Tension drained from her small body. Finally, she felt safe enough to let sleep take her. As her eyelids grew heavy, she whispered a prayer to the Seven for her mother’s health and for Papa’s safe travels. Then, remembering she was in the North now, she sent a thought to the old gods too – just in case they were listening through the heart tree – thanking them for the gift of a white wolf guardian. Ghost gave a tiny whurf in his sleep just then, as if acknowledging her thanks. Rhaenys smiled and closed her eyes. She did not know how much time had passed when a faint scuffling noise stirred her from slumber. Rhaenys blinked, disoriented. The brazier’s coals had burned low, painting the chamber in faint red light. For a moment she forgot where she was.
The ceilings here were so high and the air…not like home. Winterfell, whispered her groggy mind. Right. The feast, the nursery, Ghost— Her thoughts snapped into focus. Ghost was no longer on her feet. The spot he had warmed was vacant. Aegon was still tucked under her arm, breathing softly, but the pup… where had he gone? Rhaenys pushed herself up onto one elbow, ears pricked. The room was very dim, only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the shutters. She could just make out Ghost’s pale shape by the door. He was standing rigid, head low, fur bristling down his spine. A low growl vibrated from his throat. She almost called out to ask what was wrong – then she heard it. Click. The subtle scrape of metal on metal. The door’s iron latch was lifting. Had Lyanna come back? Or Septa? Rhaenys’s sleepy brain reasoned that if it were one of the Kingsguard or her septa, they’d knock or announce themselves. This… this felt wrong. Ghost certainly thought so – his growl turned into a soft, menacing snarl. In the cradle of her arm, Aegon stirred, whimpering a little as if sensing his sister’s unease. Rhaenys’s heart began to thud dully against her ribs.
She watched, scarcely breathing, as the door inched open. Beyond, the corridor looked dark; the usual torch in the sconce outside must have burnt out or been doused. A hooded figure slipped through the gap. Rhaenys could not make out a face, only a cloaked outline against the darkness. The figure moved with eerie silence, closing the door behind him with barely a sound. Ghost’s growling intensified – a warning that went unheeded. The intruder crept forward. In his hand a blade glinted, catching the ember-light for an instant. A knife. There’s a knife. The realization jolted Rhaenys from confusion into raw fear. This wasn’t a servant checking the fire. This wasn’t Lyanna or Septa or anyone meant to be here. This is an attack. The knowledge arrived cold and fast. Her body went rigid under the furs. Move , she told herself. Get up, do something! But she felt trapped in a terrible waking nightmare, limbs leaden with dread. The hooded man loomed closer to the bed. Rhaenys could see the knife clearer now – a short dagger, its edge honed to a wicked sheen. It was coming toward her baby brother.
No… gods, please, no. Her mouth opened, but her throat seized around the scream that begged to be released. She couldn’t make a sound. She couldn’t even breathe. Helplessly, she tightened her arm around Aegon, trying to tuck him closer against her side. Papa! Ser Barristan! she wanted to scream, but her voice was lost, buried under a wave of terror. Aegon gave a sleepy little cry at being squeezed, but he did not wake. The assassin was at the bedside now. Rhaenys could not see his eyes beneath the hood, but she felt them – felt his gaze skim over her and fix on the bundle that was Aegon. Some animal instinct told her to play possum, and she fell still, feigning sleep even as tears pooled in her eyes. If she drew his attention, perhaps he’d hurt her first… and then Aegon might wake and cry for help… She would endure anything if it gave Aegon a chance to live. But her five-year-old courage was already faltering; hot tears leaked down into the pillow.
The man’s shadow fell over them. Rhaenys cracked her eyes open the tiniest bit, just in time to see his dagger hand start to rise, poised to strike down at Aegon’s throat. No! her mind shrieked voicelessly. Not my brother! She braced herself to throw her body over Aegon, to shield him with her own flesh if she must. Even if the knife found her, maybe Aegon would survive long enough for help to come. She gathered every ounce of will – she would not let this happen, not without fighting. Not again. They would have all burned. The memory of her grandfather’s haunted voice echoed in her head. Aerys had nearly killed them once; now another monster sought their blood. No more innocents, no more! That thought, or perhaps the Mother’s mercy, gave her the strength to finally move. But before Rhaenys could fling herself over Aegon, a white bolt shot out of the darkness at the foot of the bed. Ghost. She had all but forgotten him in the panic, but the direwolf pup had not forgotten them. With a ferocious snarl, Ghost lunged at the hooded man’s outstretched arm. His little body was a blur of pale fur and fury. Tiny as he was, he hit the man full on, jaws clamping onto the attacker’s forearm.
The man jerked back with a startled grunt, his slash going wild. Rhaenys heard the whsst of the blade slicing air, inches above her head. Ghost’s unexpected attack threw the assassin off balance. He staggered with the scrabbling wolf pup hanging from his arm like a terrier on a rat. “Seven hells!” the man cursed, voice low and rasping. Ghost growled deeper, a savage rumble that did not belong in such a small chest. Rhaenys sat up, half in disbelief. Ghost had stopped him. Her tiny “gift” from the Starks now snarled like an Old Nan monster, worrying the attacker’s arm with gnashing teeth. The man tried to shake the creature off, whipping his arm to and fro, but Ghost held fast. In the dim light, Rhaenys saw the pup’s muzzle was already wet and dark – blood. The metallic scent of it hit her nose, turning her stomach. The assassin slammed Ghost against the bedpost in desperation. The pup yelped at the impact but did not release his bite. His teeth had sunk deep into the flesh of the man’s forearm, and when the man yanked free at last, Rhaenys saw ribbons of skin and red muscle in Ghost’s jaws. The man let out a strangled scream as blood gushed down his arm. The dagger clattered from his grip, falling to the floor by Rhaenys’s feet.
Aegon woke then with a frightened wail, sensing the chaos. He began to cry at full volume, tiny face crumpling in terror. The sharp cry broke Rhaenys’s paralysis. Scream! her mind commanded, and this time her voice obeyed. “HELP! SER BARRISTAN!” she shrieked, her high child’s voice cracking on the name. She hoped to all the gods the Kingsguard was still outside – surely he must have heard the commotion by now. Aegon continued to bawl, squirming in Rhaenys’s arm. She clutched him tight, scrambling off the far side of the bed to put it between them and the intruder. Her bare feet found the floor as she tried to stand, but her knees wobbled so badly that she sank down, pressing herself and her brother into the corner between bed and wall. Ghost had dropped to the floor as well, circling back in front of the assassin with lips peeled and ears flattened. The man clutched his mangled arm to his chest. His hood had fallen back in the struggle, revealing a gaunt, pale face and thin, stringy hair matted to his temples. He might have been forty or sixty – in the poor light Rhaenys could not tell – but his eyes blazed with a crazed hatred that rooted her to the spot. He looked at her now, and in those eyes she saw something truly horrific: he wanted to kill her too. She was just a five-year-old girl pressed against the wall sobbing, and still that hate burned at her as hot as dragonfire. Why? What had she ever done to him?
The man took a lurching step toward her, unmindful of the spreading pool of blood from his ruined arm. Ghost intercepted, placing himself squarely between the attacker and the children. The direwolf pup’s fur stood on end, making him appear just a bit larger. A thin growl issued from him, warning and unafraid. For a heartbeat, man and wolf stared each other down. Rhaenys could see the assassin’s chest heaving, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain. Blood pattered steadily onto the floor from his shredded forearm, and his knees sagged. Ghost bared his teeth in return, jaws glistening red. In that moment, the small wolf looked like a demon out of some northern legend – a ghostly white shade with the blood of the wicked dripping from its fangs. Suddenly the door burst open with a thunderous crash. Light from a dozen torches flooded into the chamber, silhouetting a tall figure in white armor. “Princess! Prince!” boomed Ser Barristan Selmy’s familiar voice. The old Kingsguard leapt into the room, longsword gleaming in hand. He took in the scene at once: Rhaenys crouched behind the bed clutching a wailing Aegon, the assassin hunched and bleeding, Ghost standing protectively over the children. Ser Barristan’s normally stern face contorted with rage at the sight.
“You filth!” the knight snarled, and for the first time Rhaenys heard real anger there – the kind of wrath Barristan usually reserved for traitors and oathbreakers. He advanced on the intruder with his blade raised. The hooded man swung around, reaching with his good hand for the fallen dagger on the floor. Too slow. Barristan’s sword arced down in a silver blur. SLASH. The assassin bellowed in agony as steel bit deep into his thigh . He crumpled to the floor, legs giving out beneath him. “Don’t kill him yet!” came another shout – Eddard Stark, sliding into the room in nothing but a night tunic and breeches, pale blade already drawn. Hot on his heels was Rhaegar, still half-wrapped in a heavy cloak, his silver hair loose about his shoulders. Behind them poured a rush of household guards and two more Kingsguard knights. The small nursery was suddenly awash with people and light and clamor. Rhaenys blinked against the brightness, her eyes raw with tears. Help had arrived. They’re here. Papa’s here. She felt herself moving then, though later she would scarcely remember deciding to do it. Still clutching Aegon, Rhaenys half-ran, half-stumbled out from the corner and flung herself toward her father. “Papa! Papa!” she sobbed, voice high and broken. Rhaegar met her with arms outstretched, catching both his children up and pulling them against his chest.
Rhaenys buried her face in his shoulder, her entire body shaking now that safety was at hand. Papa was warm and solid and smelled of the night air and the familiar musk of his leather jerkin. He was real. She was not dreaming this horror. But at least she was in her father’s arms, which felt as close to safe as the world could offer. Aegon was squashed between them, still crying furiously, tiny fists tangled in Rhaegar’s cloak. Rhaenys felt her father’s hand cradling the back of her head, pressing her face into the crook of his neck as if to shield her from the very sight of the room. “It’ alright, sweetlings, I’m here,” he murmured over and over, his voice thick with emotion. She realized his heart was pounding as wildly as hers; she could hear it thudding against her ear. Beyond the cocoon of her father’s embrace, the room was chaos. Rhaenys could only catch snatches over Aegon’s and her own cries. Ser Barristan had the assassin pinned under one boot, sword at his throat. Eddard was shouting for someone to fetch Maester Luwin. Another voice – Uncle Doran? – cursed loudly in disbelief. Ghost was barking now, a high-pitched, relentless sound, until Lyanna’s voice cut through, calling the pup to heel.
Rhaenys peeked sideways and saw Lady Lyanna rush to Ghost’s side; the white pup immediately quieted at her touch, though he kept his stance between the attacker and the children. His muzzle was drenched in red, and Lyanna gently wiped it with the end of her cloak, whispering soothing words to the trembling animal. Rhaenys held tighter to her father and shut her eyes. She didn’t want to look at Ghost just now – her Ghost, who moments ago had been a soft, playful ball of fur, was now every inch the fearsome direwolf of legend, stained with the blood of an enemy. It frightened her… and yet, he had saved them. Rhaegar shifted his grip, kneeling to better support both children. Rhaenys realized she had been whimpering like a hurt puppy; she bit her lip to try and stop, but the sobs kept coming in little gulps. Her father’s violet eyes blazed as he surveyed the scene. “Who is he?” Rhaegar demanded in an icy tone she’d never heard from him – not angry, but deadly calm.
That was Papa’s truly furious voice, she understood dimly. Eddard was crouched over the fallen intruder, who was choking wetly on his own blood. With a grimace, Ned yanked back the man’s hood. “He’s not of the North,” Ned announced sharply, answering the unspoken question before it could be asked. Rhaenys dared to peek again. The assassin’s face was revealed in the orange torchlight: hollow cheeks smeared with spittle and blood, pale hair straggling over a balding scalp, lips opening and closing in soundless gasps. His eyes – those awful eyes that had glared hate at her – were dulling, turning glassy. Rhaenys shuddered and pressed her face harder into her father’s chest. She didn’t want to watch him die. “Who sent you?” Eddard’s voice was like the north wind over ice. When the man gave no answer but a blood-frothed cough, Ned growled and shook him by the collar. “Who?! Tell us, and the Mother may grant you mercy.” The assassin’s throat made a horrible wet gurgle. Rhaegar’s hand on Rhaenys’s head went tense. He pulled her and Aegon back a step as Ser Barristan barked for the guards to hold the man down. Rhaenys risked one more glance, just in time to see the man’s eyes roll lifelessly. A final exhale rattled out of his open mouth, and then his head lolled.
“Seven hells. He’s gone,” Ser Barristan hissed in frustration. The relief Rhaenys expected to feel at the assailant’s death did not come – instead a wave of nausea and dizziness nearly overtook her. The man was dead. He’d come to kill them and now he was dead. She had watched him die, watched his blood spill across Winterfell’s floorboards, and it made her want to retch. Only Papa’s arms kept her from collapsing altogether. Eddard rose slowly, fists clenched at his sides. “Your Grace… Rhaegar… I am so sorry,” he said, voice thick with anguish . He turned to her father, and Rhaenys saw that Eddard’s normally solemn face was white with guilt and fury. “ I swear on my honor, we will find who was behind this. The North will not let such treachery go unanswered.” In that moment, Rhaenys noted he seemed to be much more of a leader than the heir, Brandon. But then again, she had been told Grandpapa caused him great suffering that would take more than a year to heal from. Rhaegar inclined his head, still cradling his children protectively. “I know you will, Ned.” His words were measured, but Rhaenys, pressed close against him, could feel the fine tremor that ran through her father’s body. She looked up and saw that Papa’s eyes were shining with unshed tears as he gazed between her and Aegon. Fury, fear, relief – all of it warred on his face.
When he spoke again, his voice wavered just a bit: “If not for… for that wolf—”
Ghost barked softly at the mention, pawing at Lyanna’s leg as if seeking credit. Only then did Rhaegar’s fierce composure falter. A single tear escaped down his cheek. “Gods have mercy,” he whispered, clutching Rhaenys and Aegon even closer. He pressed a long kiss to Rhaenys’s temple and then to Aegon’s damp, white hair. “My children. My sweet children.” His tears fell in Rhaenys’s hair, warm droplets of sorrow and gratitude that she would remember all her days. Papa was weeping – and though he tried to hide it quickly, Rhaenys saw Eddard notice and turn away to give the King a moment of privacy. The next minutes blurred in Rhaenys’s memory. She remembered Ser Barristan peeling back her fingers gently – she had unknowingly tangled them in his white cloak at some point – and murmuring that he must check for injuries. He and Ser Lewyn examined both children swiftly by torchlight: no cuts on Rhaenys, just a few bruises on her arms; Aegon entirely unharmed, if hysterical with fright. The maester arrived and fussed over them as well, but Rhaenys wanted none of his herbal poultices or wine. All she wanted was to cling to her father and never let go. The tears had finally stopped, but an emptiness had taken their place, a cold void of shock. She leaned limply against Papa’s chest, watching with detached eyes as men rushed about – covering the assassin’s corpse, mopping blood off the floor, conferring in urgent whispers that made Lord Rickard bark at them to speak plainly or not at all.
Lady Catelyn Stark appeared in a flurry of red hair and horror, scooping up baby Arya from a nurse in the doorway and clapping eyes on the bloodstained room. “We heard screaming— oh gods, oh gods…” She pressed the squalling infant Stark to her bosom and looked ready to faint. Other northern ladies hovered behind her. Rhaenys saw Lady Barbrey Ryswell, who’d been whispering about her at the feast, now gawping in alarm and making the sign of the Seven over her chest. Serves her right for those nasty whispers , Rhaenys thought numbly. Now the whole castle would know Princess Rhaenys wasn’t the only source of trouble around here.
Finally, Papa carried Rhaenys and Aegon from that accursed nursery into his own chamber, away from the noise and mess. They sat on his bed, and Rhaenys curled into his lap, clinging to the front of his nightshirt like she had when she was a toddling babe. Aegon quieted at last after Rhaegar rocked him and hummed an old Dornish lullaby in a trembling voice. The same lullaby Mamma always used – “Oh, my sun and stars, oh, my moonlit sea, safely rest now here with me,” it went. Hearing Papa try to sing it broke something in Rhaenys all over again. She balled her fists in the fabric of his shirt and sobbed anew, each sob silent and shaking, as if her body had to let the terror out in stages. Rhaegar just held her, one hand stroking her tangled brown curls, the other wrapped around Aegon. “You’re safe now, my loves. You’re safe,” he kept whispering, voice raw. Rhaenys wanted to believe him, wanted nothing more than to crawl into that promise and never leave. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw that hooded silhouette and the glint of the dagger. She saw Ghost’s crimson muzzle. The images were stamped on her mind like bloody handprints. Safe? Some part of her wondered if she’d ever truly feel safe again.
They did not return to the nursery that night. Maester Luwin insisted the King’s children be moved somewhere calmer while “the mess” was handled. Rhaenys was dimly aware of Ser Barristan carrying Aegon out to have the babe cleaned up and fed a few spoonfuls of milk of the poppy to make him sleep – “just a few drops to soothe him, Your Grace,” Luwin assured an anxious Rhaegar. Rhaenys refused any such draught for herself; she never wanted to sleep again at that moment. She allowed her septa to wash her tear-streaked face and arms with a warm cloth, and to dress her in a fresh woolen gown. Someone – Uncle Doran, perhaps – had fetched Rhaenys’s favorite stuffed cat from the wheelhouse. When the septa pressed it into Rhaenys’s arms, the little girl nearly burst into tears anew. It smelled of home, of Dorne – of safety. She clutched the toy and breathed in deeply, trying to calm her trembling. Ghost was there too, sitting quietly by the door with Lyanna’s hand resting on his scruff. Rhaenys mustered a tiny smile for them. The direwolf pup’s tail thumped hopefully at seeing she was alright. Despite everything, Rhaenys’s heart swelled with gratitude at the sight of her savior. Thank you , she mouthed silently to Ghost, not trusting her voice yet. The pup cocked his head, then licked Lyanna’s injured hand. Rhaenys had the fanciful sense he understood her perfectly.
They all stayed in Papa’s chamber for what remained of the night.
Rhaegar refused to let Rhaenys out of his sight, even when the lords insisted on discussing the assassination attempt immediately. So Rhaenys curled up on a chaise in the corner, a thick embroidered blanket around her shoulders, listening dully as the men raised their voices. She could not follow everything they said – names and accusations flew about like a flock of angry crows. “How in the light of the Seven did an intruder get past our guards?” Lord Rickard thundered. “The guards were drunk or drugged – I’ll have their heads for this incompetence!” Ned snapped that they’d found the rear postern gate unlocked, likely the escape route. Uncle Doran spat an oath in the Rhoynar tongue, suggesting some enemy of the Martells might be to blame. Someone else muttered the word “Lannister,” which made Lord Rickard bristle and share a hard look with Papa. Rhaenys heard Tywin’s name clearly then, uttered by her father with quiet suspicion. She knew Lord Tywin – that stern old lion who glowered through court sessions, who had once bounced her on his knee (at Rhaenys’s own insistence, calling him “Uncle” to his great discomfort ). She had thought him humorless but not particularly frightening. Could he have sent this assassin? The idea made her stomach twist. She remembered Tywin’s face the day Papa pardoned him for staying aloof during the rebellion – the tightness of his forced smile, the way he’d looked at Rhaenys and Aegon as if calculating their worth. He doesn’t love us , Rhaenys realized with a chill.
If Papa truly suspected Lord Tywin, that meant… that meant one of the King’s friends might want them dead. It was an awful thought, one she quickly buried deep down where it wouldn’t make her scream. Rhaegar seemed reluctant to voice any accusation without proof. He kept glancing over at Rhaenys as if worried the talk would upset her more. And it did, but she preferred knowing to not knowing. In the end, Ned convinced the King to let him handle the immediate investigation. “This happened under my roof. The North’s honor demands we find the culprit, and the truth,” he said. Papa agreed, and the matter was left at that for now. When the adults finally drifted out to catch what remained of the night, the castle was stirring with false dawn. Before departing, Lyanna knelt by Rhaenys’s chaise. Ghost sat beside her, ears drooping as if in apology. Lyanna gently touched Rhaenys’s cheek. “I am… beyond words, Princess. If I hadn’t left him with you—”
“No,” Rhaenys rasped, her voice hoarse from crying. She fumbled out her hand to grasp Lyanna’s. “You saved us. He saved us. Please… thank you.” Her eyes stung again. Seven save her, was she going to cry more? She’d surely run out of tears by now. But Lyanna’s kindness and visible anguish on their behalf made her heart brim with feeling. On impulse, Rhaenys slid off the chaise and wrapped her arms around Lyanna’s neck, pulling the startled young woman into a tight hug. Lyanna froze a second, then embraced her back just as fiercely. They held each other, both taking shaky breaths. Rhaenys felt something wet on her neck and realized Lyanna was crying silently into her shoulder. It strangely made Rhaenys feel stronger, to comfort someone else. When they parted, Rhaenys managed a tremulous smile. “I won’t ever forget what you and Ghost did,” she whispered. “Not for as long as I live.” Lyanna just nodded, wiping hastily at her eyes. Her gaze moved to Rhaegar, who stood nearby, and some unspoken understanding passed between them. Ghost gave Rhaenys’s hand a final lick, then trotted obediently after his mistress as Lyanna left to rejoin her family. The room felt markedly emptier without that little white protector at the door.
Rhaegar insisted Rhaenys sleep a few hours more – “if you can, sweetling,” he said gently – but sleep wouldn’t come. Not truly. She drifted in and out of a light doze curled against her father’s side on the bed. Each time she started to slip into deeper slumber, she’d jerk awake with a gasp, heart hammering, convinced she heard the creak of a door hinge or saw a dark shape looming. Sometimes she really did hear faint noises: a servant’s hurried footsteps in the hall, the distant crow of a rooster greeting daybreak. Each time, Rhaegar would stir and hush her softly, reassuring her it was nothing. He was lying beside her atop the covers, one arm around her shoulders. Rhaenys clung to him like a shadow. Her Papa, the warrior-king who had slain her mad grandfather to save them all, was helpless to slay the monsters in her mind. But his presence kept them at bay for now. At some point just after dawn, Rhaenys did slip into a fitful sleep. In her dream, she stood in Winterfell’s godswood under the heart tree. It was night, and blood dripped from the weirwood’s red leaves onto the snow, forming the shape of a dragon. From the darkness, a pale direwolf emerged to howl, and its cry was like the shriek of a man.
She woke with a start to the sound of quiet packing. The sun was up; pale light filtered through the chamber’s frosted windows. Septa Amarys was moving about, gathering the last of their belongings into a trunk. Rhaenys sat up woozily. Her eyes felt puffy and raw, and her head throbbed with each heartbeat. Across the room, Rhaegar was speaking in low tones with Prince Doran Martell and Ser Barristan by the hearth. Rhaenys caught fragments— “departure… at once… keep it discreet…”. Ser Barristan’s face was grim, but he nodded sharply and left, likely to marshal the guard for travel. Uncle Doran set a hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder and murmured something that made her father sigh heavily and rub his brow. Then Doran, too, departed. Septa Amarys approached, offering Rhaenys a cup of watered wine and a wooden plate with chunks of bread and cheese. “Eat a little, Your Grace,” the woman urged gently. “We’ll be leaving soon.” Rhaenys took a few dutiful bites, though she had no appetite. The bread turned to paste in her mouth. Her tongue felt fuzzy and the sweet wine tasted cloying. She gulped it down anyway, if only to wet her dry throat. Across the chamber, she saw Aegon being dressed by his wetnurse – the stout woman had him on her lap, fastening him into a thick fleece onesie for the cold journey. Aegon looked tired and confused, but content enough after a long sleep. He caught sight of Rhaenys and reached out a dimpled hand.
“Raen,” he babbled (he could not manage her full name yet). Rhaenys’s chest constricted painfully. The sound of his innocent voice brought a rush of emotion flooding back. He doesn’t even know , she thought. He had no idea how close he’d come to… to… She couldn’t finish the thought. Blinking back a sudden sting of tears, Rhaenys slipped off the bed and went to her brother. She took his tiny hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. “Egg,” she whispered, using the silly nickname she’d heard Ser Arthur call him once. Aegon giggled at the cool touch of her face. He was too little to understand any of this horror, thank the Mother. For him, the night held no monsters – only a bad dream already forgotten. Rhaenys was grateful, but also oddly envious. I wish I could forget. Instead, she remembered everything with perfect clarity. The vision of that knife would haunt her dreams for a long, long time, she suspected. Rhaegar came up behind her then. He was already dressed in a warm travel cloak and riding leathers, his Valyrian steel sword girded at his hip. Dark circles smudged his eyes; he looked like he hadn’t slept at all (he likely hadn’t, staying awake to watch over them). Yet he managed a gentle smile for his children. “How are my brave ones?” he asked softly, brushing Rhaenys’s unruly hair back and examining her face. He had always called her brave – for little things, like not crying when she scraped her knee or handling a new horse with aplomb. It felt unearned now. I wasn’t brave , she thought. She’d been moments from falling apart completely, until Ghost intervened. But she forced herself to nod.
“We’re alright, Papa,” she said, voice small. “When will we go home?” Home. The word held so much longing. She wanted nothing more than to be back in the Red Keep, in the familiar nursery where the sunlight streamed through colonnades and Mamma would scoop her into a tight hug smelling of jasmine. Mamma. Seven hells, her poor mother – how would Elia react when she heard of this? Rhaenys’s stomach flipped imagining it. Mamma would be terrified, then furious, then probably want to lock them all in a tower forever to keep them safe. Rhaenys almost wanted that, too. Rhaegar bent and lifted Aegon from the wetnurse’s lap into his own arms. He kissed the top of the babe’s head. “We’ll depart within the hour,” he answered Rhaenys. “Lord Rickard has assembled an escort to see us safely to Moat Cailin. From there, our own party will travel swiftly back to King’s Landing.” He cupped Rhaenys’s chin in his hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Your mother is beside herself wanting to see you both. We’ll send a raven ahead from the first roadhouse, so she knows you’re safe and coming home.” Home. The word was like a balm. Rhaenys leaned into her father’s side, silently willing time to speed up until they were once more within the red walls of the Keep. Her father’s reassurance helped settle some of her nerves, but she still found herself glancing furtively at every servant or guard that passed through the room. Anyone could be hiding murderous intent behind a friendly face – that’s what last night had taught her. It was a cruel lesson for a child, but one she’d never forget.
Soon enough, they were filing out into the Winterfell courtyard. It was a bright, clear morning, the sky a pale eggshell blue. The air was bitingly cold, stinging Rhaenys’s nose and cheeks. She stayed close to her father, holding his hand while he carried Aegon on his other arm. Their entourage bustled around them: gold-cloaked guards loading trunks onto wagons, Kingsguard on horseback, Uncle Doran’s retinue preparing to depart alongside the King. Everyone seemed eager to quit Winterfell after the dark events of the night. Rhaenys couldn’t blame them. She herself kept casting wary glances at the shadowy windows and arrow loops overhead, half expecting to see another hooded silhouette lurking. But there was nothing, only a murder of crows atop the bell tower, cawing raucously. At the gates, the Starks awaited to bid their farewells. Lord Rickard looked grave and older than he had days ago, as if the attempt on his royal guests had added a decade to his visage. His heir Brandon stood with jaw clenched, one hand on the pommel of his sword, as though itching to draw it on whoever dared violate the sacred laws of hospitality. Lady Catelyn clutched baby Arya in a thickly wrapped bundle, her face a mask of sympathy and lingering shock. Beside her, Ned’s grey eyes met Rhaenys’s, and the princess found herself shyly dropping her gaze. She knew Eddard felt responsible for what had happened under their roof. Rhaenys didn’t want him to feel that way – he had been so kind to her father, and to her too in the small interactions they’d had. This wasn’t his fault. But she lacked the words to tell him so.
It was Lyanna who stepped forward first, as Rhaegar’s family approached. The slim brown-haired lady came right to Rhaenys and knelt, bringing their faces level. “How are you feeling, Princess?” Lyanna asked softly. There were dark crescents under her grey eyes, and Rhaenys realized she probably hadn’t slept either. Ghost sat at Lyanna’s side, leaning against her reassuringly. In the daylight, the pup looked almost ordinary again – fluffy and meek, with no hint of the savage warrior from the night before save perhaps a few dried russet stains around his snout. “I… I’m alright,” Rhaenys replied. It wasn’t entirely true, but she knew everyone wished it to be. She mustered a little smile for Lyanna. “Thank you, my lady. For everything.” Her gaze slid to Ghost. Carefully, she reached out and placed her small hand atop the direwolf’s head. Ghost tilted his face up to her, ears perked. Rhaenys’s throat tightened, emotion threatening to spill over. This brave little wolf saved my brother’s life. What could she possibly ever do to repay that debt? Ghost answered for her, perhaps, in his own way. He licked her palm once – a slobbery puppy kiss – then nuzzled against her leg. Rhaenys let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and gently stroked the pup’s fur. It was so hard to reconcile this gentle creature with the bloodied guardian of last night, but she knew in her heart they were one and the same. Two sides of the same coin, just like she herself might be – a sweet innocent girl on one face, and someone stronger and fiercer forged by trauma on the other. She glanced at Lyanna, wondering if the lady realized what a gift she had given by leaving Ghost with them. The old gods worked in mysterious ways indeed.
Meanwhile, Rhaegar was speaking with Lord Rickard. The King clasped the Stark patriarch’s arm in gratitude. “We depart with no ill will, my lord,” Rhaegar was saying solemnly. “The evil that transpired here was no fault of your house. On the contrary – your house’s totem, your direwolf, proved the greatest champion of the Crown last night.” He glanced down at Ghost, pride and wonder in his eyes. “The North guards the dragon’s cub, indeed. I will not forget it.” Rickard Stark bowed his head. “Nor will we forget that the dragon saved the wolf a year past, Your Grace,” he replied, voice thick. “We remain allies and friends. I will spare no effort finding the coward who sent that man. He will face the King’s justice, you have my word.” Rhaenys peeked up at Lord Rickard and saw something in his face that hadn’t been there when they first arrived – a genuine respect and protectiveness. A bond had been forged between Stark and Targaryen, tempered by blood and danger. It made her feel a bit safer knowing that bond existed.
Next Ned stepped forward and went to one knee in the snow before Rhaegar – a gesture that plainly startled her father. “Your Grace, I humbly beg your forgiveness that I could not prevent last night’s horror,” Ned said earnestly. “My heart is full of shame that the North’s hospitality was so poisoned.” Rhaegar immediately reached out and raised Ned back to his feet. “You are blameless, Eddard. Rise, please. You Starks saved my son’s life. No greater debt can a father owe.” He put a hand on Rhaenys’s shoulder and drew her gently forward. “Rhaenys, darling, do you wish to say anything to Lord Eddard and Lady Lyanna before we go?” Rhaenys swallowed. Everyone’s eyes were on her now – a crowd of lords and knights and retainers circled, listening. The weight of expectation was heavy. She glanced at her father, then at the Starks. Lyanna gave her an encouraging nod, and Ned’s eyes warmed kindly. Summoning her courage (and remembering her lessons in courtesy), Rhaenys squared her small shoulders.
“In the name of House Targaryen and House Martell,” she said, her voice clear but soft in the morning air, “I thank House Stark for your hospitality… and your heroism.” She looked to Ghost then and smiled in earnest, even as her eyes pricked with tears. “The North will always have the love of the dragon prince and princess. W-we won’t forget that a wolf pup fought for us when we couldn’t fight for ourselves.” Her composure wavered for just a moment, the image of Ghost’s fearless attack flashing through her mind. A tear escaped down her cheek, but she continued. “We’ll never forget,” she repeated quietly. A gentle silence followed her words. Lyanna stepped forward and wrapped Rhaenys in a swift hug – the proper decorum be hanged. “And we shall never forget you, little one,” Lyanna whispered, voice thick. Rhaenys hugged her back tightly. She suddenly realized Lyanna smelled of the godswood, a faint scent of moss and iron (from the weirwood, perhaps). It was a comforting smell now, full of old magic and steadfastness. When Lyanna released her, Rhaenys surprised herself by bending to hug Ghost as well, throwing her arms around the pup’s fluffy neck. Ghost made a soft whuffle and licked her ear, drawing a peal of laughter from the onlookers – genuine laughter this time, not the mocking kind. Rhaenys didn’t care that she was getting direwolf hair all over her velvet traveling cloak. She pressed a kiss to Ghost’s head. “Goodbye, brave one,” she whispered into his fur. “Thank you.” The direwolf gave a little yip as if in reply, his tail wagging furiously.
She stood then, wiping her damp cheeks. Uncle Doran was smiling at her, and Ser Barristan looked fit to burst with approval. Rhaegar squeezed her shoulder. “Well spoken, Princess,” he murmured. She leaned into his side. A strange calm had come over her after saying her piece. It felt like closing a chapter of a book. Last night’s horror was done; now they would leave it behind in the snows of Winterfell. With final farewells, the royal party departed through the great gates. Rhaenys rode in the wheelhouse with Mamma’s septa and Aegon’s wetnurse, but she insisted the curtains remain drawn back despite the cold – she wanted to see. As the oxen-drawn wheelhouse creaked into motion, Rhaenys watched Winterfell’s courtyard recede. The Starks remained at the gate until the very last. She could make out Lord Rickard and his sons standing tall, Lyanna beside them with Ghost sitting obediently at her heel. Just as they passed under the gatehouse, Ghost suddenly broke from Lyanna’s side and scampered a few yards after the wheelhouse, his pink tongue lolling. Rhaenys’s breath caught. For an absurd moment, she thought he might follow them all the way south. But Lyanna whistled a sharp command, and Ghost skidded to a halt. The pup tilted his head, then let out one drawn-out howl – a farewell, it seemed, echoing off the ancient stones. Rhaenys pressed a hand to the glass pane of the window in response.
Goodbye, my guardian.
Ghost lingered at the gate until they were out of sight, his white fur nearly blending into the drifts of snow. The road from Winterfell stretched long and empty ahead, bisecting frosted fields and leafless woods. Pale mid-morning sun cast shimmering halos on the patches of ice along the Kingsroad. Rhaenys curled on the cushioned bench and watched the landscape roll by. The septa urged her to rest, but her mind was far too busy behind her tired eyes. Every so often, the princess’s eyelids would droop and she’d startle as the wheelhouse jostled over a rut. Each time she woke, she felt an ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the bumping ride. It was the memory – heavy as a stone in her young heart. She knew the adults all hoped she would forget in time, that she’d go back to being a carefree little girl chasing kittens in the keep. But Rhaenys could tell that would never quite be true. Something had changed last night. I changed. The thought made her sit up a little straighter. Was this how her Papa felt, after slaying Grandfather Aerys? He had saved them all, but he’d never really smiled the same after, not with his eyes. Rhaenys remembered hearing him cry out in his sleep sometimes, the way she suspected she might in nights to come. These were the burdens heroes carried , the septa said – the price of duty and destiny.
Destiny.
The concept drifted into her mind, unbidden. She recalled overhearing snippets of conversation between Papa and Mamma late at night, back at the Red Keep. Her Papa often talked of dragons and prophecy, of some Prince That Was Promised . Rhaenys never understood it fully – only that Papa believed Aegon, her baby brother, was incredibly special to the world. The promised prince to fight the darkness. Yet he also spoke of how Daenerys was special too–that the comet after her birth meant something. Rhaenys hadn’t given it much thought, being only a child herself and uninterested in such lofty talk. But now… now she wondered. If Aegon was truly a promised hero, perhaps that was why some dark force wanted him dead so young. The assassin had come straight for Aegon, after all. He would have killed Rhaenys too, but only to get to the boy. Rhaenys was certain of it by the look in that man’s hateful eyes. An icy resolve crept into her bones as she stared at Aegon, who was snoring softly in his nurse’s lap now. No one will hurt him while I live. If Aegon had a great destiny, then Rhaenys would do all she could to see he reached it. Not as a frightened girl who cowered and waited for others to save them, but as something more. She had the blood of the dragon in her – and the sun, and now the wolf too. Last night she’d been as helpless as any child, but next time (god forbid there ever was a next time), she would be ready.
Through the window, Rhaenys watched a murder of crows take flight from the treeline, their black shapes stark against the bright sky. The wheelhouse rounded a bend, and Winterfell was lost from view, hidden behind the gently rolling hills. Rhaenys surprised herself by suddenly longing to see it again – the ancient grey castle where she’d felt both the most terrified and the most protected she’d ever been. The North had almost swallowed her in darkness, but it had also given her Ghost, and Lyanna’s kindness, and new steadfast friends. Winterfell, I will remember you. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever return to that cold, noble place, but a part of her would remain there forever—a white wolf’s howl forever echoing in her heart. By midday, a light snow began to fall, dusting the road ahead in silvery white. Rhaenys pressed her forehead to the glass and watched the flakes drift down, soft as goose feathers. In the swirl of snow, she fancied she saw shapes: a great direwolf running alongside their wheelhouse, a dragon unfurling in the clouds above, its wings spanning the sky. Perhaps it was just her tired mind conjuring fantasies to comfort itself. Or perhaps it was a glimpse of things yet to come – a hint of the wolves and dragons and yes, even the sun, all working in harmony as they were always meant to. One day , she thought as the visions faded into whorls of white, I’ll be strong and fierce as both wolf and dragon. I’ll protect those I love… so no one ever takes them from me.
She settled back into her seat, drawing the blanket up to her chin. Aegon slept peacefully across from her, and outside she could hear her father’s voice calling commands to the riders. Rhaenys closed her burning eyes. For the first time since that awful moment in the dark, she allowed herself to imagine a future beyond it. And in that future, she did not feel quite so helpless anymore. The nightmares would come, yes. The scars on her soul would ache. But she was alive, and so was Aegon. The dragon’s heir still breathed, guarded by the North and all the gods old and new. As their caravan creaked onward, the snow-laden trees lining the road seemed to whisper with each gust of wind. Rhaenys listened closely, and in the rise and fall of the winter breeze she almost thought she heard words – a gentle refrain carrying on the cold air: You are safe… you are loved… you are stronger than you know. Perhaps it was only her own heart speaking to calm itself. Or perhaps it was the voice of the old gods, answering her prayer at last. Either way, Rhaenys let that whispered comfort lull her into the first true sleep she’d had since the feast – a dreamless, healing sleep under the watchful sky. And as the little princess slept, cradled between a direwolf’s promised protection and a dragon’s warm love, the wheelhouse trundled steadily on. South, towards home. Towards healing. Towards whatever fate awaited the girl born of fire and sun, now guarded by ice and wolf. Rhaenys Targaryen would never forget the night that changed her – the night a ghost saved a dragon. It would live in her heart forever, shaping the woman she would become. A bittersweet seed of courage, sown in blood and fear, beginning to take root.
In the years to come, whenever Rhaenys felt afraid or alone, she would remember the white direwolf’s fierce devotion and the way her father’s arms had held her so tight. And she would stand a little taller, knowing that even in darkness, even in the far cold North, the light of love and loyalty burned bright enough to banish any shadow. The dragon and the wolf – together – had ensured the dawn of a new day. And for that, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen would be eternally grateful.
Chapter 10: Chapter Six: Tywin
Chapter Text
[King’s Landing, the Red Keep – 285 AC]
Tywin Lannister stood by the tall narrow window of his solar in the Red Keep, hands clasped behind his back. Morning light slanted across the stones and gilt furniture, but Tywin’s face was in shadow. Below, King’s Landing was already stirring—murmurs of the crowd gathering for the King’s Name Day tourney drifted up to him even here. Yet Tywin’s mind was not on the celebrations. It was on the ledger spread across his desk, and on the slow, measured voice of Grand Maester Pycelle reading from it.
“…a shortfall of five thousand dragons this quarter, my lord. A concerning figure, to be sure. The funds allocated to the Mud Gate repairs are unaccounted for, and revenue from the fall tariffs is far below expectations—”
“Far below, yes,” Tywin Lannister interrupted. He turned, fixing Pycelle with a hard green gaze. The old maester immediately lowered his eyes. He was a sycophant, but a useful one. “Almost as if someone has been bleeding the treasury deliberately,” Tywin said, his tone cold. He paced back to the desk, where the royal accounts were laid out in neat columns of red ink. “And remind me, Grand Maester, who oversees the crown’s coin these days?” Pycelle blinked. “Lord Baelish is Master of Coin, my lord. But surely Petyr Baelish would not—”
“Lord Baelish is clever as a fox and twice as treacherous,” Tywin cut in. “But he is not the only variable. These losses began after certain… reforms.” He tapped a finger on a line of numbers. “Lowered tariffs in the mountain regions. Grain subsidies for the Riverlands. New stipends for the City Watch.” Each word dripped disdain. “All pet projects of our noble King, guided by his Dornish advisors.” The word Dornish came out with quiet contempt. Pycelle leaned forward, stringy eyebrows raised. “Indeed, His Grace’s measures to relieve the smallfolk’s burdens have proven costly. And diversifying the City Watch with Dornish officers…” He tutted softly. “Some might question their loyalty. It is said a Martell prince once boasted he could take this city with ten thousand spears. Now his countrymen guard our gates.” Tywin’s lip curled. “They guard our gates, and one of their kin warms the King’s bed.” Queen Elia Martell— that Dornish woman , he thought bitterly. Years ago Tywin had offered his own daughter Cersei to Prince Rhaegar, only to be spurned. Instead, Rhaegar had kept his Dornish wife and brought her family’s influence into court. See how well that has turned out . “The Martells think the Iron Throne theirs to sway. But they will learn their place.”
“Yes, yes,” Pycelle said eagerly, lowering his voice though they were quite alone. “And perhaps if these discrepancies in the accounts were brought to light in the right way… The King might suspect the Dornish of mismanaging funds. Prince Doran’s man at court—”
“Quiet.” Tywin raised a hand. The Grand Maester fell silent at once. Tywin did not need Pycelle to spell it out; the seed was already planted. For weeks he had orchestrated a subtle campaign to undermine the Martells’ influence over Rhaegar. Falsified ledgers were only one piece of the scheme. Of course, he could only do it after a good time passed since Aegon’s assassination attempt. The North had deemed Tywin’s hands to be clean and was at a dead end—it was said an Essosi paid the man to try and kill Aegon. Perhaps a Blackfyre. Tywin smirked and moved to his desk, closing the ledger with a swift motion. “That will do,” he declared. “I trust you will see that these figures find their way into the right hands—Lord Baelish, the Master of Coin, and perhaps certain whisperers who will carry the tale through the Red Keep.” His green eyes bored into Pycelle. “If anyone asks, we shall express concern that funds are being mismanaged. We will hint, very lightly, that the Master of Coin might be too distracted to notice the fine details. And that others—Dornishmen in the accounting offices, say—have taken advantage.”
Pycelle bowed his head. “Just so, my lord. I shall be delicate. The suggestion will be planted.” “Good.” Tywin allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction. It was a subtle smear campaign, but in time it would raise questions. Small questions at first, growing like cracks in the foundation. Questions about Dornish honor, about the King’s judgment in trusting southern flatterers and broken things. If King Rhaegar began to doubt his Dornish friends even a little, Tywin would have an opening. But finances were only one front. Tywin intended to send a louder message today—one that all the realm’s high lords present in King’s Landing would witness. He glanced again to the window and the sounds of the crowd beyond. “We have a long day ahead. You may take your leave, Grand Maester.” Pycelle took the dismissal with a deep bow. “As you say. I shall be at the tourney grounds should you have need of me, Lord Hand.” Tywin inclined his head. “I expect to see you among the King’s party.” Watching Pycelle hobble out, Tywin felt only mild contempt for the man. Pycelle had served his purposes well enough. If the old fool did his job, whispers of a Dornish leak in the treasury would spread through the court within days. Let Rhaegar fret over that on his precious Name Day. It would prepare the ground for Tywin’s next move.
For a moment, Tywin remained alone in the solar, adjusting the cuffs of his crimson doublet embroidered with golden lions. He wore no piece of jewelry save the Hand of the King’s badge pinned to his breast. It caught the sunlight now, glinting as brightly as Casterly Rock’s gold. Tywin brushed an imaginary speck of dust from it. Hand of the King—yet how the King tries to slip my grasp. Rhaegar Targaryen was nothing like his mad father. In truth that disappointed Tywin; Aerys had been simple to manipulate, in his way. But Rhaegar was measured, idealistic, willful. He had odd notions of mercy and alliance that Tywin did not share. He favors the Martells and even those Starks who nearly rose against him. Tywin’s mouth tightened. The memory of his humiliation at the Trident still rankled—arriving with his host to find Rhaegar had brokered some last-minute accord with the rebels, sparing the traitorous northmen and Baratheon upstart instead of crushing them. Tywin had expected to ride in triumph into King’s Landing as savior once more. Instead, Rhaegar’s peace had stolen the victory from him. To make matters worse, Tywin had swallowed his pride and bowed the knee to Rhaegar as King…only to find himself increasingly sidelined in the years since. The King had thanked him for past service, yes, even reinstated him as Hand to smooth over wounds—but Tywin knew a token gesture when he saw one. Rhaegar’s true attention drifted elsewhere: to Dorne, to the North, to pie-in-the-sky prophecies gleaned from musty books. Meanwhile, who kept the kingdom’s affairs running? Who rebuilt the Crown’s finances after war, quietly and competently? I did , Tywin thought. And yet now the King handed out honors to upstarts—naming Doran as Master of Laws when he was in Dorne more than King’s Landing, inviting Northerners and Dornish into the City Watch and small council. Even the Master of Coin seat had gone to a sly minor lord from the Fingers rather than someone Tywin respected.
Tywin’s jaw clenched. House Lannister’s esteem had slipped since Rhaegar’s ascent. His daughter was married off to Robert Baratheon of all people—a Lord Paramount, yes, but not the King Tywin had once envisioned for her. A poor consolation prize for Cersei’s ambitions, and for Tywin’s. And his son Jaime, though a Kingsguard knight of renown, was bound in service to Rhaegar and his line—a glorified bodyguard, unable to carry the Lannister name or inheritance. My son, my heir, wasted in white cloaks. Tywin had swallowed that indignity too, believing perhaps he could pull strings through Jaime’s proximity to the royal family. But Jaime was no master schemer; he was dutiful to his vows, and Rhaegar kept him on a short leash. So be it. If the King would not willingly elevate the Lannisters, Tywin would remind the realm of Lannister power by other means. He swept from the solar, the red-and-gold cloak of House Lannister billowing from his shoulders. A pair of Lannister household guardsmen fell into step behind him as he made his way through the halls of the Red Keep. They passed servants carrying flowers and banners for the festivities, and lesser courtiers hurrying toward the tourney grounds. All of them paused to bow as Tywin passed, murmuring, “My lord Hand.” Tywin granted only curt nods. He had a final appointment before he took his place at the royal stands.
Down a quiet side corridor lit by torches, Tywin came to a heavy oak door. He rapped once. “Enter,” called a youthful male voice from within. Tywin stepped inside to find Prince Viserys Targaryen pacing the chamber. The Targaryen prince whirled at Tywin’s entrance. Viserys was a stripling of fourteen, silver-haired and sharp-featured like all his line, but lacking their gravitas. He wore a black doublet with the three-headed dragon sigil, and a look of anxious excitement twisted his pale lilac eyes. “Lord Tywin, ” Viserys greeted him. The prince’s attempt at princely dignity was undercut by the restless drumming of his fingers on the pommel of his sword. “Your Grace,” Tywin inclined his head. It cost him little enough to humor the boy with royal honorifics. Viserys was not a king—only the King’s younger brother—but he fancied himself a dragon all the same. “I trust you are prepared for today’s celebration? It shall be quite the spectacle, I’m told.” Viserys sniffed. “I suppose. Rhaegar’s Name Day…yet another chance for my brother to parade his peace before the realm.” He spat the word peace as if it were poison. “As if that’s an accomplishment. What of conquest? What of power? He soils the Iron Throne by catering to—” The young man bit back the rest, as if recalling he should not speak so freely. Tywin advanced into the room, dismissing his guards with a nod. They closed the door, leaving him alone with Viserys. “Speak your mind, Prince Viserys. I would hear it.”
Encouraged, Viserys lifted his chin. “Very well. My brother coddles the Dornishmen and those wolves of the North. He weakens our birthright. The Iron Throne should belong fully to the blood of the dragon, but Rhaegar has Dornishmen whispering in his ear, filling our court and City Watch. He forgave the Starks and their allies after they rose in rebellion. He lowered tariffs—diminishing the Crown’s gold, our gold—to appease peasants and traitors.” Viserys’s lips curled. “Father would never have been so weak.” Tywin listened, impassive. The boy’s resentment ran deep; that was good. “King Aerys had a different way of ruling,” Tywin conceded neutrally. He would not openly praise Aerys—the Mad King had lost all sense at the end—but Viserys’s eyes lit at any hint of comparison between father and brother. “Your father took what was his due. He understood the price of disloyalty. In his early reign, at least,” Tywin added dryly.
“Yes.” Viserys stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Lord Tywin, you served my father well for many years. You know how a king should wield authority. My brother…he doesn’t appreciate you, or me. He casts us aside for Martells and Starks. Us, his own blood and trueborn allies of the throne.” A strand of silver hair fell across Viserys’s forehead as he leaned forward. “It isn’t right.” It was almost too easy. Tywin clasped his hands behind his back. “His Grace King Rhaegar wants peace and unity. Lofty goals. But perhaps he is blind to those who would take advantage. Outsiders, whose loyalty may blow with the winds.” He paused, letting Viserys absorb that. “It falls to those closest to the throne—you and I, Prince Viserys—to ensure the realm’s strength isn’t sapped from within.” Viserys nodded eagerly. “Just so. I’ve thought the same. I try to tell Rhaegar, but he scarcely listens. He pats my head like a child and sends me away.” A flush of wounded pride colored the teenager’s cheeks.
Tywin allowed himself a thin smile. “You are no child. Perhaps your brother will take heed once he sees you prove yourself. A dragon feeds on respect, does it not?” He moved to a sideboard where a flagon of wine sat and poured a cup for the prince. Tywin had already taken his breakfast, but Viserys might need a bit of courage today. He handed him the goblet. “To your health, Your Grace. May today bring glory to the blood of the dragon.” Viserys took the wine, puffing his chest. “Glory,” he agreed, drinking deeply. Tywin watched the prince over the rim of his own empty cup, studying how Viserys’s features hardened as the wine went down. Was that determination or just the flush of drink? Hard to tell; Viserys never had Rhaegar’s natural charisma or Lyanna Stark’s steel. Still, the boy had passion if it could be aimed correctly. Setting the cup aside, Tywin strode to the door. “Come. We should join the King’s party for the opening of the tourney. Ser Myles and the others will be waiting.”
At the mention of Ser Myles Mooton, Viserys brightened. “Yes. They will be expecting us.” He fastened a short cape of black and red over his shoulders and followed Tywin out. Ser Myles Mooton was one of Rhaegar’s squires from years past, a knight from a Riverlands house who supported Rhaegar during the almost-rebellion. Of late, Ser Myles and a handful of other malcontents had gravitated to Viserys’s side. Tywin had quietly encouraged their fellowship, knowing a few aggrieved knights telling Viserys how poorly the Dornish treated them would only feed Viserys’s indignation. They emerged into the Red Keep’s outer yard where horses and guards were assembling to escort the royal family to the tourney grounds. Banners flapped in the breeze—banners of House Targaryen, but also Martell suns and spears, Stark direwolves, Tyrell golden roses, and others. Too many sigils not our own , Tywin thought. House Lannister’s crimson lion was present too, of course, but Tywin noted with irritation that its placement was not prominent among the decorations. Whoever had overseen the heraldry displays—a Dornish court official, perhaps—had given pride of place to the Martell colors beside the crown’s. A small slight, but telling.
His mouth set in a grim line, Tywin mounted his horse. Viserys swung up into his saddle, looking down the column. “Ser Myles!” the prince called. A cluster of armored riders were waiting to join the procession, just outside the gates. At their head was Ser Myles Mooton, a lean knight with sandy hair. He wore the yellow-and-red colors of his house, beside him were two other knights Tywin had noted at court of late: Ser Richard Lonmouth and Ser Raymun Darry—both warriors who had fought for Rhaegar during the rebellion but now grumbled that Dornishmen held the King’s ear instead of them. Men ripe for Viserys’s little clique. Ser Myles spurred forward and bowed from his saddle as Tywin and Viserys approached. “Your Grace. Lord Hand.” “Ride with us,” Tywin commanded, his tone brisk. He had no desire to be delayed. The procession set forth from the Red Keep, winding down Aegon’s High Hill towards the tourney grounds by the Gate of the Gods. City folk lined the streets to cheer the royal entourage. Up ahead, Tywin glimpsed King Rhaegar’s carriage—a wheelhouse with the crowned dragon sigil, surrounded by Kingsguard in white cloaks. The smallfolk threw flowers and cried “Long live the King!” as it passed. Rhaegar often preferred to ride among them on progress, but on formal occasions he accepted the trappings of royalty.
Tywin kept a measured distance on horseback behind the King’s party. He could see Prince Oberyn Martell riding near the wheelhouse—ever at Princess Elia’s side, like a red viper coiled protectively. That one had eyes and ears everywhere , Tywin knew. Oberyn glanced back at the sound of their horses, and for an instant Tywin met his dark, piercing gaze across the throng. Neither man nodded or acknowledged the other. Oberyn’s stare held open dislike; Tywin answered with cool indifference. “Look at him,” muttered Viserys beside Tywin. The prince had followed his gaze. “Prince Oberyn. As if he were the King’s brother, not I. See how the crowd gawks at the Martell colors, all because of her.” By her he meant Queen Elia. In the distance, Elia’s litter followed Rhaegar’s wheelhouse, draped in Martell orange and red. The smallfolk cheered for their queen too. Tywin did not react outwardly to Viserys’s complaint. But inside, he agreed. Oberyn Martell had grown far too comfortable at this court. Only a few years ago, after the civil war that almost was, Oberyn had caused drama by acting like a child at court and proclaiming it was all to ‘keep his sister safe’. And before that, Oberyn had a reputation for dishonorable duels and bastards across the realm. Not exactly a paragon of virtue. Now he strutted about King’s Landing with impunity, championing Dornish interests. The thought set Tywin’s teeth on edge.
“Patience, Prince Viserys,” Tywin said under the clamor of the crowd. “All men reveal their true nature in time. Oberyn Martell’s is hot-blooded. He will make a misstep sooner or later. We must be ready when he does.” Ser Myles Mooton edged his horse closer on the other side of Viserys. “And if he doesn’t, my lord? The Martells think they can do as they like because the King shields them. They think no one will gainsay them.” Ser Myles spoke carefully, as if testing Tywin’s reaction. These knights had their own grievances—Ser Myles’s family lands in the Riverlands had been slow to receive relief after the war, whereas Dorne had been lavished with royal generosity. Tywin knew every slight and grudge in play; he had quietly fanned each. Tywin gave a thin smile. “Today, Ser Myles, we shall see whether anyone dares gainsay them. I suspect the Martells may get a reminder that not all bend the knee to their whims.” He left it at that. Viserys drank in his words like Arbor gold. “Yes. Yes, we shall. Knight of the Lions…” he murmured under his breath, a hungry anticipation in his voice.
Tywin did not outwardly respond, but inwardly he was satisfied. The pieces were set. Ser Gregor Clegane, his “Knight of the Lions,” would not fail. A Mountain does not balk at crushing a Viper’s spawn, after all. Gregor had been instructed to hold nothing back in the tilts. The more brutal and shocking his victory, the better. The Dornish needed a lesson in humility, and the realm needed a reminder that lions still had claws. They reached the tourney grounds outside the city walls by midmorning. A grand arena had been erected, surrounded by wooden stands bedecked with streamers and banners. The scent of trampled grass and dust filled the air, along with the aromas of roasted meat from vendors catering to the crowds. Trumpets blared a fanfare as the King’s party entered the royal enclosure. Tywin dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to a Lannister guardsman, then smoothed his doublet and adjusted his gold chain of office. All around, noble lords and ladies were finding their seats in the stands. The noise of excited chatter rolled like waves. Under a canopy, King Rhaegar emerged from his wheelhouse. Even at a distance Tywin could spot the silver of his hair and the regal bearing that so captivated the commons. Rhaegar wore black armor today, rubbed with a sheen of red along its plate edges—a subtle nod to both Targaryen and Martell colors. Queen Elia, on the King’s arm, was radiant in a flowing gown of deep purple and gold, her dark hair crowned with a simple circlet. Behind them, Princess Rhaenys skipped alongside Prince Oberyn to climb the stairs to the royal box. Little Prince Aegon was not present—likely deemed too young for the noise of the tourney and left back in the castle with the septas.
Tywin climbed to the royal box as well and took his seat just to the King’s left, as was his privilege as Hand. Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden sat near, a few seats down, fanning himself and chatting amiably with Jon Connington, the former Hand (however brief) now just another lord of the court. On the King’s other side, Prince Oberyn lounged with an almost insolent ease, one boot resting on a low rail, while Princess Elia settled gracefully next to her husband. The Martell prince wore red and black as well, in a tailored doublet, and his sable hair was tied back. Oberyn’s eyes flicked toward Tywin briefly, unreadable. Tywin ignored him. He surveyed the stands opposite instead, where the highborn spectators were still filing in. The northern contingent— Eddard Stark in a plain grey cloak among them—had a section of honor. Tywin saw the Stark take a seat beside the Greatjon Umber, both looking somewhat uncomfortable in the southern heat. Some of the Northmen had accompanied King Rhaegar back to King’s Landing after the royal visit to Winterfell years ago. Since Brandon had a child and heir duties to tend to, it was better that Ned went. Tywin had argued against that entire progress—what good came of coddling northern pride?—but Rhaegar was determined to make a show of unity. And nearly paid for it, Tywin thought. Since the assassination attempt, Rhaegar had grown more wary but thankfully not insane like his father. Good. A cautious king was easier to corner than a bold one.
Trumpets sounded again, silencing the crowd. A royal herald stepped forward to announce the commencement of the jousts in honor of King Rhaegar’s Name Day. The King himself stood to speak the formal opening. Rhaegar’s voice rang out clear and strong, thanking the assembled lords and ladies for attending, dedicating the day’s contests to the memory of “friends lost and alliances forged anew in our realm.” At that, Tywin saw Rhaegar offer a respectful nod toward the northern lords—acknowledging those who died and were hurt in the war-that-was-nearly. A subtle gesture to honor Brandon Stark and others, Tywin supposed. The Northmen responded with polite clapping, though Lord Stark’s face remained solemn. Soon enough the King sat, a golden dragon sigil banner was raised, and the jousting began. One by one, knights in armor and colorful caparisons thundered down the lists to clash with wooden lances. The early tilts were merry, almost jovial—lesser knights showing off, unhorsings met with laughter and applause. A green-plumed Hightower knight knocked a Baratheon bannerman off in the first pass. Two Reach knights, one Fossoway and one Oakheart, broke three lances each in a spirited draw that had the commons roaring. Even Lord Yohn Royce, the bronze-armored giant of the Vale, took a turn and unseated a younger opponent to great cheers.
Tywin paid minimal attention, clapping perfunctorily when required. His focus was on the knight who did not appear in the opening rounds: the mystery knight he had arranged. The Knight of the Lions was to enter in the second round of tilts, once the initial spectacle wore off. “Splendid form,” King Rhaegar commented mildly after a particular clash. Tywin realized the King was speaking to him—Rhaegar was pointing toward the field where a fierce Dornish marcher knight had just bested a sworn sword from the Westerlands. “Ser Aron Santagar is a fine rider,” Rhaegar continued. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Tywin? You keep a fine stable of knights in the west, but Dorne has its gems as well.” Tywin pressed his lips thin. He knew a bait when he heard one. The Martell knight who’d won was one of Oberyn’s close allies. Rhaegar’s subtle praise of Dorne—and by extension his brother-in-law’s influence— was noticed by those around them. Mace Tyrell raised an eyebrow, while Oberyn gave a little smirk. “Fine enough,” Tywin replied coolly. “Though I suspect my Westerlands man lost more due to an inferior horse than any lack in skill.” A petty remark, but Tywin was beyond caring if he appeared churlish.
Rhaegar merely hummed, giving Tywin an unreadable look, then turned back to watch the next tilt. That next tilt was one Tywin had awaited. A knight in armor of gleaming steel newly entered the lists, bearing a shield painted white with a golden lion device. A roar went up from the commons at the striking heraldry—most mystery knights chose whimsical sigils, not the proud Lion of Lannister. Murmurs rippled through the stands. “Who is that? A Lannister cadet? The Knight of the Lions, did they say?” Tywin felt a dark thrill coil in his chest. He leaned forward slightly. His fingers gripped the wooden railing before him as the herald announced, “ A challenger! The Knight of the Lions, champion of the west, throws down the gauntlet to all Dornish knights who would face him!” “What is this?” Princess Elia whispered. Her fine features creased in confusion as a few Dornish knights exchanged angry looks. Prince Oberyn sat up straighter, eyes narrowed. Tywin could see the Martell prince’s jaw tighten. Oberyn glanced once toward Tywin, suspicion flaring in his eyes, but Tywin kept his own face a mask of polite interest. King Rhaegar frowned. Tywin could sense Rhaegar’s displeasure at the open provocation. But the King said nothing, perhaps unwilling to interfere in the sacred chaos of the joust. Tourneys had their own laws; a mystery knight could challenge whomever he liked. In response to the Knight of the Lions’ brazen call, a Dornish knight took up the challenge at once—no man of Dorne would leave such an insult unanswered. Out rode Ser Arron Qorgyle, a seasoned Dornish knight bearing scorpions as the sigil on his shield—rumored to be brother to one of Prince Oberyn’s favored paramours. The Dornishman leveled his lance, orange pennant fluttering, and the Knight of the Lions mirrored the gesture in eerie silence (Gregor had been ordered not to speak a word, to better hide his voice).
They charged. Two warhorses thundered together, pounding the ground. The Knight of the Lions sat enormous in his saddle—Gregor’s massive frame making the horse underneath look small. His opponent was far slighter but fast. On the first pass, the Dornish knight’s lance struck the mystery knight square in the breastplate… only to shatter ineffectually. The Knight of the Lions barely rocked in his seat. His own lance grazed Ser Arron’s shield. Both men wheeled for a second pass. Tywin’s heartbeat was steady, purposeful. He had chosen Gregor Clegane for more than his strength. The man was brutal, but also cruel. Make it look real, Tywin had instructed. Make it hurt. He watched as the second pass commenced. This time Ser Arron aimed higher, perhaps hoping to strike the lion helm and unhorse his foe. But Gregor— or rather the Knight of the Lions—barreled forward with almost reckless force. His lance came in low and upward, under the lip of Ser Arron’s shield. The wood drove hard into the Dornishman’s midsection and lifted him clean from his stirrups. A collective gasp came from the stands as Ser Arron Qorgyle was flung backward like a doll. He hit the ground with a heavy crash of metal on metal and lay motionless.
A cheer rose from many in the crowd—mostly the smallfolk who loved a dramatic finish, oblivious to the deeper insult. But in the royal box, no one was cheering. Tywin could feel the tension around him like a storm about to break. The Knight of the Lions circled back and trotted past the fallen Dornish knight, raising a gauntleted fist to acknowledge the applause. Ser Arron’s squires were already running to their lord, who still had not moved. Princess Elia had a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with worry. Prince Oberyn stood abruptly, leaning out of the box. “Arron!” he shouted, worry and rage mixing in his voice. On the field, the squires were yelling for a maester. “This knight ought to be unmasked,” someone said loudly behind Tywin—Lord Connington, he recognized. “Such ferocity in a friendly tourney… it’s unseemly.” Tywin rose to his feet calmly. “Ferocity? It was a fair tilt,” he pronounced. And effective , he thought. The Dornish knight still wasn’t moving. Could Gregor have killed him outright? That would be an inconvenience —better a maiming than a death. Still, an accident on the field could hardly be blamed on anyone but chance.
The Knight of the Lions had vanished amidst the commotion. Tywin caught a glimpse of his white lion shield discarded near the lists, and a lumbering armored figure disappearing behind a stand, pursued by a few gold-cloaks who belatedly took up the chase. Oberyn Martell spun on Tywin, eyes blazing. “Fair? That was no fair blow, Lannister.” His voice was low and dangerous, emphasizing Tywin’s name like a curse. “That ‘Knight of the Lions’ tried to kill him. Look at the angle of that strike—no tourney knight aims to unhorse like that unless he wants his foe dead or broken.” Tywin met Oberyn’s fury with a cold stare. Around them, other lords watched, tense and silent. King Rhaegar had risen as well, motioning urgently for Maester Pycelle to hurry to Ser Arron’s aid. The King’s violet eyes flicked between Tywin and Oberyn but he did not interject yet. Tywin spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Prince Oberyn, tourneys are dangerous by nature. Your man accepted the challenge. If he was unprepared for the risks—”
“Spare me.” Oberyn’s voice cut like a whip. He stepped closer, almost nose to nose with Tywin across the narrow aisle of the box. “We both know what this was. A provocation. A lion roaring at the sun.” Tywin felt the heat of Oberyn’s anger, but he refused to be cowed. He arched one golden eyebrow. “You flatter me, Prince. I do not control the actions of every glory-seeking knight from the west.” A blatant lie, but delivered with icy confidence. Before Oberyn could retort, another voice sounded, strained but firm: “Enough.” King Rhaegar. The King stepped forward, placing himself between Tywin and Oberyn with gentle but unmistakable authority. Rhaegar touched Oberyn’s arm. “Your knight lives, Prince Oberyn. Maester Pycelle is tending him now. I will see that justice is done if there was foul intent. But we will have order.” Oberyn glared a moment longer at Tywin, then gave a curt nod to Rhaegar. The Martell prince turned on his heel and leapt down from the box, presumably to go check on Ser Arron in person. The King exhaled and turned to Tywin. “My lord Hand,” he said quietly enough that others couldn’t overhear, “we will discover who that mystery knight is. I expect your full cooperation in the inquiry.”
Tywin inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.” He could feel a dozen eyes on them, including Mace Tyrell’s and Connington’s. Even the not-so-little Princess Rhaenys was staring, wide-eyed and confused at the upset. Tywin offered the girl a tight smile—Rhaenys gave a tiny, uncertain smile back, clearly suspicious of what was happening between her uncle and grandfather’s Hand. Down on the field, the Dornish knight Ser Arron was being carried off on a litter, conscious enough to clutch his ribs in pain. Prince Oberyn walked beside him. No doubt the Red Viper was seething inside. Good.
…
A discreet knock came at the door to Tywin’s box. Ser Addam Marbrand, captain of Tywin’s guard, stepped in and whispered, “The Knight of the Lions…we lost him in the melee of folk, my lord. He slipped out through the stables, it’s thought. The City Watch is searching, as is the Kingsguard, but…” Tywin held up a hand. “It hardly matters now. The spectacle served its purpose. Ser Gregor knows to lie low. He’ll be out of the city by dusk, I expect.” He studied Ser Addam’s expression. Marbrand looked slightly uneasy. “Speak plainly, Addam.” The knight lowered his voice further. “There are murmurs, my lord, in the westlings’ camp… Some guess it was Ser Gregor by his size and the lion sigil. If questioned, one of them may talk.” Tywin’s eyes turned flinty. “Then ensure they do not. Pay whatever gold, or issue whatever threats, needed to silence tongues until our knight is well away. Ser Gregor will no doubt head for some den in the Riverlands until this cools. Good. We can have him reappear suitably as needed later on.” Marbrand hesitated. “And if His Grace orders the banners sent after Ser Gregor?” Tywin set down his wine with a sharp click. “His Grace will have other matters to occupy him. A wounded knight and some bruised Dornish pride are one thing. But I suspect King Rhaegar will be more alarmed by rumors of an empty treasury… and by the behavior of his dear brother.”
Marbrand furrowed his brow. “Prince Viserys, my lord?” Tywin allowed himself a thin smile. “Yes. Keep your ears open. I expect Prince Viserys will drown his discontents in wine before this day is out, and some Dornish provocation might finally draw forth that dragon’s flame.” If all went as he anticipated, Viserys Targaryen would cause a scene at the feast—and Oberyn Martell’s hot temper might again be triggered. Perhaps in front of the King, perhaps in front of half the court. It would only further Tywin’s aims to show that the Martells and Targaryens were at odds publicly. “As you say, my lord.” Addam Marbrand bowed and departed swiftly to carry out Tywin’s commands. Left alone once more, Tywin finished his wine and prepared to rejoin the King’s company for the feast. Already he could imagine the sullen fury simmering behind Rhaegar’s courteous mask, the smoldering outrage in Oberyn’s eyes. Let them rage. Tywin Lannister had not been born to play second fiddle. One way or another, the Lion of Casterly Rock would remind these upstarts that his roar could shake the realm. Before leaving, Tywin stepped to a polished bronze mirror and adjusted the Hand’s badge on his doublet. The lion’s head sigil was exquisitely carved in golden metal. He ran a thumb over it thoughtfully. If Rhaegar proved too troublesome…well, Tywin had unseated one king before. He would prefer not to plunge the realm into chaos again— better to rule from behind the throne than atop a pile of ashes , he reflected. But a king who failed to heed wise counsel was a liability.
Tywin’s green eyes stared back at him in the mirror, cool and certain. He straightened his shoulders. Today was a lesson. With luck, King Rhaegar would interpret it as a warning, and temper his foolish favoritism. If not… Tywin would have other lessons to teach. His cloak swirling behind him, Tywin Lannister left to attend the feast, a ghost of a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Chapter 11: Chapter Seven: Viserys
Notes:
Sorry for missing the Sunday post, I have classes soon! The next chapter will be posted today shortly.
Chapter Text
Viserys Targaryen swirled the Arbor gold in his goblet and tried not to glower openly at the throngs of lords and ladies milling around the Red Keep’s throne room. They’re all here for Rhaegar, never for me , he brooded sourly, casting a gaze over the gathered court. It was King Rhaegar’s Name Day tourney feast, and the atmosphere rang with laughter and toasts to the King’s health. Above, banners of House Targaryen and House Martell hung side by side in a nauseating display of friendship. Dorne, Dorne, always Dorne of late. Viserys downed a gulp of wine, wishing it were stronger. He was only fourteen—almost fifteen, he would insist—but the servants had been told to water his cups. So he’d bribed one of them to slip him proper Arbor wine instead. His head felt pleasantly fuzzy from it, a shield against the irritation he felt at being so utterly overlooked. Across the hall, King Rhaegar stood with a knot of lords congratulating him on the day’s jousting. The King wore a modest smile and spoke softly, forcing the others to lean in to catch his words. They ate it up, of course. Rhaegar the Good , they called him now, Rhaegar the Merciful, Rhaegar the Peacebringer . Viserys curled his lip.
None of them remembered how Rhaegar had put a sword through his own father’s heart.
Even if Aerys had gone mad, even if it saved the city, it was still kinslaying. But the fickle lords forgave quickly when served flattery and stability. And Rhaegar had been serving plenty of both.
Viserys flicked a strand of his silvery hair back behind his ear and tried to catch his brother’s eye. He’d scarcely had a word with Rhaegar in weeks; the King was always closeted in meetings or poring over dusty scrolls about prophecy. Or doting on his precious son and heir, baby Aegon. Viserys scowled. Even that brat gets more of Rhaegar’s attention than I do. Viserys had been a prince longer than Aegon had been alive, but once the boy was born, Viserys might as well have been invisible. Once he’d been heir presumptive to the throne; now he was just the King’s younger brother, of little importance. A serving girl passed with a tray of roast capon and honeyed carrots. Viserys snagged a morsel of meat and popped it into his mouth. Gods, even the food tasted Dornish these days —spiced with strange pepper. He hated pepper. The meat was tender though, and he realized he was hungrier than he thought. As he reached for another piece, an elbow jostled him rudely aside.
“Oops, mind yourself, little princeling,” slurred Ser Myles Mooton with a mocking half-bow. Myles was supposed to have been Rhaegar’s close friend once, but of late he’d become one of Viserys’s drinking companions. He was deep in his cups now. Viserys glared, but Myles only chuckled. “Why so glum, Your Highness? Name Day feasts are for revelry!” Myles’s boorish compatriots laughed around a table nearby. One raised his cup to Viserys. “Here’s to our princeling, the only dragon in a den of Dornish snakes!” he called. Viserys flushed with pleasure at that loud toast. Some heads turned. Across the hall, Rhaegar darted a warning frown in their direction. Viserys lifted his goblet in return salute to the knight and drank deeply. The wine warmed him. Myles clapped him on the back. “Easy, there. You’ll need your wits for what’s to come, heh.” Viserys raised a pale eyebrow. Myles had been whispering all day about some great surprise for the tourney. And indeed, the jousting this afternoon had been most diverting—especially when that mystery knight, the so-called “Knight of the Lions,” had nearly unseated that cocky Dornishman, Ser Andros Qorgyle. Viserys had whooped with excitement as the mystery knight slammed into Qorgyle with extra force, sending him sprawling. Qorgyle hadn’t died, more’s the pity, but his collarbone snapped loud enough for half the stands to hear. Prince Oberyn had leapt to his feet in a rage. That had been delicious to watch.
A pity the Knight of the Lions vanished before revealing himself. Some claimed it was Gregor Clegane under that helm, but no one proved it. Not that it mattered. The real satisfaction had been seeing the Martells knocked down a peg. Viserys still burned with vicarious pride at how indignant Oberyn Martell looked, sputtering about the knight’s dishonorable conduct. And Rhaegar had done nothing, letting Tywin Lannister smooth it over. Yes , perhaps Rhaegar wasn’t entirely lost to the Dornish influence after all, if he let that go. Viserys wiped grease from his fingers on the silk tablecloth (to the visible dismay of a steward) and smirked at Myles. “What’s to come, you say? Haven’t the Dornish been insulted enough for one day?”
Ser Myles gave him a conspiratorial grin, lowering his voice. “The tourney was just the opening, my prince. There’s tonight’s feast, and our lovely Dornish ‘guests’ ripe for further mischief.” He nodded subtly across the hall, where Prince Oberyn Martell stood leaning against a pillar, wearing his fury behind a false smile. The Red Viper looked ready to bite the next man who crossed him. Beside Oberyn stood a young woman— Myriah Martell, the daughter of a Martell cousin. Viserys’s heart gave a little jolt at the sight of Myriah. Gods be good, but she was beautiful. The Martell woman had the signature Dornish dark hair and eyes, but her skin was a warm burnished gold and her figure… Viserys’s gaze trailed over the curves accentuated by her burgundy gown. She was laughing lightly at something Oberyn said, and the sound—bright and tinkling—sent a thrill through Viserys. He had been enthralled by her since she arrived at court with Prince Doran’s household. Although seven years older than him, Myriah was easily the most enchanting woman he’d ever seen up close. Far more appealing than the gangly northern girls or pockmarked Reach maidens trotted out as prospective matches for him at various events. And she was of princely blood. If not the King, then at least I could have a Princess , Viserys mused.
But alas, Myriah Martell was betrothed already—to some Dornish lord back in Sunspear. That knowledge only stoked Viserys’s longing. He wanted her, betrothal be damned. Did not the Targaryens have a history of taking what they desired? His own brother had nearly set aside a wife for a woman he loved. If Rhaegar could defy convention for Lyanna Stark, why shouldn’t Viserys reach for Myriah? He’d tried to speak to her a few times in the past weeks, only to be rebuffed by Oberyn’s glowering presence or Myriah’s own polite indifference. It rankled. No woman should dismiss a dragon prince so casually. Viserys was determined to make her notice him. And tonight, perhaps the wine was making him bold enough to do it. Plus if a girl could be betrothed to a man–then why not a woman to a boy? Ser Myles noted the direction of Viserys’s stare and gave a wicked chuckle. “ Ah, the fair Princess Myriah. Are you finally going to make your move, Your Highness?” Viserys tore his eyes from her to sneer at Myles. “I need no counsel from you on the matter.” He puffed out his chest slightly. “She’s only playing hard to get. She’ll come ’round. The ladies always do when the time is right.” Myles snorted but covered it as a cough. “Of course, of course. Well, if you want the ‘time’ to be tonight, perhaps a dance? A bit of charm, and—”
“I have charm aplenty,” Viserys cut in irritably. Did everyone think him a child at this court? He was nearly a man grown! He threw back the rest of his wine, feeling it burn pleasantly down to his belly. The music in the hall shifted to a lively dancing tune. Around him, couples were filing to the cleared center of the throne room to dance among the long trestle tables. Viserys slammed down his empty goblet. “I’ll do it. I’ll ask her to dance.” Myles grinned broadly. “Go on then, Your Highness. Show them all.” Viserys adjusted his violet doublet, brushed a hand through his silvery hair to ensure it was artfully tousled, and strode off toward Princess Myriah. His heart thumped against his ribs, but he held his head high, summoning every ounce of princely arrogance he possessed. People parted for him as he crossed the floor — that was more like it. He was the blood of the dragon, after all, last son of the old King. They owed him respect. Viserys caught sight of the Iron Throne looming at the far end of the hall and imagined himself seated there one day, the court bowing and scraping. A sweet fantasy. He reached Myriah Martell and gave a flourishing bow, one hand on his chest. “Your Highness, would you honor me with this dance?” he asked, pitching his voice low and honeyed as he’d heard older courtiers do.
Myriah turned toward him, her dark eyes widening a fraction in surprise. Up close, the jasmine perfume she wore tickled his nose. Seven hells, she smelled intoxicating. Oberyn Martell stopped mid-conversation and raised an eyebrow. A tense heartbeat passed. Then Myriah inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, Prince Viserys. I would be delighted.” She placed her slender hand lightly in his. Viserys nearly broke into a triumphant grin, but contained it, affecting regal poise. He cast a quick glance at Oberyn, whose lips pressed into a thin line. “ I’ll return your niece shortly, Prince Oberyn,” Viserys quipped. Oberyn’s voice was cool as a coiled snake. “See that you do, Silver Prince.” He stepped back, eyes never leaving Viserys. The challenge in that gaze sent a small thrill through Viserys. He was playing with vipers now, but damn if he didn’t enjoy the risk. Viserys led Myriah to the dance floor just as the music struck up a jaunty Volantene waltz. They joined the whirling couples, and Viserys slid a hand to Myriah’s waist as they assumed position. She was taller than him by a few inches (a fact that irked him), but she moved gracefully to accommodate his height. “You seem in fine spirits tonight, my prince,” Myriah said politely as they twirled. Her tone was distant, but not unkind.
“I’ve reason to be,” Viserys replied, flashing what he hoped was a roguish smile. “The tourney was marvelous sport, don’t you think? No fatalities, sadly, but enough drama to be amusing.” Myriah’s lips curved in a polite, closed-mouth smile. “I found it rather distressing, truth be told. That mystery knight fought dishonorably, nearly killing Ser Andros.” Viserys scoffed, guiding her through a turn perhaps a tad too forcefully. “Oh, Ser Andros will heal. Besides, tourneys are meant for bold strokes. The Knight of the Lions gave the people something to gasp about.” Myriah studied him, an elegant curl bouncing against her cheek as they stepped to the music. “And do you approve of such ‘bold strokes’, Your Highness? Knocking men off horses with intent to maim?” Viserys felt a prickling defensiveness. Was she scolding him? “If they can’t hold their seats, that’s their failing,” he said with forced lightness. “Not every joust can be gentle. Or would you prefer everyone unhorsed with a pillow?” To his surprise, Myriah’s eyes narrowed. “I’d prefer knights not take cheap shots for petty vengeance or crowd approval,” she said coolly. “But perhaps I expect too much honor in the capital these days.” Viserys’s temper, loosened by wine, flared. “Honor,” he snorted. “A convenient word men use to dress up their cowardice. My father talked of honor while he let traitors live far too long.” He didn’t know why he said that—perhaps to shock her, to test how she’d react to mention of Aerys.
It succeeded. Myriah’s face went still as stone. “This conversation grows unpleasant,” she said, voice tightly controlled. “Let’s speak of something lighter, Prince Viserys.” Viserys bit his tongue. He’d been stumbling, he realized, and possibly revealing too much of his bitterness. T hat wouldn’t win her. He tried a charming grin again. “As you wish, Princess. Something lighter... well, the wine flows and the music plays. Have you enjoyed King’s Landing thus far? Perhaps tomorrow I could show you the Dragonpit ruins? They have a stark beauty at sunset.” He’d thought to take her somewhere private, perhaps impress her with stories of old Valyria as the sun set behind him. But Myriah shook her head. “I’ll be departing on the morrow, I’m afraid. My escort returns to Dorne.” Viserys faltered a step. “So soon?” He hadn’t heard of this. “Yes,” she said. “My duty is to Dorne. I’ve tarried here long enough.” A hint of sadness touched her eyes then. “I admit, I miss the Water Gardens. The heat of the sun on marble, the laughter of children at play... This city is so cold and dusty in comparison.”
Viserys felt a sudden desperation. She was leaving. He might never see her again. No, no, he wouldn’t allow it. “It needn’t be goodbye,” he blurted. “I—I could visit Dorne. Or perhaps, if circumstances changed, you’d remain in King’s Landing longer...” Myriah’s brow furrowed. “What circumstances do you mean, my prince?” The music swelled to a finale and the dancers slowed. Viserys realized his palms were damp where he held her hand and waist. Now or never. The wine roared in his ears. “If you weren’t betrothed,” he said lowly, “would you stay? If you had a reason, a person, worth staying for?” He fixed her with what he hoped was a meaningful gaze. Myriah’s eyes widened in true shock now. She pulled back slightly. “Prince Viserys...” she began, voice hushed in disbelief. The dance ended. All around, couples were applauding the musicians. Oberyn Martell was suddenly right there, plucking Myriah’s hand from Viserys’s grasp with a protective scowl. “Thank you for the dance, Silver Prince,” Oberyn said with a razor-edged politeness. “My niece is parched now, I’m sure.” He practically inserted himself between Viserys and Myriah. Viserys bristled. “I was having a conversation,” he snapped, too incensed to keep decorum. Oberyn’s eyes flashed. “No. You were making improper suggestions to a Princess promised elsewhere.” Myriah tugged at Oberyn’s sleeve.
“Uncle, it’s all right. I can—”
But Viserys, flushed with humiliation and longing, stepped around Oberyn to address Myriah directly. “You didn’t answer, Princess. Would you stay if you were free to?” Myriah’s lovely face colored, and she glanced around at the many onlookers now noticing the confrontation. She drew herself up. “Your Highness, I am spoken for,” she said firmly. “And even were I not, I do not appreciate being... cornered in such a way. By a child no less.” Hurt and anger warred in her expression. “You presume too much.”
Child?
Viserys felt as if she’d slapped him. Murmurs spread through the surrounding courtiers. In the corner of his eye he saw Rhaegar approaching, a concerned frown on his august face. That enraged Viserys further—now Rhaegar would intervene and make it worse. He clenched his fists. “No one corners you, Myriah,” he spat, forgetting to title her ‘Princess’. “In truth, I doubt any man could, given your own overly high opinion of yourself.” Venom poured from him, spurred by wounded pride. “Go back to Dorne, then, and marry whatever old goat they’ve saddled you with. Wear your perfumed silks and—” “That’s enough.” Oberyn Martell’s voice cut through Viserys’s tirade. The Red Viper stepped closer, his nose inches from Viserys’s. Oberyn’s hand rested on the pommel of his dagger. “Apologize to the Princess. Now.” Viserys swallowed, his pulse banging. Apologize? In front of all these people? Never. “She should apologize to me,” he retorted, lifting his chin. “No one rejects a Targaryen prince without consequence.” He realized his tone had grown shrill but plowed on. “I only offered her what any woman would desire—a chance to be with a dragon. But apparently she prefers the company of sand adders.”
A collective gasp came from the listeners. Oberyn’s eyes went deadly narrow. “You spoiled, plaguey whelp,” he hissed. “How dare—”
“Is there a problem here?” Rhaegar’s commanding voice suddenly interposed. The King laid a hand on Viserys’s shoulder. Viserys flinched and tried to shrug it off, but Rhaegar’s grip tightened in warning. Oberyn straightened, inclining his head with stiff courtesy. “Ask your brother, Sire. He has been insulting my house quite freely.” Rhaegar’s eyes flicked between Oberyn’s furious face, Myriah’s embarrassed tears welling, and Viserys’s trembling rage. “Viserys,” Rhaegar said quietly, “what have you done?” Viserys bristled. “Nothing that any man wouldn’t do in pursuit of a woman he—he admires,” he spat out. “It was all harmless talk.” Myriah barked a short laugh of disbelief, wiping one eye. Rhaegar’s face darkened. “Harmless? I think not.” He nodded to Myriah, contrition in his gaze. “Princess Myriah, you have my deepest apologies. My brother’s conduct is inexcusable.” Viserys felt something in him crack. Rhaegar was apologizing on his behalf? Publicly? He jerked away from Rhaegar’s hand and stepped back, voice rising. “Stop coddling them! She—she led me on, Rhaegar! Smiled and danced and then spat on me!”
Now Myriah gasped, and Oberyn looked murderous. Rhaegar’s visage turned to cold steel. “Enough.” He all but growled the word. Two Kingsguard had arrived behind Viserys—Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan, poised to intervene if needed. Rhaegar held their gaze and gave a subtle shake of his head; they stayed back. Rhaegar then addressed Oberyn and Myriah with an air of weary regret. “My family has wronged yours this night. I will see that suitable recompense is made. Prince Oberyn, I think it best you escort your niece to the guest quarters. She needn’t endure any more.” Oberyn gave a curt nod and put a supportive arm around Myriah. He shot Viserys a final look of unfiltered loathing. “If he were not your blood, I’d put him down like the little cur he is,” Oberyn said flatly to Rhaegar, not even deigning to address Viserys directly. Viserys lunged at that, screaming, “I’ll kill you, you snake, I’ll—!” But Jaime Lannister seized him from behind, strong arms pinning his as he thrashed.
“Gods be good, Viserys, STOP!” Rhaegar thundered. It was so rare for him to raise his voice that it froze everyone in earshot. Viserys ceased struggling, panting. Jaime slowly released him but remained ready. Oberyn inclined his head mockingly. “He is all yours, Your Grace.” With that, the Dornish prince guided Myriah swiftly out of the hall. The throng of courtiers parted to let them pass, and immediately conversation exploded in hushed, excited whispers. Viserys felt every eye on him—shock, amusement, scorn. His face burned hotter than dragonflame.
Rhaegar turned to Jaime. “Ser Jaime, please tell the servants to bring out the dessert. This needn’t stop the celebrations.” Jaime bowed and hurried to obey, clapping for attention and announcing the King’s will. As the crowd grew distracted by the large plates of dessert brought out, Rhaegar faced Viserys. The King’s face was white with controlled fury and— worse—disappointment. Viserys opened his mouth to stammer some defense, but Rhaegar cut him off. “Not here,” Rhaegar said in a low tone. “You will come with me. Now.” He nodded to Barristan, who stepped forward. Viserys found himself being practically frog-marched by the two white knights as Rhaegar strode ahead, leading them out of the throne room via a side door. They ended up in a small council chamber adjacent to the hall, empty at this late hour save for flickering wall sconces. Rhaegar rounded on Viserys the moment the door shut. Barristan and Jaime hovered just outside to ensure privacy, leaving the brothers alone. Rhaegar’s purple eyes blazed. “What in the name of the Seven were you thinking?” he demanded, voice low and harsh. Viserys swallowed, adrenaline and wine still coursing, making him jitter. “I was thinking I deserve— something, ” he burst out. “I’m a prince of this realm too, or have you forgotten? Everyone else certainly has. I wanted her, Rhaegar. Am I to have nothing I desire, ever?” Rhaegar’s face softened just a fraction at the raw hurt in Viserys’s voice. But his tone stayed stern. “We all want things, Viserys. But as men—and princes—we can’t always take them. Certainly not by force or by causing a scandal.” Viserys laughed bitterly.
“You of all people lecture me on scandal? You started a war over a woman you wanted!”
Rhaegar recoiled as if struck. Viserys immediately regretted it; a flash of fear went through him. Would Rhaegar hit him? He almost hoped he would—at least then something real would cut through the mire of humiliation and resentment choking Viserys’s throat. But Rhaegar only closed his eyes briefly, mastering himself. When he opened them, there was sorrow in his gaze. “Perhaps I deserve that rebuke. But I atoned for my mistakes. Will you atone for yours? Or will you continue down this path of folly?” Viserys trembled with rage and despair. “You make it sound so easy,” he hissed. “Atonement, wisdom, blah blah. What do you know of what it’s like to be me? Third wheel, unnecessary, ignored!” Rhaegar’s brows knit. “Is that truly how you see yourself?” Viserys bared his teeth in something like a snarl. “If I died tomorrow, would anything change? You have your perfect little son. And I am left to rot. You named me Prince of Dragonstone to honor father’s wishes and still everyone knows Aegon will eventually take that title! I have no seat, no prospects... The Martells whisper I’m naught but a spare, and a half-mad one like Father at that!”
His voice cracked on the word father. Rhaegar stepped forward then, and to Viserys’s shock, pulled him into a sudden embrace. Viserys stiffened, every muscle locked in indignation—then, unbidden, he began to sob raggedly against Rhaegar’s shoulder. For a moment, neither spoke. Rhaegar held him, one hand cradling the back of Viserys’s head like he was a little boy again. Finally Rhaegar said softly,
“I’m sorry, little brother. I have neglected you. In trying to mend the realm, I failed to see your wounds.”
Viserys choked, trying to regain composure. He pulled back, wiping angrily at his nose.
“Don’t—don’t pity me,”
he muttered. Rhaegar shook his head.
“It’s not pity. It’s remorse.”
He guided Viserys to a chair and sat him down, then knelt so they were at eye level. The King of the Seven Kingdoms knelt before him. It made Viserys uncomfortable, but also strangely soothed a raw ache in him.
“Viserys,”
Rhaegar said gently,
“you are my blood, my true brother. I love you. I do not want you feeling as if you’re unnecessary. If I’ve made you feel so, I deeply apologize. I named you Prince of Dragonstone to honor father’s wish–he did not want me as heir in his final moments, so I gave it to you..even if it took me a few years to come to terms with that. Why do you think I made Stannis Lord of Dragonstone? If you
actually
ran Dragonstone, you would be much more str
essed than you are now. Why should I rob you of your childhood? Mother wouldn’t have wanted that. Aegon is already being groomed to be King, he will not have the freedoms you do. And you get to marry for love, while his own wife is already chosen It is he who should be jealous of you.”
Viserys stared at his own hands, which were reddened from clenching fists. He didn’t know what to say. Some small, childish part of him just wanted Rhaegar to fix it all—to fix him. Rhaegar continued, “All this anger in you... it’s poison. It will destroy you if you let it. I know. I’ve battled such demons myself after Father’s end.” He placed a hand on Viserys’s knee. “I can arrange better for you in the meantime. Perhaps a position on the small council when you’re older—Grand Maester Pycelle could use an assistant, or we could send you to Oldtown for broadening education. Or if it’s marriage you desire, we can find a suitable match that will bring you happiness and standing. But you have to meet me halfway, brother. You have to control your temper and make amends for tonight.” Viserys bit his lip hard. Marriage and position dangled before him—things he craved. And yet, the stubborn pride in him balked. “They all hate me now,” he said, voice flat. “No one will want me on the council or married to their daughter after this.” Rhaegar offered a small sad smile. “No one who matters hates you. Oberyn will calm in time—though you’ll need to apologize to him and to Princess Myriah properly tomorrow.”
Viserys grimaced. That would be a bitter draught. But perhaps, if it salvaged something of his reputation... Rhaegar rose from his kneel, sitting now in the chair beside Viserys. “Viserys, you’re not a child anymore. You’re… developing …and these urges and feelings are normal. But if you let them rule you, you’ll ruin yourself and others.” He sighed. “Father could never master his impulses. I pray you won’t follow that path.” Viserys flinched. “I’m not like him,” he whispered fiercely, but in truth he worried at times that he was. Rhaegar nodded. “No, you’re not. You had the courage to speak your pain to me. Father never did with his own hurts.” He put an arm around Viserys’s shoulders. “We have time to right things. You’re fourteen—you will grow into your role, and I’ll be there to guide you better henceforth. I promise.” Viserys leaned into the half-embrace despite himself. He was so tired suddenly. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving throbbing regret. “I made a fool of myself,” he mumbled.
Rhaegar’s lips twitched in a faint grin. “A bit, yes. But the world keeps turning. We’ll move forward.” He stood, patting Viserys once. “Now, we had better let you rest. A cool bath and some dreamwine from Maester Colemon will help. Tomorrow we begin mending fences.” Viserys inhaled, steeling himself. “I’ll apologize,” he said, voice raw. “To her and Oberyn and... and you.” Rhaegar gave him a long look, full of affection. “Thank you.” As they left the chamber, Viserys mustered courage to ask quietly, “Rhaegar... will I truly have a seat on the council someday? Something meaningful? I know I am the Prince of Dragonstone but..for how long? Rhaegar paused, then nodded solemnly. “Do not worry about Dragonstone, you will rule it in due time. And if you earn it and desire it, yes. I foresee you could be Master of Coin in a few years, or even Hand to Aegon when he’s older. Your sharp mind shouldn’t go to waste.” Lord of Dragonstone, Master of Coin, Hand of the King... Viserys straightened a little, hope kindling. “I’d like that,” he murmured.
He wanted it all.
Rhaegar smiled and draped his cloak around Viserys’s shoulders to hide the dishevelment of his torn collar. Together, they walked down the corridor toward Viserys’s chambers, past Barristan who fell in step silently behind. Before reaching the door, Viserys hesitated. “Rhaegar... I am sorry,” he said again, awkwardly. “For everything. I’ll try to be better.” Rhaegar squeezed his arm gently. “That is all I ask, little brother.” And for the first time in a long while, Viserys felt not like a spare or an afterthought, but like a part of something larger—his family, flawed yet redeemable. His steps felt a touch lighter as he entered his chambers. Perhaps tomorrow wouldn’t be so terrible after all.
Chapter 12: Chapter Eight: Ned
Chapter Text
Ned Stark sat stiffly at the long trestle table, turning a half-empty cup of wine between his hands. The King’s Name Day feast roared on around him in a blur of color and sound—laughter, music, the rich scents of spiced beef and honeyed duck. Yet Ned felt out of place amid the southern pageantry. He always did. The North was in his bones; even dressed in a fine doublet of gray wool with a direwolf of white silk on the breast, he felt like a great stone in a river, solid and still while strange currents rushed past. It had been years since Ned last feasted in King’s Landing. The last time was under very different circumstances—Aerys Targaryen had summoned his father and brother to court, only to murder them in this very city. That had been the start of the war, the war that nearly destroyed them all. A lifetime ago , it seemed. Now Ned was here at a celebratory feast hosted by King Rhaegar Targaryen. A peace forged in dragonfire and blood made this gathering possible, but peace it was. The world turned upside down , Ned mused.
He took a careful sip of the sweet Arbor red in his cup. Wine was never his preference, but he needed something to wet his dry throat. He had been quiet for most of the evening, letting others converse around him. To his left, Greatjon Umber and Howland Reed were exchanging tales (exaggerated ones, likely) of the skirmishes they’d seen in the war-that-was-not-quite. Across the table, Ned could hear Roose Ryswell complaining about the southern heat to a bored-looking Manderly cousin. The northern lords who had accompanied Ned to King’s Landing were enjoying the crown’s hospitality well enough, though they too seemed slightly ill at ease among so many strangers. Ned’s mind was not on their talk, however. It was on the dark-haired woman seated further down the table among Queen Elia’s ladies.
Lady Ashara Dayne.
He had stolen glances at her all evening, unable to help himself. She was even lovelier than he remembered. Ashara wore a gown of flowing amethyst silk that set off her violet eyes. Those eyes had met Ned’s only briefly so far tonight, but in those moments his heart had nearly stopped. Seven hells, he felt like a boy of ten-and-five again, flush with infatuation. It was absurd. He was a grown man, a second son. And she—Ashara Dayne was a highborn lady of Dorne, unattached and likely courted by many. Why should she think twice of Ned Stark, who had barely spoken a dozen words to her in his life? Yet he dared to hope. At the great Harrenhal tourney years ago, they had shared a dance—one glorious, awkward dance that had left Ned’s cheeks burning and his heart light. Ashara had laughed with him that night, not at him, and he had never forgotten it. In the intervening years, tragedy and war had intervened. Ashara’s brother Ser Arthur Dayne had stood beside Prince Rhaegar; Ned had faced them as enemies until the day Rhaegar brokered peace. After the war, Ned assumed he would never see Lady Ashara again. But fortune had proved him wrong. Here they both were, survivors of all that chaos, brought together by chance once more.
A burst of warm laughter drew Ned from his thoughts. Lord Yohn Royce had wandered over, bronze armor and all, to clap Ned on the back. “Why so dour, boy?” Royce boomed genially. “Not enjoying the King’s fine feast? There’s Dornish wine enough to float a ship!” Ned managed a polite smile for the Vale lord he’d known since youth. “The feast is grand indeed, my lord. I am merely… out of my element.” Royce chuckled. “Ha! A fish out of water, eh? No shame in it. These southern gatherings are tame as a sept’s sermon compared to a hearty winter’s feast in Winterfell, I wager.” He grinned, then leaned in conspiratorially. “If you ask me, Stark, you’d look a deal happier dancing with one of these pretty ladies than sulking with us old warriors.” Lord Royce gave a significant nod down the table, straight toward Lady Ashara and the cluster of ladies-in-waiting. Ned felt heat creep up his neck. Was he so transparent? He lowered his eyes, fumbling for a reply. Royce laughed again. “Go on, lad. The music’s starting up again. Give the young folk something to talk about besides for Viserys’ outburst.” With a final clap on Ned’s shoulder, Lord Royce moved off, the bronze runes on his armor glinting as he returned to regale others with some tale.
Ned set down his cup and glanced toward the center of the hall, where musicians were indeed tuning up another tune. Several couples were already gathering to dance. He recognized Prince Oberyn twirling a dark-haired Tyrell lady onto the floor with a flamboyant flourish. Others followed—young nobles laughing as they took partners. And there was Ashara Dayne, rising gracefully from her seat. She said something to the lady beside her (Ellaria Sand, Oberyn’s paramour, Ned recalled), then stepped forward, eyes scanning the hall expectantly. The candlelight gilded the edges of her long black hair and cast a warm glow on her olive Dornish skin. She looked almost ethereal. Ned’s heart hammered in his chest. Now or never, he told himself. He stood, nearly knocking over his bench in his haste. Taking a steadying breath, he walked around the table, weaving past loitering courtiers, until he was but a few steps from Ashara. She noticed him as he approached and a radiant smile bloomed on her lips. “Lord Eddard,” Ashara said, dipping into a respectful curtsey. There was a playful light in her eyes. “Or is it Ned? I remember you preferred Ned.” He bowed, a bit more deeply than necessary to hide the flush on his face. “Ned is fine, my lady. It… it has been a long time.”
“It has,” she agreed, straightening. Ashara’s voice was low and melodious, cutting through the din of the hall. “I was pleasantly surprised to hear the Northerners had come south for the Name Day. I wasn’t sure I would ever have the chance to see you again.” Her words sent a hopeful flutter through Ned. “I could say the same, Lady Ashara. When last we met… well, things were different.” Ashara’s smile softened. “They were. The world seemed to turn upside down after Harrenhal, didn’t it?” Ned nodded, not trusting himself to speak immediately. That fateful tourney at Harrenhal had set so much into motion—Rhaegar’s crowning of Lyanna as Queen of Love and Beauty, the tensions that followed, the bloodshed narrowly averted. A somber shadow passed over Ned’s mood at the thought of how close they had come to ruin. But here Ashara stood, alive and unbroken. The musicians struck up a lively Dornish tune on pipes and drums. Ashara arched a dark eyebrow at Ned. “ Do you dance, Ned Stark?” He managed a chuckle. “Poorly, as you may recall. I fear I stepped on your toes more than once that night at Harrenhal.”
She laughed, a bright sound that made Ned’s chest swell. “I recall no such thing. What I remember is a kind young man who treated me like a lady, when others only saw a Dornish outsider to gossip about.” Her eyes glimmered at him. “Would you honor me with another dance?” Ned’s throat felt tight. He offered his hand to her, praying it wasn’t shaking. “It would be my honor, Ashara.” She placed her hand in his (her skin was soft, warm) and allowed him to lead her onto the cleared space of the floor. They joined the swirl of other couples moving to the music. Ned had never been a confident dancer, but he had been well-schooled by Maester Walys in the steps of formal court dances. He did his best now to recall them. They began a slow turn about each other, Ned’s left hand clasping Ashara’s right, his other lightly on her waist. The Dornish tune had a sultry rhythm quite unlike the simple reels of the North. Ned followed Ashara’s lead when unsure, and she moved with natural grace, guiding him with subtle pressure of her fingers when to step or turn. Before long, he found his nerves easing. Dancing with her felt surprisingly right—as though their bodies remembered a familiarity from that long-ago night under the Harrenhal torches.
Ashara smiled up at him. She was only a few inches shorter than he; her eyes met his easily. “You’ve improved,” she teased gently. Ned huffed a soft laugh. “You’re kind to say so. My sister Lyanna always said I dance like a lame goose.” Ashara grinned. “Lyanna Stark—now there was a wild one. I liked her spirit at Harrenhal. I was sorry about… everything that befell her.” A shadow flickered in Ashara’s eyes. Ned felt a pang at the mention of his sister. Lyanna was safe and home now, but not without cost. “She’s well enough these days,” he said quietly. “I think oft times her heart is still in mourning, but she hides it. She remained at Winterfell; her place is with our people.” Ashara nodded gently. “I’m glad she’s alive.” Her tone held genuine warmth. “Not everyone got a happy ending, but I’m glad your family did, more or less.” Ned looked at Ashara’s face, at the faint freckle just above her left cheekbone, at the way a loose wisp of black hair curled by her ear. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her directly. “You lost people too,” he said. “I know the war... your sister Allyria died…in the riot…and others.” He did not mention Arthur Dayne; Ser Arthur yet lived, standing across the hall in his Kingsguard whites near the dais. Ned had caught Ser Arthur’s eye when he led Ashara to dance—Arthur had given him a nod of courteous approval. That had eased Ned’s mind somewhat; he did not wish to incur the Sword of the Morning’s ire by courting his sister.
“Yes,” Ashara murmured in answer to his remark. “War spares no one entirely, does it? My sister came here to serve as a lady-in-waiting and ended up…trampled. There was so much chaos that her guard was overwhelmed. And Elia—” Ashara lowered her voice further. “Well, Elia Martell lost much. But she endures.” She flicked her gaze toward Queen Elia, who sat on the dais beside King Rhaegar, watching the dancers with a serene smile. “Her Grace is kind to include me among her companions. It has been a new adventure, to be sure. Although I wish my sister was still here beside me.” “I understand.. And are you…happy here?” Ned asked hesitantly, guiding her through a slow spin as the music shifted tempo. Ashara considered for a moment. “I miss Dorne’s skies and the taste of the sea at Starfall. But King’s Landing has its charms. The children— Princess Rhaenys and little Prince Aegon—are sweet as can be. And Elia treats me like a sister. I’ve made friends here.” She glanced up at him. “Still…there are days I feel a stranger among all this southern pomp and courtiership. I’m no good at the game of thrones and whispers.” Ned smiled ruefully. “Neither am I. The whispers tire me. I’d sooner face a snowstorm on the barrowlands than a scheming courtier.” Ashara laughed, and Ned’s heart soared at the sound. “Perhaps that’s why we get on,” she said lightly. “We’re neither of us made for the intrigue.”
They fell into a comfortable silence as the dance brought them closer together, then apart in a slow circle. Ned savored every second—the soft slide of her hand in his, the scent of jasmine in her hair. He realized with a start that his nervousness had melted away; he felt calm, almost brave. When the music ended on a final lilting note, the dancers paused to applaud the musicians. Ned and Ashara drew apart slightly, their hands still loosely joined. Around them other couples were already stepping away or trading partners as a faster song prepared to start. Ned barely noticed. His attention was wholly on Ashara, and hers on him. She squeezed his hand. “Care to take a turn about the hall, my lord?” The corners of her eyes crinkled with a hint of mischief. “It’s rather stuffy in here. Perhaps some fresh air?” His heart thumped. “I’d like that. Come, I saw a door to the gardens.” He led her off the dance floor. They wove through clusters of merrymakers—Ned nodding polite excuses to those who tried to hail him. He caught a flash of bright Lannister crimson among a group of knights and recognized Ser Jaime standing with a gathering of Gold Cloaks. Jaime gave Ned a curious glance as he passed with Ashara on his arm. Ned paid it no mind.
They slipped out through a side archway draped with ivy and found themselves in the Red Keep’s small godswood. It was a peaceful enclave, lit by silver moonlight and the soft glow of hanging lanterns. The heart tree here was only a young weirwood with a slender trunk; its red eyes wept sap silently in the still night. But to Ned, the presence of a godswood anywhere south was a comfort. He drew a deep breath of the night air, tasting salt from Blackwater Bay and the perfume of evening blooms. Ashara sighed appreciatively. “Oh, that’s better. I love Elia dearly, but she does pack the hall with twice as many people as it can hold for these fetes.” Ned chuckled. “Winterfell’s hall is open and drafty even in summer. I’m used to a chill.” They walked slowly along a flagstone path. The sounds of music and laughter from the feast were distant now, muffled by thick hedges. Here in the godswood, crickets chirped in the grass and a breeze whispered through the oak and ash trees. Glancing upward, Ned glimpsed a handful of stars peeking through the haze of King’s Landing’s lights.
Ashara loosened her arm from his and wandered a step ahead, brushing her fingers along a spray of white moonbloom flowers trailing over a low stone wall. “I remember the godswood at Harrenhal,” she said softly. “They had a great old weirwood, ancient as sin. You could feel eyes on you from it wherever you stood.” Ned gave a small smile. “The Old Gods watch, even in the south.” He hesitated. “Do you follow them at all?” She shook her head. “I was raised on the Seven, mostly. Dorne’s a mix of beliefs. We’ve few weirwoods in the mountains. But I’ve nothing against the old gods. They suit you Starks.” “They do,” Ned agreed quietly. He watched as Ashara plucked one of the moonbloom blossoms from the vine. She turned and tucked it playfully into the lapel of Ned’s doublet. “There,” she said, tilting her head to examine the effect. “A bit of southern bloom to take back to the North.” Ned looked down at the pale blossom pinned to his gray wool. “I fear it will wilt long before I reach Winterfell.” Ashara’s expression grew a touch more serious. “When do you return home?” “In a few days, I expect,” Ned answered. “We’ve been away a fortnight already between travel and the festivities. My father…” He trailed off uncertainly. “Lord Rickard?” Ashara prompted gently.
Ned nodded, brow furrowing. “He remains hale in spirit, but age weighs on him of late. My brother Brandon writes that Father’s cough worsened.” He hadn’t meant to unburden that worry, but with Ashara the words came easily. “I confess, part of me feels I should not have come south at all, given his health. But Father insisted I represent him here, since Brandon is tied up with duties at Winterfell.” Ashara laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. I pray for his swift recovery. The North needs its strong lord.” “Thank you,” Ned said quietly. They strolled on a bit, past a mossy septstone bench and the slender heart tree. Fireflies danced between the leaves. Ned’s thoughts churned. Lord Royce’s blunt encouragement, the drinks he’d had earlier, the dreamlike unreality of being here with Ashara—all combined to embolden him. He stopped beneath the weirwood and faced her. “Ashara,” he began, his voice catching slightly. “I—this may be forward. But I’ve thought of you often these past years. Wondered if you were well…wondered if, if we might ever meet again.” He swallowed. The weirwood’s carved red eyes seemed to bore into him, demanding honesty. “Dorne and the North are far apart. I know that. Our houses, our cultures… they’re worlds away. But after tonight—” He took a steadying breath. “I would court you, if—if you were willing. I would speak to my father about a betrothal. If that is something you desire.”
There. He had said it. His heart hammered in the silence that followed. Ashara gazed up at him, her face partly in moon-shadow, partly limned in silver light. Ned feared he had been too bold.
But then Ashara smiled, slowly and radiantly, and Ned felt hope surge within him. She stepped closer, so that the fabric of her skirts brushed against his legs. “I think I would like that, Ned Stark,” she said softly. Her tone held a gentle joy that made Ned’s breath catch. “Ashara,” he murmured, and gently, haltingly, he raised a hand to her cheek. When she did not pull away, he cupped her face and leaned down to press his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, tentative—and all too brief, for Ned’s head was swimming and he broke away before his composure utterly deserted him. Ashara’s eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed a lovely rose. Ned realized his own hands were trembling slightly where they still rested against her face. She placed her own hands over them, steadying him. “Dearest Ned,” she whispered. “You have my answer. Yes. I will wait—go and speak to Lord Rickard. If he consents, I will gladly be your wife.” Joy burst inside him as surely as if the heart tree had bloomed in mid-summer. Ned let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He pulled her into an embrace, feeling her arms slip around his back as naturally as if they belonged there.
For a long moment they stood beneath the weirwood entwined, two souls forming a quiet promise under the gaze of old gods and new stars. Ned felt a fierce gratitude—to the gods, to chance, to whatever had delivered this second chance for happiness into his hands. After a few moments, the sound of footsteps filled the air, Ser Arthur appearing outside. He looked between the two in amusement for a moment before inclining his head towards Ned. “Lord Stark. It seems I owe you gratitude—Ashara looks quite…content tonight.” Ned flushed a bit, but returned the knight’s nod. “The honor was mine, Ser Arthur. Your sister is…” He trailed off, not wanting to be too familiar without permission. Arthur’s smile widened a fraction. “She’s quite singular, I know.” He placed a gloved hand on Ashara’s shoulder gently. “We should retire, Ashara. There’s rumor the King will hold council first thing in the morning over Viserys’ folly.” He shot a glance at Ned. “And you, my lord—if I may advise—get some rest. Tomorrow may prove eventful.” Ned got the sense the Kingsguard knew more than he let on, but he only said, “Sound counsel. I’ll bid you both good night, then.” He turned to Ashara, softening his voice. “Thank you for the dance, my lady. And for everything.” Ashara curtsied gracefully, but Ned noticed the shimmer of tears in her eyes—happy tears, he hoped. “Good night, Ned. We’ll speak on the morrow.” They parted, Ned reluctantly letting go of her hand as Arthur led Ashara toward the doors. Ashara glanced back over her shoulder to give Ned one last radiant smile, one that promised a bright future despite the night’s end.
Ned stood there a moment, heart full despite the surrounding tension. He felt as though some divine gift had been bestowed upon him beneath that weirwood tonight. I will not squander it, he vowed silently. By the time Ned returned to his chambers in the Red Keep’s guest wing, the hour was very late. Yet his mind raced too much for easy sleep. The events of the day played over and over: the joust with the mystery knight injuring the Dornishman, the simmering resentments, and then Viserys’s appalling outburst. Tywin Lannister’s smug face from the tourney stands flashed in Ned’s memory too; something told him the Lion of Casterly Rock had a role in fanning these flames. But overshadowing all the rest was the shining memory of Ashara’s embrace, her yes beneath the godswood trees. Ned removed the moonbloom flower from his lapel—miraculously it had not fallen during the later commotion—and set it carefully between the pages of a book to press and keep. A small token, but he would cherish it. At last, Ned drifted into a fitful sleep dreaming of violet eyes and warm laughter echoing among ancient weirwoods.
Chapter 13: Chapter Nine: Rhaegar
Notes:
Happy Labor Day Weekend! Since I posted late last week, I'm posting the chapters an hour early and it will be three chapters instead of two, seeing as Chapter Ten is rather short. Enjoy!
Chapter Text
The feast had concluded, yet Rhaegar had remained awake, ensuring he tended to the guests and kept the air light despite his younger brother’s antics. The hall was nearly empty now, save a few guards at the far exit and Oberyn, whom he had summoned back to the throne room. It was just the King and the Red Viper now. Oberyn regarded Rhaegar with an inscrutable expression. “Your Grace,” he said finally, inclining his head. His tone was formal, but Rhaegar heard the suppressed anger crackling beneath. Rhaegar drew a slow breath. “Oberyn, I cannot find words to express my regret. My brother has disgraced House Targaryen tonight. I will do everything in my power to make amends to your family.” Oberyn’s dark eyes searched Rhaegar’s face. “I know you will try,” he said. “But the fact remains that Viserys Targaryen threatened my kin with…with rape.” He spat the word quietly, as if it burned his tongue. “If he were anyone else, I would demand a blood price, King’s brother or no.” Rhaegar felt a stab of shame on Viserys’s behalf. “I understand. You would be within your rights.”
“Do you?” Oberyn’s voice was low. “Prince Viserys insulted House Martell in the grossest way. Were Doran here, I don’t doubt he would demand Viserys’s head or at least his tongue.” He paused, eyes flashing. “And Tywin Lannister… I am certain that snake was whispering in your brother’s ear to embolden such venom. Today at the tourney, tonight at the feast—this reeks of Lannister scheming.” Rhaegar held Oberyn’s gaze. He could not disagree. “I suspect you’re right,” he said heavily. “Tywin’s fingerprints are on much of this day’s troubles, I fear. But I must proceed carefully.” Oberyn let out a bitter breath. “Carefully. Yes, that is always our lot, to handle Tywin Lannister with care while he stabs us under the table.” “Not this time,” Rhaegar said, a sudden resolve hardening within him. He placed a hand on Oberyn’s shoulder. “I will not ignore what happened at the tourney. And I will not allow Tywin or anyone to endanger the peace we’ve built. I promise you, Oberyn—there will be justice. For Ser Arron Qorgyle, and for this insult to Myriah.” Oberyn studied him, and slowly some of the tension left his stance. “Justice,” he repeated, with a weary nod. “Do what you must, Your Grace. Dorne will be watching.” With that, the Red Viper took his leave.
Rhaegar stood alone in the vast, quiet room for a moment, the echoes of the evening’s chaos swirling in his mind. He felt tired to his bones, but there would be little sleep for him this night. Tywin’s machinations had brought things to a head. Enough . It was time to root out this poison from his court once and for all. “ Varys,” Rhaegar called softly, knowing the Master of Whisperers was likely lurking somewhere nearby. A shuffling sound, and then from behind a marble column glided the plump, bald form of Lord Varys. He was dressed in an ornate robe of blue silk, hands tucked into voluminous sleeves. His perfumed presence had gone unnoticed by most during the feast, but Rhaegar had no doubt Varys had observed everything. Varys approached with a deep bow. “Your Grace. How may I serve?” Rhaegar regarded the spymaster. Varys’s powdered face was the picture of humble concern. Some found the eunuch unsettling, but Rhaegar had learned to value his counsel. “Walk with me,” Rhaegar said.
He led Varys out of the great hall and into a side corridor lit by flickering torches. The sounds of the last departing guests faded behind them. Two Kingsguard, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime, silently fell into step at a respectful distance—his ever-watchful shadows. Rhaegar strode down the corridor, Varys close at his side.
Without preamble, Rhaegar began, “The Knight of the Lions. What have your little birds found?” Varys’s eyes darted about to ensure no one else was in earshot. In a hushed tone, he replied, “A rather large bird, actually, Your Grace. A mountain, one might say. My whispers confirm Ser Gregor Clegane left the city within an hour after the jousting incident. He rode out the Gate of the Gods under cover of some confusion —apparently a cart of hay caught fire there and drew the guards’ attention. A timely distraction.” Rhaegar’s lips pressed into a line. “Ser Gregor indeed. And a Lannister man through and through.” He already knew it in his heart, but hearing the confirmation still made anger flare in his chest. “Where did he go?” “Westward, it seems,” Varys said. “Perhaps to join his brother at Casterly Rock, or hide on one of the Lannisters’ lesser estates. Hard to say precisely; he’s vanished for now.” Rhaegar nodded grimly. He had expected as much—Gregor would scurry to his master’s protection. “And what of the lead-up to this? Did you learn anything about how this scheme was arranged?” Varys pursed his lips. “Little birds tell me that Ser Gregor kept to the Lannister encampment outside the city for two days prior. Never showed his face at court, which is unusual given his appetite for the feasts. It’s as if he were purposely keeping a low profile… until the tourney. One might surmise he was under instructions to remain hidden until the joust.”
“Yes,” Rhaegar agreed quietly. “Tywin likely brought him here in secret for this very purpose.” The thought of it made him seethe. Tywin Lannister had not only orchestrated a violent spectacle that nearly killed a man—he had chosen a target of clear personal significance to Oberyn. Ser Arron Qorgyle was kin to Oberyn’s paramour; Rhaegar had learned that detail from Elia afterward. Tywin could claim it was chance, but Rhaegar suspected it was by design, a cruelty calculated to provoke the Dornish prince’s wrath. It nearly had. “And what of Grand Maester Pycelle?” Rhaegar asked next, turning a corner. They passed an empty antechamber where a pair of long Targaryen tapestries hung, the three-headed dragon woven in silver thread. “Have you looked into those treasury ledgers he presented last week? The losses he reported struck me as…unexpected.” A glimmer of something clever shone in Varys’s eyes. “I have, Your Grace. Indeed, I took the liberty of cross checking those numbers with Master of Coin Baelish’s own accounts. Lord Baelish was most helpful…he is quite adept despite being the youngest council member.” Varys allowed himself a small smile. “As I suspected, someone tampered with the figures before they ever reached Your Grace. The shortfalls were wildly overstated. There is no large secret deficit—merely a slight overexpenditure on the royal progress, easily covered by taxes from the recent trade fairs.”
Rhaegar stopped walking. They stood in a pool of torchlight beneath one of the tapestries. He looked hard at Varys. “So Pycelle lied to my face about the realm’s finances.”
“Or someone convinced him to adjust the totals,” Varys said delicately. “The Grand Maester is rather… devoted to Lord Tywin’s interests. They correspond frequently. And one of my little mice in the keep’s archive chamber reports that Pycelle spent a long night copying figures just a day before he delivered that alarming financial report to the council.” Rhaegar felt anger tightening the muscles of his neck. It all fit. Tywin Lannister had been working behind the scenes to undermine him—poisoning Viserys’s mind, turning Pycelle into a purveyor of false troubles, inciting conflict at the tourney. The man likely thought himself astute and subtle, but Rhaegar saw the through line clearly now. He resumed walking, fists clenched at his sides. “Thank you, Lord Varys. That will be all for tonight.” He paused, and added in a lower voice, “And… thank you for ensuring cooler heads prevailed tonight.” Varys bowed low. “I live to serve the realm and its peace, Your Grace.” With that, the Master of Whisperers slipped away down a side passage, as quiet as a breeze. Rhaegar stood for a moment, collecting himself. The flicker of torches cast shadow-dragons across the walls. He sighed.
“Ser Barristan,” Rhaegar said, turning to the Kingsguard behind him. The white-cloaked knight stepped forward immediately, hand on the hilt of his sword in salute. Jaime Lannister hung back a pace behind him, golden hair shining in the torchlight, his face carefully blank. “My king,” said Barristan Selmy. “Gather the small council at first light tomorrow,” Rhaegar commanded. “In the council chamber. All members present. That includes Grand Maester Pycelle.” He met Barristan’s eyes. “And Lord Tywin Lannister, of course.” Barristan bowed. “At first light. Yes, Your Grace.” The Lord Commander’s face was calm but Rhaegar knew him well enough to sense a hint of curiosity, even concern, behind those dutiful eyes. “And Ser Barristan,” Rhaegar added, “quietly ask Ser Lewyn and Ser Oswell to keep watch on the Hand’s quarters tonight. I want to know if Lord Tywin attempts any… sudden departures from the city.” Barristan allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “As you will, sire.” Jaime Lannister shifted at that, a sudden tension in the line of his shoulders. Rhaegar glanced at the young knight. Jaime’s jaw was tight, and he looked as though he wanted to speak but was biting his tongue.
Rhaegar’s mouth twisted. He felt a pang of sympathy for Jaime, who had done nothing wrong tonight but would inevitably be caught between family and duty come morning. Better for him if Tywin remains ignorant until the council , Rhaegar thought. Jaime did not need warning of what was to come; he would learn soon enough. “Good night, Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime,” Rhaegar said quietly, dismissing them. They bowed and took up positions outside his bedchamber door as he entered.
Within, Rhaegar found Queen Elia waiting for him, seated at the edge of their great canopied bed. She had changed into a loose robe of deep blue, and her black hair tumbled over her shoulders. Despite the hour, she looked alert and concerned. Rhaegar shut the door and immediately his shoulders slumped, the weight of the day pressing down. Elia rose and came to him, taking his hands. “Is Viserys secure?” she asked softly. Rhaegar nodded. “Under guard and fuming, but secure. I managed to cool him off at least, he knows what is expected of him.” Elia sighed, resting her head briefly against Rhaegar’s chest. “I still cannot fathom the depths of his foolishness. Threatening Myriah so… vilely. I had thought him a petulant boy, but this…” She trailed off, shuddering slightly. Rhaegar stroked her hair. “I know.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s Tywin. I feel certain he stoked Viserys’s resentments. Perhaps even fed him wine and encouragement tonight.” Elia pulled back to look into Rhaegar’s eyes. “What will you do?” Rhaegar drew a breath. “Convene the council at dawn. Lay out what I know, what I suspect. And confront Lord Tywin with it.” Elia’s eyes widened. “Publicly? In front of the whole council?”
“Yes. It’s time.” Rhaegar led her to a cushioned seat near the window, where a gentle night breeze fluttered the curtains. They both sat. Through the window they could see the lights of King’s Landing, the city slowly settling into sleep after the tumultuous day. “Tywin undermined my reforms. He tried to sully Dorne’s honor and nearly shattered the fragile peace we’ve built. I cannot allow it.” Elia reached out and took his hand again. “No, you cannot. But… Rhaegar, he is proud. If you shame him in front of the council, he will not take it mildly.” Rhaegar’s mouth set in a hard line. “I expect not. But better a furious Tywin Lannister away in Casterly Rock than a plotting Tywin Lannister sitting at my right hand, smiling as he betrays me.” Elia nodded, though worry creased her brow. “Just… be careful. You know he will deny everything, twist words. He’s dangerous when cornered.” “I know.” Rhaegar lifted her hand and kissed it gently. “Fear not. I will do only what I must.” They sat a while in silence, drawing comfort from each other’s presence. After a time, Elia spoke again, her tone lighter, as if to distract them both from grim thoughts. “Did you see our Rhaenys dancing tonight?” A small smile graced her lips. Rhaegar let himself smile too, grateful for the change of subject. “I did. With young Willas Tyrell, no less. They made quite the pair.” Elia chuckled softly. “At one point they disappeared from the dance floor—do you know where I found them? Huddled under the high table, scribbling on a napkin.”
Rhaegar raised a brow. “Scribbling?”
Elia’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Yes. Sketching out some clever new design for irrigating the Water Gardens in Dorne, of all things. They were so engrossed that Rhaenys didn’t even notice her dress had a gravy stain on it from brushing against the table leg.” Despite everything, Rhaegar laughed. A warm pride blossomed in his chest. “Seven hells, what is Mace Tyrell feeding that boy? Willas can’t have seen more than sixteen name days, yet he’s discussing engineering projects with an seven-year-old princess at a feast.” “Seventeen, I think,” Elia said. “But yes, he’s as bookish as our Rhaenys. They bonded over their love of reading, apparently. I overheard Rhaenys telling him all about the canals in Braavos she read of. She was thrilled he knew the text.” Rhaegar shook his head in wonder. “It seems friendship knows no borders.” He paused, then added gently, “Mace Tyrell will surely try to turn that friendship to a betrothal.” Elia squeezed his hand. “No doubt. He was practically hovering behind them with a marriage contract in hand.” They shared a conspiratorial grin. But then Rhaegar’s smile faded a touch. “Would it be so bad? A Tyrell match for Rhaenys?”
Elia studied him. “Not bad, perhaps. Willas seems a kind soul. And Highgarden as an ally… well, it would be advantageous, especially if we lose the Lannisters’ favor after tomorrow.” Rhaegar nodded. “It’s something to consider. Though I won’t rush to promise our daughter’s hand. She’s still a child. And who knows, he may decide to marry a maiden his own age.” “No,” Elia agreed, “and I want her to choose her own love when the time comes, if possible.” She leaned her head on Rhaegar’s shoulder. “Still, it warms my heart to see that little spark between her and the Tyrell boy. After all the strife of older generations, here’s a new generation reaching out to one another. A Stark with a Dornishwoman, a Targaryen princess with a Tyrell… Perhaps the wounds of the past can truly heal.” Rhaegar kissed the top of Elia’s head. “That is what I fight for. A realm where such bonds are ordinary and grudges forgotten.” He sighed. “Though days like this remind me how fragile our peace still is. One man’s pride, one foolish insult… and it all teeters on the brink.” Elia wrapped her arms around him, embracing him firmly. “We will not let it fall. You will not let it fall. I have faith in you, Rhaegar. And so do many others—Ned Stark came to your side despite the past, Doran trusts you enough to send his kin here, even Robert Baratheon has held to the peace so far, bitter though he is. The only one rocking the boat is Tywin. Remove him, and perhaps the realm can settle.”
Rhaegar absorbed her words. She was right. Tywin was the one who would never truly accept the new order of things. He clung to old grievances and lust for supremacy. If removing him as Hand was what it took to secure the realm’s harmony, then so be it. “I will do it,” Rhaegar said quietly, with finality. “At dawn.” Elia tightened her hug briefly. “I’ll stand with you, whatever comes.” He held her close, grateful beyond measure for her support. Together they remained by the window a while longer, watching the stars fade as the first hint of dawn’s light crept into the sky.
The council chamber was chilly that morning, a sign of winter approaching as the sunlight filtered through the narrow windows high above, illuminating motes of dust swirling in the air. Rhaegar sat at the head of the long table, clad not in ornate robes but in a simple black doublet with the three-headed dragon of Targaryen embroidered on the breast. He wanted none of the pomp today—only clarity and authority. One by one, the small council members had assembled at the King’s summons. Jon Connington, his old friend and loyal bannerman, was there looking curious and a touch apprehensive along with Stannis Baratheon who had freshly arrived from Dragonstone. Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled to his seat, eyes darting nervously. Petyr Baelish arrived fashionably late, apologizing for the hour but clearly keen to see what would unfold. Varys glided in near-silently and took his place. Queen Elia attended as well, seated to Rhaegar’s left; as both queen and a princess of Dorne, her presence was important to him. And to Rhaegar’s right sat Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King. Tywin had swept into the council chamber in his crimson and gold, exuding an aura of cold confidence. He greeted Rhaegar and the others with polite indifference, as if nothing were amiss. But Rhaegar noted the faint shadows under the Lord of Casterly Rock’s green eyes. Perhaps Tywin had slept poorly, or not at all—maybe he, too, sensed the confrontation coming.
Tywin met Rhaegar’s gaze evenly when he sat, hands folded before him on the table.
“Your Grace,”
he said in his deep, measured voice.
“I trust all is well. An early council—what urgent matters require our attention?”
Rhaegar surveyed the faces around the table. Every eye was on him: curious, anxious, expectant. He felt a steely calm settle over him.
“Two matters of great import,”
he began.
“The events of yesterday demand reckoning. We have had an incident at the tourney, and one at the feast, both of which threaten the unity of this realm.”
A silence met his words. Tywin Lannister’s expression remained carefully neutral, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. Rhaegar went on,
“First, the tourney. A mystery knight styling himself the ‘Knight of the Lions’ brutally struck down Ser Arron Qorgyle of Dorne, gravely injuring him. The knight then fled. This alone is troubling enough, but I have cause to believe it was no mere chance mishap.”
Tywin gave a soft scoff.
“Your Grace, tourneys are dangerous by nature. Knights are unseated; injuries happen. I admit the mystery knight’s
behavior was… overzealous, but can we truly assign sinister motive? The fellow vanished—likely shamed by his own excess.”
“Not vanished, my lord,” Rhaegar said sharply. “Escaped. He fled the scene, abandoning his shield and prizes. That suggests a guilty conscience, does it not?” Tywin shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps he feared the Martells’ reprisal in the heat of the moment. If he were one of my bannermen, he might have worried Prince Oberyn would flay him on the spot, King’s peace or no. I hardly see how I could be held responsible for the violent impulses of a man who was not acting under my orders.” Rhaegar felt the flicker of anger catch flame within him. “Not under your orders? Lord Tywin, Gregor Clegane has long been your creature. He does nothing without promise of Lannister favor or reward.” He let that hang, then pressed on, not giving Tywin a chance to cut in. “And this is but one concern. We come to the feast—” Rhaegar’s voice wavered slightly with emotion despite himself. “Where my own brother uttered unspeakable slander and threats at a noble lady of House Martell. Prince Viserys’s words were his own, but it has not escaped my notice that he has been keeping company with certain knights who share a disdain for Dornishmen. Knights who look to you, Lord Tywin.”
Tywin’s eyes flashed. “Your Grace, I beg you consider—Viserys is a half a man and a prince. If he has drunk too deeply of some Stormlands malcontents’ grumblings, that is unfortunate. But to imply I held the cup to his lips—”
“You met with him privately, several times this past month,” Rhaegar interrupted sharply. He saw Pycelle wince and shrink in his seat, confirming the fact. “Do not deny it. You filled his head with poisonous sentiments—that I favor Dorne and the North at his expense. I know my brother, Tywin. Viserys has always been prideful and insecure. Someone stoked those embers into the blaze we saw last night.” Tywin stood abruptly, palms flat on the table. “If he spoke out of turn, that is regrettable, but you have no right—” Rhaegar rose as well, temper finally igniting.
“I have every right!” he thundered, the sound of his voice crackling off the stone walls.
All the council flinched at the rare show of fury from the normally composed king. Even Tywin stepped back, eyes widening slightly. Rhaegar’s violet eyes burned with righteous anger. “Tywin Lannister, I accuse you of undermining the peace of this realm for the sake of your personal pride and ambition. You have covertly falsified crown accounts to sabotage my policies—yes, do not look to Pycelle, I see your hand in that too.” Pycelle wilted under Rhaegar’s glare, confirming his guilt. “You orchestrated the cruelty at the tourney that nearly killed a man and insulted our allies. You encouraged my brother to publicly quarrel with the Martells, nearly provoking bloodshed in the very heart of my court!” The council was deathly silent. Tywin’s face had gone white with anger. Rhaegar felt years of pent-up frustration pour out. “For too long, I have tried to accommodate you,” he said fiercely. “Out of respect for your past service, I restored you as Hand, despite knowing your grievances. I hoped you would move forward and serve the realm’s good. Instead, you have sown discord at every turn. When I sought to reconcile with the Starks, you sneered in private. When I brought Dorne into harmony, you sought to break that bond out of spite. I will have it no more.”
Tywin’s nostrils flared. “Careful, Your Grace,” he said, and there was a tremor of barely contained wrath beneath the icy politeness of the words. “You speak of your Hand of the King—a man who has done nothing but labor for your father and yourself, keeping the kingdom strong. Every action I have taken was for the good of the realm, as I saw it.”
“For the good of House Lannister, you mean,” Rhaegar countered coldly. “When did forging peace and uniting the kingdoms ever matter to you beyond what advantage it brought your pride? The North bent the knee, yet you still brood over old slights. Dorne gave us loyalty and love, yet you undermine them out of pettiness. You think I do not see it?” Rhaegar leaned forward, hands on the table. “You falsified accounts to implicate a Dornishman, hoping to sour me on them. You brought Gregor Clegane here to punish my Dornish allies with violence and nearly murder a knight. You whispered in my brother’s ear that his birthright was stolen by Elia, her family-my own son , driving him to a disgusting outburst that shamed the crown. And why? Because you cannot bear that I choose peace over war, alliance over vendetta. Because you cannot stand that others sit near my throne when you feel you alone should shape my rule.” Tywin’s jaw worked soundlessly. Connington and Stannis Baratheon exchanged astonished glances; even Littlefinger looked stunned at Rhaegar’s raw indictment. Rhaegar drew himself up to his full height. “Lord Tywin, you have failed this realm. Your schemes nearly tore asunder the fragile concord we built. In light of these actions, I declare you unfit for the office you hold.”
Tywin’s eyes flashed. “You cannot mean—”
“You are relieved of your post as Hand of the King, effective immediately,” Rhaegar said, voice ringing. A collective intake of breath around the table. Jon Connington’s eyes widened in surprise and, Rhaegar thought, approval. Varys maintained a neutral mask, but Littlefinger looked positively gleeful under his puzzled facade. As for Tywin—color came rushing back to his face, red blotches blooming on the cheeks. “You dare,” he hissed softly. “After all these years… to dismiss me like a common steward.” Rhaegar held his gaze without flinching. “You dismissed yourself by betraying my trust and endangering the realm’s unity. Be grateful I do not demand a greater price for what could be construed as outright treason.” Tywin, pride wounded, drew himself up. “If this is how I am repaid for decades of loyal service, then I see I am no longer needed.” He swept a cold glare around the table, daring any to meet his eyes. None did. “I shall spare this council my presence. May your new Dornish Hand serve you as well.” With that, Tywin turned and stormed from the council chamber. His crimson cloak whipped out behind him like a banner of war. A taut silence lingered in his wake. Rhaegar exhaled slowly, releasing tension from his shoulders.
It was done.
He surveyed the remaining council members. Pycelle was mopping sweat from his brow with a tremulous hand, clearly terrified for his own fate. Rhaegar pinned him with a look. “Grand Maester, consider this a warning: your duty is to the realm and crown, not to any one lord. If you ever again falsify information to mislead me or serve another master’s agenda, you will be stripped of your chain and sent to the dungeons. Or worse, to the Citadel in disgrace. Understood?” Pycelle quailed. “Y-yes, Your Grace. I-I live but to serve you. My apologies… I was misled—”
“Enough.” Rhaegar dismissed his sniveling with a curt wave. “Serve me better in future, and you may keep your position and your head.” The old man nodded desperately, the chain of his office clinking around his neck. Rhaegar allowed himself a small breath. Then he turned to the rest. “Lord Connington, Lord Baelish, Prince Oberyn, Lord Varys—you all witnessed what transpired here. Tywin Lannister has resigned as Hand in fury. We must expect he will not take this lightly. I will send word to my new Warden of the West, Kevan Lannister, to ensure the peace is kept in those parts.” His gaze flicked to Petyr Baelish, knowing the sly little man had connections in the Westerlands and might glean information. “And we will watch Casterly Rock’s maneuvers closely in the coming moons.” Varys bowed. “Naturally, Your Grace.” Jon Connington placed a fist on his breast. “My king, you have my support. If Tywin stirs trouble, he’ll find Crownlands and Stormlands both ready to counter him.” Littlefinger affected a mild smile. “Such drama. But I agree, Your Grace, vigilant eyes on the west are wise. One never knows how a lion might lash out when wounded.”
Rhaegar gave a single nod. They understood. Tywin might plot or fume, but they would be ready.
He could feel Oberyn’s fiery satisfaction emanating from the back of the room. The Dornish prince looked at Rhaegar with open approval—and perhaps a hint of vindication. Rhaegar hoped this would salve Dorne’s anger from the past days. At the very least, Oberyn could report to Doran and their father that the King had not hesitated to cast down the Lannister who insulted them. “There remains the matter of Ser Gregor Clegane,” Rhaegar continued. “He must answer for his deeds. I am issuing a royal proclamation declaring Ser Gregor an outlaw. A bounty of one hundred gold dragons for his capture alive, or fifty for proof of his death, to be paid by the Crown.” “We shall send the Kingsguard after him, sire,” Barristan Selmy offered staunchly. Rhaegar shook his head. “No, Ser Barristan. Your place is here guarding the royal family. The City Watch can spread word, and willing freelancers can chase that coin. Gregor may hide under Tywin’s shield for now, but the realm will know him for the criminal he is.” As they concluded the session, Rhaegar noticed Jaime Lannister still standing at attention by the door, his face pale. When the council began filing out, Jaime approached Rhaegar and fell to one knee.
“Your Grace,” he said hoarsely. “I beg your leave…to accompany my father at least partway home, to ensure his safety on the road.” It clearly pained him to ask even that much. Technically, as a Kingsguard, Jaime had sworn to forego all familial duties. Rhaegar regarded the young knight. He felt compassion—Jaime was in an impossible position. But Rhaegar could not permit it. “Rise, Ser Jaime.” Jaime rose, tense as a drawn bowstring.
“Your loyalty is commendable,” Rhaegar said gently, “but your duty is here. Lord Tywin has plenty of men to see him safely to Casterly Rock. The Kingsguard’s place is with the King.” He put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, speaking softly. “I know this is hard, Jaime. Your father gave me little choice. But I will not hold your blood against you, as long as you hold true to your vows. You’ve been a fine Kingsguard. I trust you’ll continue to be.” Jaime swallowed and nodded, his jaw tight. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.” His voice was strained, but Rhaegar believed the words were sincere. Rhaegar squeezed his shoulder, then let him step back to resume his post. He signaled the dismissal of the council. As everyone filtered out, Elia came to Rhaegar’s side. She looked up at him searchingly. “Are you all right?” Rhaegar realized his hands were trembling slightly from the adrenaline of confrontation. He clasped them behind his back to still them. “I will be,” he answered. He managed a small smile. “It was not an easy thing. But it was the right thing.”
Elia smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. “I’m proud of you. That was a true king’s justice.” Before Rhaegar could reply, a florid voice boomed from the doorway.
“Your Grace! Good morrow and congratulations on handling that… unpleasantness.” It was Lord Mace Tyrell, newly arrived and bowing deeply, an elaborate feathered hat in hand. “I had heard the Hand stepped down. If I may be so bold, King Rhaegar—Highgarden stands ever ready to assist in these times. Should you desire counsel, I’d only be too honored…” Rhaegar raised a hand, cutting off the Reach lord’s babble. He suppressed a sigh—Mace had impeccable timing when it came to seeking advantage. “Thank you, Lord Mace,” Rhaegar said courteously. “I shall consider all worthy advice.” Mace beamed, clearly taking that as encouragement. “Splendid, splendid. And might I add, it heartens me to see our young ones getting on so well.” He winked broadly. “My Willas cannot stop talking about Princess Rhaenys and her clever mind. Two bright young minds, oh yes.” Elia hid a smile behind her hand. Rhaegar mustered a polite reply. “They seemed to enjoy each other’s company, true. I was pleased to see it.” Mace bobbed his head eagerly. “Indeed, indeed. Such friendships are the foundation of a strong realm, wouldn’t you agree? Why, if those two were someday… ahem… closer than friends, it could only bind Highgarden and the Crown all the tighter.” He gave a faux-modest chuckle.
“Just idle musings of a doting father, of course.”
Rhaegar managed not to roll his eyes at the Tyrell lord’s transparent hinting. “My daughter and your… My daughter is very young yet, Lord Mace. There will be plenty of time to discuss futures when they’re older.” He offered a gracious smile to soften the rebuff. “Still, I’m glad they have found a friend in one another.” Mace took that in good stride, nodding sagely as if Rhaegar had agreed rather than demurred. “Quite right, Your Grace, quite right. Well, I shan’t impose further. I simply wished to pay respects and… heh… lend any help if needed.” He backed out with another low bow, an expression of smug satisfaction on his face.
When he was gone, Elia released a small laugh. “He loses no time.” Rhaegar shook his head with a chuckle. “One would think he’d brought a betrothal contract in his pocket to wave under my nose.” They began walking together out of the council chamber. Oberyn Martell waited outside, leaning against a column with arms crossed. As Rhaegar emerged, Oberyn straightened. For a heartbeat, king and prince regarded each other. Then Oberyn offered Rhaegar a respectful nod—not quite deferential, but approving. “Well done, Rhaegar,” he said simply, using the King’s name informally in a way few would dare. But Rhaegar did not mind. In fact, it pleased him to see Oberyn’s respect won in deed, not just birth.
“We will speak later, Oberyn,” Rhaegar replied, returning the nod. He had much to arrange—Tywin’s replacement, for one.
Rhaegar already knew whom he intended to ask. It would shock many, no doubt, but that was precisely the point. Tywin’s removal left a vacuum that needed filling swiftly, lest chaos invite itself. There were several seasoned lords on the small council, yet Rhaegar sensed naming any of them might only stir rivalries. He wanted someone above the squabbling. Someone he trusted implicitly, who represented the new alliances he’d built. “Prince Doran will not enjoy leaving Sunspear,” Elia said quietly at his side, reading his thoughts. “His gout and all…” “He will come for you,” Rhaegar said. “And for the realm, if we ask it of him. I can think of no steadier, wiser Hand at this moment than Doran Martell.” Elia smiled softly. “I will write to him at once then. Though he might scold me in private letters for dragging him from his water gardens.” Rhaegar managed a light laugh. “We’ll water his chair here daily to make him feel at home.” His jest earned a melodious laugh from Elia. Rhaegar’s heart swelled with affection; even in these trying times, she was his harbor. They stepped out into the balmy late morning sun of the Red Keep’s courtyard. Ravens were already being dispatched: one to Sunspear with the king’s offer of office to Prince Doran, another to the Eyrie congratulating Lord Jon Arryn on the birth of his son Rickard, and a curt one to Casterly Rock—Rhaegar would let Tywin know in writing that the Crown expected his continued obedience in the West. Perhaps he would add a line wishing him a peaceful retirement with his relatives. A subtle barb, but Tywin had earned it. A gentle breeze stirred the royal banners above, the dragon of House Targaryen unfurling proudly against the sky. Rhaegar paused a moment to watch it ripple. The morning’s turbulence had passed; he felt the worst was behind him now. Elia stood close, linking her arm through his. “It’s nearly midday,” she noted. “Shall we see what our children are up to? Likely Rhaenys is showing Willas the library and poor Septa Amarys is trying to keep up with them.” Rhaegar smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
They walked on together, ready to face whatever came next—dragons and sun and spear, united against the coming storms, seeking the dragon’s peace.
Chapter 14: Chapter Ten: Ned
Chapter Text
Ned woke to the insistent sound of knuckles rapping on his chamber door. Dawn light filtered through the shutter slats. Ned sat up, groggy, and called, “Enter.” The door opened to reveal one of his household guards, Jory Cassel, face drawn with concern. “My lord. A raven arrived for you at first light. From Maester Luwin in Winterfell.” Ned’s stomach clenched at Jory’s tone. He swung out of bed, and crossed to take the offered parchment from Jory’s hand. Breaking the Stark direwolf seal, Ned scanned the Maester’s short message. With each line, dread grew in his chest. Lord Rickard Stark had collapsed with fever and a fit three nights past. He lived still— thank the gods —but remained abed, weakening. Maester Luwin urged Ned return home with haste; his presence was needed. Ned closed his eyes briefly. Father. It wasn’t entirely unexpected that Rickard might take a grave illness—he’d been coughing blood for the last year, though he insisted it was nothing. But to hear it put so plainly was a blow. Hold on, Father, until I reach you.
Jory shifted. “My lord? Shall I wake the others?”
Ned refolded the parchment, his course already set. He had tarried in the south for tournaments and courtly dances while his father lay ill. Guilt gnawed at him. Only a fortnight past, Ned had received a raven from Lord Jon Arryn announcing the birth of his son – a sickly babe named Rickard Arryn, in honor of Ned’s father. The news had gladdened Ned then. Now it felt a cruel twist of fate; the namesake entered the world just as the man he was named for teetered at the brink of leaving it. “Yes. Wake the men. We ride for Winterfell within the hour. Tell them to provision lightly; speed is more important.” Jory bowed. “At once.” He hesitated. “My lord, I’m sorry. We’ll get you home in time.” Ned managed a tight nod as Jory departed. In time. The words rang in his head as he hurriedly dressed in riding leathers and donned his wolfskin cloak. He had to be in time. He belted his sword at his hip and splashed water on his face from the basin. In the watery mirror, his own reflection glared back, haggard and worried. But beneath the worry, a new resolve. He would return to Winterfell and be the son his father needed. And with the gods’ favor, Rickard Stark would recover to grant Ned his blessing to wed Ashara. Ashara. Ned’s chest tightened. He had to tell her, to say farewell for now. And to assure her that he meant to keep his promise. There was little time. Ned hastened out of his chambers and made for the Queen’s corridor where the ladies’ apartments lay. He encountered Ser Arthur Dayne coming down the stair, likely off to morning drill with the Kingsguard. The knight stopped when he saw Ned’s grave expression.
“You’ve heard the news,” Arthur said gently. “Prince Rhaegar dismissed Lord Tywin as Hand not an hour past. The Lannister left the city in a blaze of fury.” Ned blinked at that unexpected news. “Dismissed him? Truly? I hadn’t… No, I meant I received a raven from Winterfell. My father is gravely ill. I ride within the hour.” Arthur’s features softened. “You have my sympathies. And my prayers for his swift healing. The Hand’s matter is likely less pressing to you then, but yes—Tywin Lannister resigned in a storm after a confrontation with the King. The Red Keep is abuzz.” Indeed, the hall nearby was alive with servants whispering of the Hand’s fall from grace and the King’s justice. Ned realized that in the flurry of his own urgent news, he had entirely missed the realm-shaking development that the realm’s second most powerful man had been removed. So, Rhaegar had acted swiftly after last night’s disgrace. Ned felt a measure of admiration for the King; Rhaegar’s decisiveness was needed and welcome. But that was King Rhaegar’s concern now. Ned’s was home. “I’m glad to hear His Grace took action,” Ned said sincerely. “But I must beg leave to depart at once.” “Of course,” Arthur said. “Is there aught I can do?” Ned glanced down the hall toward the door he believed was Ashara’s chamber. It was shut, a Martell guardsman posted outside. Likely the ladies were not yet awake after the late night.
“I came to bid Lady Ashara farewell,” Ned admitted. He felt a stab of regret. He had hoped for a gentle morning moment; now it would have to be rushed and fraught. Arthur nodded, understanding. “Wait here a moment, my lord.” The knight strode to the guardsman, murmured something, and disappeared briefly into the apartments. A minute later, the door opened and Ashara stepped out, clad in a simple robe of deep blue, her hair unbound and tumbling over her shoulders. She looked concerned, and when she saw Ned her face fell further. “Ned, what is it?” Ned took her hands gently. “My father…he’s taken ill. I have to go, Ashara. Now. I’m sorry.” Her eyes widened with worry. “I’m so sorry. Of course you must go. Is it—will he—?” “I don’t know,” Ned said, voice thick. “Maester Luwin says it’s dire. I pray I’ll find him still with us.” He squeezed her hands. “I meant every word last night. I will ask him for permission, Ashara. And even if—” Ned’s throat closed momentarily. He pushed on. “Even if the worst happens, Brandon will be lord then, and I’ll ask him for his blessing. One way or another, I will come back for you.” Ashara’s eyes shone with tears she refused to let fall. She lifted one hand to Ned’s cheek in a tender gesture. “I believe you.” She swallowed, mustering a smile. “Go, take care of your family. That is your duty—the very thing I love about you.”
Love.
The word warmed Ned even as dread and sadness churned within him. He placed his hand over hers on his cheek. “I will return as soon as I’m able. If—when I have good news to send, I’ll dispatch a raven straightaway. If you ever have need of me in the meantime—” Ashara silenced him by leaning in to kiss him softly. The hall was empty save Arthur and the guard at a discreet distance, but in that moment Ned would not have cared who saw. He kissed her back with gentle longing, imprinting the taste of her lips into memory to sustain him on the long cold road home. When they parted, Ashara rested her forehead against his for a moment. “Be safe, Ned. The gods go with you. All of them—the old and the new.” He managed a small smile. “And with you, Ashara.” Ser Arthur cleared his throat politely. “Lord Eddard, your men are readying the horses in the yard.” Ned straightened, reluctantly letting Ashara slip from his embrace. They shared one last look—hers brave through unshed tears, his full of determination—then Ned forced himself to turn and leave. He walked away quickly, before his resolve could break. As he rounded the corner, he heard Ashara call softly behind him, “Until we meet again, my wolf.” He did not trust his voice to answer without cracking, so Ned pressed on, hoping she knew his heart went with her.
In the castle yard, his retinue was indeed assembled and mounted. Jon Umber held Ned’s stallion by the reins, and Howland Reed and Jory Cassel were astride their own horses, faces solemn. The northern bannermen who had accompanied Ned looked bleary-eyed but sympathetic; they had all heard the raven’s tidings by now. Ned swung into his saddle. At the same time, he noted a column of Lannister men streaming out the main gates—Lord Tywin’s retinue departing the city, crimson banners flapping. Tywin’s ornate wheelhouse lumbered at the center. The man was leaving earlier than Ned would have thought; clearly, his pride was wounded enough to flee at first light. As Ned’s party clattered toward the King’s Gate, they passed near Tywin’s procession. Ned caught a glimpse of the Lord of Casterly Rock himself on horseback beside the wheelhouse. Tywin’s face was stone, his jaw tight with fury or hurt or both. They locked eyes fleetingly as Ned rode by in the opposite direction. Tywin offered him the barest inclination of his head—a perfunctory courtesy—and Ned returned it. There was no love lost between House Stark and House Lannister, not after all that had happened.
Ned urged his horse on, leaving Tywin to his brooding. He had more urgent matters. Outside the gates, King’s Landing was waking to a cloudy morning. The sky was the flat gray of slate. Ned’s men formed up, and soon they were trotting north on the kingsroad, hooves kicking up dust. The city dwindled behind them, its red walls eventually lost to the haze of distance. On the horizon ahead, the verdant rolling hills beckoned them onward. Ned found himself at the head of the column, Howland Reed beside him for company. The crannogman cast Ned a sidelong glance. “We’ll make all haste, Ned. The Neck’s floods won’t slow us this time of year. We’ll have you at Winterfell before the moon turns, if we ride hard.” Ned nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Howland.” They rode in silence for a time. Finally Howland cleared his throat. “I saw you with Lady Ashara last night,” he said in a gentle, conversational tone. “I was pleased. She seems a fine woman.”
Ned felt a stir of warmth even through his worry. “She is. I intend to marry her, with my family’s leave.” Howland broke into a rare grin. “The North and Dorne… who would’ve imagined, in the midst of war? But these are good changes.” “Yes,” Ned agreed quietly. “Good changes.” As they rode on, Ned allowed himself to envision what lay beyond the worry and strife of the present. He pictured Ashara beside him in Winterfell’s godswood, smiling as snowflakes tangled in her dark hair. He imagined her laughter echoing in the stone halls, and perhaps in time, children with her eyes and Stark features running through those same halls.
But first, duty and family. He clutched the reins, urging his horse faster. The kingsroad stretched ahead, miles and miles of hard ground to cover. Ned’s heart was torn—half of it longed to remain in the south with the woman he loved, the other half yearned to be home with the family who needed him. He would reconcile those halves soon, he prayed. Once his father recovered, once Brandon approved the match… then the North and Dorne would be bound in a new alliance of love, not just politics. Perhaps in that, Rhaegar’s vision of a united realm would find a pure and personal expression.
As Winterfell loomed somewhere beyond the horizon, Ned Stark set his jaw and leaned forward in the saddle. The wind from the north was cold on his face, bracing and familiar. He was going home to save his father, to shoulder the responsibilities he was born for. And with the gods’ favor, he would return south again one day—bringing a wolf’s devotion to the lady of Starfall who had given him her heart beneath the bleeding tree. Until then, he rode swift and sure, a man carrying hope and duty in equal measure, bound for the North and the destiny that awaited him there.
Chapter 15: Chapter Eleven: Cersei
Chapter Text
Cersei Baratheon, born a Lannister of Casterly Rock, stood on the balcony of her chambers at Storm’s End and gazed out at the narrow sea. Dawn light glimmered on the waves beyond Shipbreaker Bay. A salt breeze stirred her golden hair, loose about her shoulders. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. In the distance, a ship’s bell clanged from the harbor. Otherwise, Storm’s End was quiet—the garrison still abed, the servants only just beginning to stir. This early hour was one of the few times Cersei truly felt alone and unobserved. She savored it. It was better to face the day’s disappointments slowly, on her own terms, rather than rush headlong into them. Behind her, in the grand bed carved with Baratheon stags, her husband snored loudly. Robert’s rumbling snores could have been mistaken for thunder on the cliffs. Cersei cast a single disdainful glance over her shoulder. He lay sprawled naked atop the sheets, one muscled arm dangling off the bed, mouth agape. Even now, at sunrise, Cersei could smell the reek of ale and sweat emanating from him. Robert had stumbled into their chambers drunk shortly before midnight, after carousing with his household knights. As usual. With a small curl of her lip, Cersei stepped back inside and quietly shut the balcony doors. Let Robert sleep off his drink. She was glad for the respite from his boorish company. Crossing to her vanity, Cersei poured cool water from a pitcher into a basin and splashed her face. The mirror revealed an elegant, cold beauty— green eyes, high cheekbones, hair like beaten gold. She was an adult woman and still glowed with youth, yet her eyes had taken on a harder cast since these years at Storm’s End. This is not the life I was promised, she thought bitterly. She patted her face dry with a cloth. In the bed, Robert gave a great snort and rolled onto his back, smacking his lips. Cersei went still, watching him warily. But he did not wake—only settled into a quieter rhythm of breathing, still deep in ale-sodden slumber. Good. The longer he slept, the longer she could avoid enduring him. Cersei moved about the chamber with practiced care, dressing herself without aid. She chose a gown of yellow and black silk (Robert’s house colors, though that was the last reason she wore it; it simply set off her eyes), and fastened a belt of linked golden lions at her waist—a gift from her father on her wedding day. A lioness amid stags, she thought wryly as she adjusted the belt’s fit. No amount of yellow and black could disguise her true colors.
Dressed and composed, Cersei stepped out into the corridor, nodding curtly to the pair of Baratheon guards posted at her door. They stiffened to attention as she passed, but she ignored them. She swept down the spiral stairs and through the stone passages of Storm’s End, her slippers clicking softly on the floors of polished black granite. Servants bowed as she passed, murmuring, “M’lady” or “Your Grace.” Your Grace. The address still rankled. She had wanted to be Queen—Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, ruling beside Rhaegar Targaryen in the Red Keep. Instead she was Lady of Storm’s End, a glorified castellan for a man who spent more time guzzling ale than attending to governance. The castle was gradually coming to life. In the courtyard, stableboys led out horses for morning drills and cooks unloaded fresh fish from a cart for breakfast. Cersei kept walking, not wishing to encounter Robert or any of his loud friends. Not yet. She wound her way up to the maester’s tower, where she knew Maester Jurne kept the ravens and morn
ing correspondence. If any messages had come from King’s Landing—or from her family in the west—she wanted to see them at once. Sure enough, a castle page was just departing the maester’s chambers with a sheaf of letters in hand. When he saw Cersei, he started and hastily bowed. “Lady Cersei. I was just about to deliver the morning missives.”
“I’ll take them,” Cersei said, extending a hand. The boy hesitated . “I—I have one here from King’s Landing meant for Lord Robert’s eyes only, m’lady. Maester said—” Cersei narrowed her emerald eyes and the page lost his tongue. Wordlessly, she plucked the entire bundle from his grasp. “You are dismissed.” He flushed and bobbed another bow. “Yes, m’lady. Thank you, m’lady.” He scurried off. Cersei rifled through the letters as she descended the stairs, heart thumping with curiosity. Lord Robert’s eyes only, indeed. Likely correspondence from a small council member, or perhaps from Stannis at Dragonstone (her sour brother-in-law rarely wrote, though). But one broken seal made her pause—a crimson wax stamped with a lion’s head. Her father’s seal. It had been opened and resealed with the Maester’s sign. The notation on the parchment simply read Lord Tywin Lannister. And another envelope, much thinner, bore Jaime’s name in the corner, also originally sealed with Lannister wax. Cersei’s pulse quickened. Letters from Father and Jaime, both. Whatever news they carried, it had to be significant. She ducked into an empty side gallery off the main hall—one of the alcoves where Storm’s End’s massive drum tower buttresses jutted inward. Ensuring she was unobserved, she broke the seal on Jaime’s letter first. Of the two, she trusted her twin’s words to be more candid.
Unfolding the parchment, she recognized Jaime’s bold, swift hand.
Dear Cersei,
I pray this reaches you swiftly. Much has happened here. Our father has resigned his post as Hand of the King under unpleasant circumstances. By the time you read this, he will likely be en route back to Casterly Rock. He has powerful grievances; I’m sure he will send you his counsel directly. But I wished you to hear it from me first.
King Rhaegar confronted Father in the small council. The “Knight of the Lions” incident at the tourney was linked to Father, and the King took great offense on Dorne’s behalf. Voices were raised. It ended with Lord Tywin quitting King’s Landing in anger. The position of Hand has been offered to Prince Doran Martell (yes, truly). You can imagine how that sits with Father.
That is not even the end of it. Last night at the feast, Prince Viserys disgraced himself—he nearly sparked bloodshed with Prince Oberyn by drunkenly insulting Lady Myriah Martell. The King publicly chastised Viserys. Targaryens and Martells thicker than thieves; all others shoved aside. It is a Martell court now, sweet sister.
I know this news will anger you as it did me. I would caution patience. Our father will have plans in motion. I cannot write more—these events are best spoken of in person. Know that I love you, and miss you.
Trust no one at Storm’s End. Give your son a kiss from his uncle.
Yours,
Jaime
Cersei’s hands trembled by the time she finished reading. She pressed the parchment to her chest, heart pounding. For a moment, she shut her eyes and imagined Jaime beside her—his arms strong around her, his breath warm against her neck as he whispered comforts. Gods, how she missed him. Soon , she promised herself, we will be together again. Her twin’s letter had been shocking enough—but it was nothing compared to what Tywin had likely written. She hastily broke the seal on her father’s message. It read in crisp, unadorned lines:
Cersei,
An update on recent developments: I have left King’s Landing. Unforeseen conflicts with the King have made my continued service untenable. I return to Casterly Rock forthwith. Ser Jaime remains in the Kingsguard, which is his duty.
Baratheon ambition and Targaryen weakness both present opportunities. You are well positioned to observe and influence your husband. Do so. Keep him amenable to our interests. If he rails at the Crown, encourage it quietly. Remind him where blame lies for his lost crown (the Martells and Rhaegar, chiefly). I expect you to be my eyes and ears in the Stormlands, and a voice in your husband’s ear when needed.
Ensure the boy is well cared for. His future is paramount to our legacy now. We will speak more when circumstances permit.
Do not disappoint me, Cersei.
- Lannister
Cersei exhaled slowly, a humorless smile tugging at her lips. That was Father—no flowery words of affection, only cold strategy. At least Jaime’s letter had said I love you . From Tywin she got only do not disappoint me . She read the lines over again. “Encourage him if he rails at the Crown. Remind him where blame lies.” Cersei’s smile sharpened. Robert’s hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen still burned as hot as ever; that fire just needed fanning. As for the Martells—Robert already despised “snakes” thanks to Lyanna and Elia and all the old grudges from the war. That would be easy. Suddenly, for the first time in ages, Cersei felt a thrill of purpose. Father was counting on her to stir the pot, to prepare the ground for some future move. Perhaps —her heart fluttered— a rebellion? Was it possible? If Tywin Lannister had decided to throw his weight behind Robert’s claim at last, well… Rhaegar’s “golden reign” might not be so secure after all.
She tucked the letters into her bodice for safekeeping. She would burn them later, but she wanted to study them again more privately. Stepping from the alcove, Cersei nearly collided with Ser Boros Blount coming down the corridor, buttoning his tunic. The rotund Kingsguard knight looked surprised to see her. “M-my lady. Good morrow.”
Cersei arched a brow. “Ser Boros. Are you off to drill at this early hour?” Blount flushed. “Ah, no, my lady
. I… er… had some business.”
He avoided her eyes, and Cersei noted his partially untucked shirt and the faint whiff of perfume clinging to him. Probably slunk from some serving girl’s bed. She waved a hand dismissively.
“I have letters for Lord Robert. He will want them as soon as he wakes. See them delivered.”
She thrust the remaining bundle of correspondence (mostly minor house reports, she guessed) into Ser Boros’s hands.
The knight bowed. “Of course, at once.” Cersei swept past him without further comment. She had more important matters to attend than her husband’s mail. Her mind was racing ahead. Perhaps Tywin’s humiliation could be turned to their advantage. Rhaegar had insulted and alienated the Westerlands—one of the richest regions in Westeros. So be it. Father would never forget this slight. And neither would she. Back in her chambers, she found Robert awake and belligerent. A serving girl was laying out a breakfast spread of bread, bacon, and oranges on a side table while Robert heaved himself off the bed, pulling on a pair of breeches. When Robert saw Cersei enter, he grimaced. “Seven hells, did you have to let the bloody sun in?” He shielded his eyes against the light streaming through the reopened balcony doors. Cersei breezed past him to ring for her maid. “It’s half the morning gone, my lord. Some of us rise before noon.”
Robert grunted, scratching at his dark beard. Already it was flecked with early gray. He’d aged significantly since the war—drink and dissipation etched in the lines at his eyes and the slight paunch at his middle. “The boar I killed yesterday wore me out more than I thought,” he muttered. He dropped onto a cushioned chair by the table and immediately seized a haunch of bacon to gnaw. Cersei wrinkled her nose at his table manners. The serving girl poured him a tankard of smallbeer and quickly excused herself. Cersei leaned against a bedpost, arms crossed, watching Robert tear into his food like a half-starved hound. He caught her disapproving stare and gave her a hard look. “What are you gaping at, woman?” Cersei smiled thinly. “Merely admiring how swiftly you destroy that bacon. Truly, King Rhaegar’s champion eater.” He glared, wiping grease from his beard with the back of his hand. “Mind that sharp tongue. It’s too early.” She fell silent but continued to observe him with a cool, evaluative gaze. Robert downed half his tankard, belched softly, and finally seemed to notice her scrutiny. “Seven hells, out with it. What’s needling you now, wife?”
Wife. He said the word like a curse. Cersei resisted the urge to flinch. Instead, she drew closer, leaning her hands on the table across from him. “I had word from King’s Landing this morning.” Robert grunted. “Oh? The council finally remember I exist?” “Not the council.” Cersei smiled slowly. “My brother Jaime. And my father.” At that, Robert looked up sharply. “Tywin wrote to you? What’s that old lion want?” Cersei slid into the chair opposite him, smoothing her skirts. She had rehearsed this in her mind on the walk back. “He thought I should know what happened at court. The King dismissed him as Hand.” Robert froze, bacon halfway to his mouth. “Dismissed him? Tywin? Why?” Cersei affected a rueful sigh. “Rhaegar accused him of conspiring, undermining Dornish…something or other. It’s not entirely clear. But Father took offense. Words were said. Now Prince Doran Martell is Hand of the King.” She imbued the title with as much scorn as she could muster. Robert stared as if she’d sprouted a second head. Then suddenly he burst into booming laughter. “Ho! The Dornishman? That gout-ridden snake is Hand? Oh, the realm is truly doomed now!” He slapped a broad palm on the table, making the cups jump. Cersei was a bit startled by his mirth. She expected outrage. But Robert’s laughter had a hysterical edge. He laughed until tears glistened in his eyes, then threw back the rest of his beer. “Gods, what a farce! Tywin Lannister cast aside for a Martell. Aerys must be laughing in whatever hell he’s in.”
Cersei’s nails dug into the fine paper of Tywin’s letter hidden in her bodice. “It doesn’t anger you? That Rhaegar tossed aside the man who won him his throne? My father gave everything during the war—”
“Oh, spare me,” Robert snarled suddenly, humor gone as fast as it came. “Your father played all sides until it suited him. But yes, I’ll admit, Tywin was twice the Hand any Targaryen deserves.” He pushed his chair back and stood, pacing away a few steps. Cersei watched him intently. She could almost see the conflicting emotions crossing his face: schadenfreude at a Targaryen folly, outrage on behalf of the realm’s stability, and likely some satisfaction that the Lannisters had been humbled. But perhaps also an opportunity. Robert whirled to face her. “So. The dragon prince shows his true colors at last, eh? Surrounds himself with Dornishmen, casts off a brilliant Hand for daring to oppose him. Rhaegar’s learned the wrong lessons from his mad father.” Cersei moved forward and put a gentle hand on his chest. He paused, looking down at her warily. Physical closeness between them had grown rare; he scarcely touched her except when drunk and rutting, and she did not encourage affection otherwise. But now she offered the touch strategically, a gesture of shared cause. “Robert,” she said softly, “they humiliated my father. Our family. Half of your son’s lineage. Does that not offend you?” A muscle clenched in his jaw. “What would you have me do, Cersei?” he growled.
“March to King’s Landing and demand Rhaegar reinstate Tywin? He’d sooner piss on my head.” Cersei’s lip curled. “We could bring five thousand stormland swords to the capital and Rhaegar would be on his knees. Especially with the West’s backing. But no… you bent the knee to him instead of taking what was yours.” Robert’s face darkened. “Watch your tongue, woman.” But Cersei pressed on, years of pent-up frustration spilling forth. “You should have been king, Robert. You know it. I know it. If you had pressed your claim even after Lyanna was returned, the Lannister banners would have rallied to you. Instead you let Rhaegar beg for a truce so he could keep his precious throne and his Dornish brood. And now look—he dishonors your own house by spurning your father-by-law!” Robert seized her wrist roughly, his cheeks flushed red. “Enough!” he roared. “I’ll not have you second guessing the war or my decisions. That path led to more killing, and I’d had my fill.” He flung her hand away and turned aside, breathing hard. Cersei’s heart hammered with a mix of fear and fierce exhilaration. She stepped back, lowering her head demurely. “Forgive me, my lord. I spoke out of anger for my father’s sake.” She inhaled shakily. “It’s just—I cannot bear to see that Dornish whore’s family triumphant while good men like you and my father suffer slight and loss.”
That hit the mark.
Robert’s shoulders stiffened. “Dornish whore,” he repeated, voice thick. “Elia.” He spat her name like poison. Yes , Cersei thought, twist that knife . “Her kin now swarm King’s Landing. Oberyn Martell nearly killed Prince Viserys at the feast, Jaime wrote. Did you know?” A small lie—Jaime had said Oberyn tried to attack Viserys for his insult, but Cersei was content to let Robert imagine Oberyn the aggressor. Sure enough, Robert cursed viciously. “Gods, that snake. They’re all snakes.” He slammed a fist into the stone wall, actually cracking the plaster. “Rhaegar surrounds himself with the lot of them. They’ll strangle him in his sleep one day, see if they don’t. It’d serve him right.” Cersei allowed a thin smile. Robert was nearly frothing with pent-up hatred. She had never found him more tolerable than in this moment, directed as he was against their common enemies. Suddenly he turned to her, eyes gleaming with that old fury she remembered from the war. “If I had one more chance—” he began, then broke off, grinding his teeth. Cersei stepped closer, almost touching him. “One more chance?” she echoed softly. Robert ran a hand through his thick black hair. “If Rhaegar were to die tomorrow, I’d rally every friend I have, ride out and put that boy of his in the ground too. Dornish or no. Make myself King as I should’ve been. But that won’t happen short of a miracle. The dragons and snakes are dug in too deep now.”
He clenched his fists helplessly. For an instant, Cersei saw not the dissipated drunk but the warrior who had almost taken the throne by force, the man her father once considered worthy of her hand. In that flash, she imagined it—Robert on the Iron Throne, Rhaegar’s spawn dead, herself finally Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as she deserved. It sent a thrill through her.
She stepped forward and dared to lay a hand on Robert’s forearm. This time he did not pull away. “Miracles can happen,” she murmured. “Targaryens are mortal, like the rest of us. They can bleed. They can die.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “You, my lord, are beloved by many. The North still names you hero. The Stormlands follow you. The Reach holds you in esteem. Father says even some in the Westerlands quietly… but never mind.” She let that implication hang. Robert’s breath had slowed. He was staring at her with a strange intensity. “What are you saying, Cersei?” he asked quietly. She smiled sweetly. “I am saying the realm would not weep to see a stronger King on the throne. One proven in battle and virtue. One not led about by Dornish strings.” She moved her hand to cover his. “You have a son now—our son. He should grow up in a world where his father is not slighted by silks and snakes in King’s Landing.”
Robert glanced toward the cradle in the corner of the room, where their infant son slept under a blanket emblazoned with both stag and lion. His expression softened for a moment at the sight of little Steffon (named for Robert’s late father, though privately Cersei thought of him as Joffrey, the first Andal King of the Rock). The baby was dozing soundly. When Robert looked back at Cersei, his blue eyes were clearer, more focused than she’d seen in a long while. “If there were another rebellion… who would stand with me, truly? The North might, sure enough. Hoster Tully despises Rhaegar too, mayhaps. But Jon Arryn? He’s got his precious honor, wed to a Tully. Hard to say. And your father… now that he’s been kicked aside, would he?” Cersei laced her fingers through his and squeezed. “Father has long memories and longer ambitions. If he saw a true prospect of success, yes. He threw his weight behind Prince Viserys’s claim during the war, did he not, until Rhaegar placated him? Do you think he truly loves the dragons? No. He wants what’s best for House Lannister. And if that is a King who is his ally and kin—” she smiled “—well, he could do far worse than you, beloved husband.” Her words hung in the air. Robert studied her face, as if searching for deception. At last he barked a short laugh.
“Seven hells. You’re as cunning as your father, aren’t you?”
Cersei inclined her head modestly. “I learned from the best.” Robert shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “And here I thought you despised me thoroughly. Yet now you speak of putting me on the throne.” Cersei withdrew her hand and turned slightly away, letting her gaze drift to their baby in the cradle. “I despise the slights and indignities we’ve both suffered. I hate that our son’s grandsire was shamed by Rhaegar for sheer Dornish favoritism. I hate that Rhaegar sits in my—” she caught herself “—in the throne that could have been yours, ruling poorly by all accounts.” Robert ran a hand through his hair. “Aye, he’s bungling it. Greyjoy raids growing on the western coasts, some Blackfyre pretender rumored in Essos… I hear things. I may not be at court, but word travels. Rhaegar’s too concerned with his books and prophecies to see to his duties. And now with Martells in power? Bah.” He looked at her shrewdly. “You truly would support a move against him? Risk your pretty neck in another war?” Cersei squared her shoulders. For a fleeting moment, she imagined standing in the ruins of the Red Keep, Rhaegar’s corpse at her feet, and mounting the Iron Throne to sit beside her victorious husband. The image was intoxicating. “For our family’s honor, yes. For our son’s future, yes.”
A slow smile crept over Robert’s face—an expression she recognized from the days when he and Ned Stark had plotted youthful mischief around Winterfell, or when he’d set his mind on winning a tourney bout. It was the smile of a man who smelled blood and victory on the air.
“Perhaps I married the right woman after all,” he said with a low chuckle. To her astonishment, Robert reached out and gently tilted her chin up with a calloused hand. He studied her features for a moment, then planted a rough, impassioned kiss on her lips. Cersei stiffened in surprise. Affection from Robert was so rare that at first she almost recoiled. But quickly she mastered herself and returned the kiss with equal fervor, letting him taste the fire in her that matched his own. When he pulled away, he was grinning broadly. “Lannister and Baratheon, united against Targaryen scum. Who would’ve thought it?” Cersei allowed herself a smirk. “One more thing Rhaegar got wrong, it seems.” Robert boomed a laugh. “No more nursemaid letters from the Eyrie begging me to behave, eh? Jon can stuff it. Let them all see, I’ve still got some fight left.” He strode to the door, energized. “I’m going to whip these sorry excuse for knights into shape today. And send out some ravens of my own. There’s old friends in the Reach and Riverlands who’d drink to a toast of ‘King Robert’ any day.”
Cersei’s heart soared. “I’ll instruct Maester Jurne to ready the ravens.” “Aye.” Robert paused at the threshold, a half smile on his lips as he regarded her. “You truly are Tywin’s daughter. All right then—do as your father says. Keep fanning this flame in me, Cersei. I like it.” With a roguish wink, he was gone, off to the yard with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there in years. Cersei stood alone in the wake of his departure, her fingers brushing her lips where he’d kissed her. The lingering taste was hoppy and bitter from his breakfast ale, but she didn’t mind—for once, Robert’s touch had not disgusted her. For once, they had been perfectly aligned in purpose. Her gaze fell upon their son sleeping in the cradle. Slowly, Cersei crossed the room and looked down at the infant. Little Steffon had a tuft of black hair and the chubby, ruddy face of a Baratheon… yet his eyes were a curious bright green, her eyes. In truth, she was fairly sure he was Robert’s get (Jaime had not been in her bed around the time of conception, not that she hadn’t dreamed it otherwise). Still, blood of both stag and lion flowed in the babe’s veins. Cersei reached into the cradle and smoothed the dark curl on his brow. The boy squirmed and opened his eyes, blinking up at her. She smiled—a genuine, hungry smile. “You shall be a prince yet, my sweet,” she whispered. “No, a king.”
The baby cooed softly, as if in agreement. Cersei scooped him up and cradled him against her chest. Through the window slit, she could see Robert in the courtyard below, bellowing orders at a group of startled knights. The game was afoot now; her father had set the pieces and she and Robert would play their parts. She hummed softly to her son as she swayed, imagining the future that could be. King Rhaegar toppled, his little Aegon and Rhaenys snuffed out like candle flames—her father would see to that messy business, or perhaps Robert would have the pleasure. Elia Martell returned to Dorne in disgrace or thrown to the silent sisters. And on the Iron Throne, Robert Baratheon would sit, with her beside him wearing the crown she had coveted all her life. Their son—no, her son—would be heir to the Seven Kingdoms. All her losses and humiliations would be repaid a thousandfold. The silks and snakes would learn to fear the lion’s roar. Cersei walked to the balcony once more, her babe in her arms. The morning sun glittered on the sea, blinding and bright. She smiled into the light, a lioness smiling at the dawn. One day soon , she thought, this son in my arms will marry some princess and bind our claim with another, or perhaps even sit the throne himself if Robert falls early. One day soon, House Lannister will have its due.
Below, Robert barked laughter as he knocked two sparring swordsmen ass-over-teakettle with a single blow of his warhammer. His mirth boomed off the courtyard walls. Cersei bounced her son lightly and joined in Robert’s laughter, her own softer chuckle carrying away on the salt breeze. Let the whole world think her a discontent wife, a sidelined daughter. They would learn. In the privacy of her heart, Cersei Lannister-Baratheon allowed herself a final thought of pure, vindictive joy:
We shall have our justice. The lions will have their day.
With that, she kissed her son’s black-haired head and carried him inside to begin writing letters of her own, every stroke of the quill drawn with golden vengeance.
Chapter 16: Chapter Twelve: Catelyn
Notes:
This week we have two new POVs! Thank you to one of my amazing readers for suggesting a Catelyn POV!!
Chapter Text
Catelyn Stark stood at the window of Winterfell’s high bedchamber tower, hands pressed together in a silent prayer. Dawn’s grey light filtered through rippled glass, illuminating the thin layer of frost that silvered the courtyard below. It was early; the sun was only a promise behind leaden white clouds. Inside the chamber, the air was bitter cold despite the roaring fire in the hearth. Winterfell’s thick stone walls held many secrets and much warmth, but on this morning Catelyn felt only the chill of dread. Behind her, a low rasping breath broke the silence. Catelyn turned from the window and moved to the great canopied bed that dominated the chamber. There, beneath piles of furs and wool blankets, lay Lord Rickard Stark. The Lord of Winterfell—her father-by-law—was dying. The thought sent a bolt of sorrow through her. She had known Lord Rickard only a few years, but in that time he had treated her kindly, if formally. He was a stern man of the North, not given to open affection, yet he had welcomed her into his family with honor and courtesy when she wed his eldest son. And now Catelyn was witness to his final moments, tending him as a dutiful daughter should. Rickard’s face was gaunt and ashen against the pillow, his grey-brown hair gone mostly white over the past months. The wasting sickness had come upon him suddenly in the last moon’s turn. What began as a stubborn chill had sunk into his chest, turning to fever and a racking cough. Despite the maester’s potions and poultices, Lord Rickard had weakened by the day. In the past week he had seldom left his bed. Now his breaths came shallow and wet, each one a labor. Beside the bed, Maester Luwin sat attentive with a cup and a vial of dreamwine, but there was little more to be done.
The gods will take him soon, Catelyn realized with a heavy heart. She reached out and gently clasped the lord’s cold hand between her own, as if her warmth might tether him a little longer to this world. A log shifted in the hearth with a crackle, sending a swirl of sparks up the chimney. The sudden sound made Rickard’s eyes flicker open. Pale grey—the color of a winter sky. He was lucid this morning—thank the Mother for that mercy. He turned his head on the pillow, gaze wandering until it found Catelyn. For a moment he looked confused, as if wondering why a southron woman was at his bedside. Then remembrance softened his features. “C… Catelyn,” he croaked, voice paper-thin. “Daughter.” She managed a smile, though tears threatened her composure. “I am here, Father,” Catelyn said gently. She squeezed his hand. It felt so light, this hand that had once gripped the greatsword Ice and swung it with sure strength. “You should rest.” Rickard’s throat worked as he swallowed. Each breath seemed to pain him. “Where… is Brandon?” he asked. “On his way, my lord,” Maester Luwin answered from the other side of the bed. The grey-haired maester leaned forward, his chain of office clinking softly. “I have sent a page to fetch him.” “And… Eddard?” Rickard whispered. His clouded eyes searched the room again and found only Catelyn and the maester. “Ned…?”
Catelyn’s smile faltered. “He will be here soon, Father,” she assured the old man in a soothing voice. “Benjen rode out at first light to meet him on the road. They can only be hours away now.” They had received Ned’s raven two days past with the blessed news that he was approaching Moat Cailin on his return north. Thank the gods he is near. Catelyn silently willed her brother-by-law to ride faster. Ned had been in the south—at King’s Landing, accompanying King Rhaegar’s court on some royal business or another—when word of Lord Rickard’s failing health reached him. He had set out immediately for home. Catelyn prayed he would arrive in time to speak to his father. It would break Ned’s heart if he did not. Rickard’s fingers twitched in Catelyn’s grasp. “Ned…” he murmured, a faint sigh of relief escaping his lips. His eyes drifted closed again. Perhaps he was imagining Ned by his side already. Catelyn smoothed the thin blanket, tucking it up under the lord’s chin. She felt an ache in her chest seeing him so frail. This was the man who had ruled the North for decades, who had nearly been murdered by the Mad King’s flames four years ago. Though Rhaegar Targaryen’s intervention had saved Rickard’s life then, the ordeal had left its marks. His hair had turned white within a fortnight of that trial by fire, and his laughter—what little he’d had —never fully returned. Still, he had persisted, hale enough to resume his duties as Winterfell’s lord… until now. Now even Lord Rickard Stark, the implacable Warden of the North, was yielding to a foe no sword could slay.
The door to the chamber creaked open, admitting a rush of cooler air from the drafty hall. Catelyn looked up to see her husband enter, his tall frame filling the doorway. Brandon Stark was broad-shouldered and lean, with a mane of brown hair a few shades darker than her own auburn. Normally his presence commanded every room—Brandon had a boisterous energy that drew the eye—but today his steps were measured and quiet. He closed the door softly behind him. Catelyn could read the strain on his face: the tightness around his mouth, the shine of unshed grief in his blue-grey eyes. He was trying to be strong, to be the Lord-in-Waiting that his father needed. “How fares he?” Brandon asked in a low tone as he approached the bedside. He stood opposite Catelyn, gazing down at his father. “His pain is lessened, my lord,” Maester Luwin replied. “He wakes and sleeps, waking now to ask for you and your brother.” Brandon’s jaw clenched. He reached down and laid a hand on his father’s blanketed shoulder. “Father, I’m here,” he said thickly, voice low but clear. “I’m here, and Ned will be here soon. You must hold on—just a little longer.”
Lord Rickard’s eyes opened once more at the sound of his son’s voice. A faint smile tugged at his lips beneath the silvery mustache. “Bran…don,” he breathed. His free hand lifted with tremulous slowness and found Brandon’s forearm. Even through the blankets, Catelyn saw the son lean into the father’s touch like a pup seeking comfort. “No more wild now… eh, boy?” the old lord managed, a ghost of wryness in his tone. Brandon gave a shaky laugh that was half sob. “No, Father,” he whispered. His hand covered his father’s, holding on tightly. “No more wild. I will make you proud… I promise.” Rickard’s chest shuddered with a labored breath. “You have… my son,” he rasped. “You have. But listen now…” He struggled to draw another breath. Brandon sank to one knee, bringing his face level with his father’s. Catelyn held Rickard’s other hand, tears spilling freely down her cheeks as the old lord’s gaze swept over them both. “The North… must remain strong,” Lord Rickard said, a spark of urgency in his weakening voice. “Winter is coming… always. You know our words.” “I do, Father,” Brandon said hoarsely. His own tears brimmed. “I will remember.” Rickard managed the smallest nod. “The pact… with the dragon prince… must hold.” He shifted his eyes to Catelyn then, and for a moment she was startled by their clarity. “Our blood… in the South… and theirs in the North. That is how we survive.” A spasm of coughing overtook him suddenly. At once Maester Luwin was ready, cradling the lord’s head and helping him sip a spoonful of honeyed wine from the cup. Catelyn dabbed at Rickard’s lips with a soft cloth as the coughing subsided.
“Easy, my lord,” Luwin murmured. But Rickard would not be deterred from his speech. He clutched at Brandon’s sleeve with surprising fierceness. “Promise me,” Lord Rickard wheezed. His eyes bored into his eldest son’s. “Promise me you’ll keep the peace. Keep the North safe. No more war.” Brandon’s face crumpled, then hardened with resolve all at once. He took his father’s hand from his sleeve and held it tightly. “I promise,” he said, voice breaking. “On my honor, Father. The Dragon’s Peace will hold. I’ll guard it with my life.” The tension in Rickard’s face eased at that oath. His head sank back against the pillow. “Good. Good…” he whispered. His breathing turned shallow and quick from the effort. At that moment, a commotion beyond the door announced new arrivals. The chamber door burst open and Eddard Stark all but ran inside, with Benjen just a step behind. Ned’s travel cloak was spattered with mud and his face was drawn with a mix of worry and hope. “Ned—” Brandon exclaimed softly, stepping aside as his brother rushed to their father’s bedside. Rickard’s eyes fluttered open once more at the sound. “Ned,” he breathed, unmistakable relief in his tone. Ned dropped to his knees beside the bed, grasping his father’s frail hand. “I’m here, Father,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m here.” Lord Rickard’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. His cloudy gaze found his younger son. “Your mother—” he resumed, halting to draw a shallow gulp of air. “Your mother waits for me… in the crypt. Do not grieve… I go to her.”
At those words, Brandon bowed his head, tears slipping free to trace down his cheeks. “Give Mother my love,” he whispered. Rickard’s chest rose and fell in a final, gentle sigh. “I will…” he murmured. His eyes drifted beyond them all at something unseen. “Such music… can you hear it, my dear?” he said, voice suddenly light with wonder. “They’re singing… our song.” Catelyn felt a chill despite the warmth of the room, uncertain if Lord Rickard spoke to his departed wife or to some vision only he could see. The old lord’s gaze grew distant. “Bran… Ned… Lyanna… Benj—” He never finished the last name. The breath left Rickard Stark in a soft exhale, and all the strength went out of him. Silence filled the bedchamber, heavy and cold. Catelyn realized she had been holding her own breath; it escaped her in a trembling sigh. Maester Luwin lowered Lord Rickard’s head gently to the pillow and felt along his neck for a pulse that was no longer there. The maester’s shoulders slumped as he sat back, his eyes shining with grief. For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Brandon remained frozen, clutching his father’s limp hand in both of his. Then a low, anguished sound escaped him—a raw groan—and he laid his head down on Lord Rickard’s chest.
Catelyn circled the bed swiftly and knelt beside her husband. She wrapped her arms around Brandon as he wept silently into his father’s tunic. He clung to her, his broad shoulders shaking with sobs too deep for sound. Across the bed, Ned remained on his knees, head bowed and face hidden beneath the disheveled brown hair that fell forward. Benjen hovered behind him, eyes wide and blank with shock. Even Maester Luwin, wizened and composed, wiped tears from beneath his small spectacles. There were footsteps in the hall; voices of servants distantly calling for the septon. Catelyn paid them no mind. For a long moment, the world consisted only of this: a son’s keening grief, a daughter’s embrace, and the still form of a father growing cold between them. She rested her cheek atop Brandon’s head and closed her eyes, offering what wordless comfort she could while her own hot tears soaked into his hair. At length, the maester rose to give them space, murmuring about summoning Lyanna and making preparations. Eventually, Ned also pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Catelyn drew back from Brandon enough to reach for Ned’s arm. He came to her side, and in that instant Catelyn saw the boy he had been— small and solemn—before the man returned. Ned leaned over the bed and pressed a final kiss to his father’s brow. When he straightened, his grey eyes were red-rimmed but dry. Wordlessly, Ned stepped around to Brandon’s side and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Brandon lifted his head from his father’s chest.
The two brothers looked at one another through a blur of tears, and something unspoken passed between them—the mantle of Winterfell, a heavy weight neither had expected to exchange so soon. Brandon swallowed and gave a faint nod. Ned drew him and Catelyn both into a fierce, three-way embrace. For a moment they clutched each other tightly, the Stark sons and the Tully daughter bound in shared loss and shared love. Eventually Brandon pulled back, scrubbing a sleeve across his eyes. He took a shuddering breath and pressed his lips to Catelyn’s forehead in silent gratitude. Then he turned to Ned. “Go,” Brandon murmured, voice rough but firm. “Find Lyanna and tell her…” He trailed off. There was no need to finish. Ned understood. With a last squeeze of Catelyn’s hand, Ned left to find their sister and deliver the awful news. Catelyn remained with Brandon as the maester’s attendants entered the chamber to tend to Lord Rickard’s body. She drew her husband away from the bustle and led him to a chair by the hearth. There she knelt before him and cupped his face in her hands. “I’m here,” she whispered, brushing away his tears with her thumbs. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Brandon closed his eyes, two more tears leaking free to chase down his cheeks. Catelyn pressed a gentle kiss to each damp trail. When she pulled back, Brandon took her hand and held it tightly in both of his. He did not speak—he did not need to. The grief in his eyes was a mirror of her own.
Minutes or hours later (she couldn’t be sure), the soft creak of the door heralded Lyanna’s arrival. Ned and Benjen flanked her, each supporting one of her arms. Lyanna’s face was bone-white, her grey eyes huge and brimming. At the sight of Brandon seated by the hearth, something in her crumpled. She broke from her brothers and flew across the room. Brandon stood just in time to catch her as she fell into his arms. Lyanna sobbed against his chest, shoulders shaking, and Brandon stroked her dark hair, murmuring soothing nonsense. Catelyn stepped back to give the siblings space. Over Lyanna’s trembling shoulder, Brandon’s red-rimmed eyes met Catelyn’s. He needs this, Catelyn realized. As much as Lyanna needed comfort, Brandon needed to give it. He would have to be strong now, and he was finding the strength in caring for someone more hurt than himself. Maester Luwin quietly directed the attendants as they lifted Lord Rickard’s body from the bed. They had dressed him in his finest black wool and pinned the silver direwolf of House Stark at his throat. His hands were folded over his chest, and his face had been arranged into an expression of serene repose. Catelyn could scarcely bear to look, yet she forced herself to. Goodbye, she said silently to the man who had been her second father. Thank you. She hoped he knew—hoped he had seen how faithfully his children, daughter-in-law, grandchild ans all the North had loved him. “Lord Brandon,” Maester Luwin said softly from the foot of the bed. Brandon gently disengaged from Lyanna, passing her into Ned’s waiting arms. Straightening to his full height, Brandon crossed to the maester.
“It is time, my lord,” Luwin said. “They await you.” He gestured to the covered bier upon which Rickard’s cloaked body now lay. The attendants holding its handles looked to Brandon for the command. Brandon’s throat worked, but he gave a curt nod. He turned to his siblings. Lyanna had mastered her tears for the moment; she slipped her hand into Ned’s. On Ned’s other side, Benjen—pale and silent—stood with lips pressed together in determination. They were all so young, Catelyn thought as she watched them gather. Too young to lose a father. Too young to lead. Yet fate had left them no choice. Brandon approached Catelyn one last time before they went out. “Will you come?” he asked, voice low and raw. He knew the answer, she could tell—knew that what came next was a duty reserved for Starks alone. But he was asking all the same, needing her by his side if only for a moment more. “I’ll see you in the godswood,” Catelyn said gently. She reached up and smoothed a lock of auburn hair back from his brow. “I’ll be right behind, in spirit.” Brandon closed his eyes briefly, then leaned in to kiss her once, hard and true. “Thank you,” he whispered against her temple. Catelyn squeezed his hand. Go, she mouthed. He went. The Stark men lifted Lord Rickard’s bier to their shoulders, and Brandon took his place at its head. Ned, Lyanna, and Benjen followed immediately behind. Maester Luwin led the procession out of the room and toward the godswood beyond the Great Keep where the lords of Winterfell were laid to rest. The corridor filled with the soft tread of footsteps and quiet weeping of servants trailing after. Catelyn remained where she was, standing very still, listening as the last footfalls faded.
When all had fallen silent once more, she sank into the chair by the dying fire. An echo of warmth still clung to the seat from when Brandon had sat there. Catelyn pulled his discarded fur cloak around her shoulders and breathed in the scent of him— smoke and winter air and the salt of tears. Only then did she allow herself a few more tears of her own, shedding them privately into the heavy folds of the cloak. They laid Lord Rickard Stark to rest that afternoon. The sun had barely breached the clouds when he died, and by midday it hid again behind thick flurries of snow. Winterfell’s godswood was blanketed in white as the family gathered beneath the heart tree for their final farewells. Red leaves drooped under the weight of frost, and the face carved in the ancient weirwood’s trunk watched with solemn red eyes as Lyanna Stark sang the old dirge of the North. The melody was a simple, haunting strain that carried through the godswood like wind through barren branches. Lyanna’s voice, low and resonant, hardly quavered as she sang for her father’s soul. Catelyn stood a short distance behind her sister-by-law and marveled at the young woman’s composure. Tears glistened on Lyanna’s lashes, yet her voice did not break. She had chosen a song of parting as old as the North itself: “Now my watch is ended, my vigil is done; the sun sets, and stars mourn the passing of one…” The words tugged at every heart. Catelyn felt Arya, bundled in her arms beneath her black cloak, stir and whimper softly as if she too sensed the sorrow. Catelyn hushed her babe gently, rocking as Lyanna’s song came to its end.
Brandon Stark, new Lord of Winterfell, stepped forward then. He held in both hands a long bundle wrapped in soft leather—an ancient iron longsword from Winterfell’s armory. It would be placed with Lord Rickard in the crypt, laid across his lap to guard his spirit for eternity. Brandon lowered the blade at the base of the weirwood, beneath the heart tree, as if offering it to the old gods as witness. Then Brandon turned to face those assembled. He cleared his throat, his face pale but determined. “My father,” he began, voice echoing in the stillness, “was a man of honor, strength, and duty. He led the North through times of peace and near-war alike. He taught us what it means to be Stark—just, loyal, and strong, even in the coldest winter.” Brandon’s voice wavered slightly, but he drew a breath and continued. “Lord Rickard Stark was a father to more than just his blood. Every man and woman of the North, highborn or low, he regarded as his own—under his protection, under his care. He gave his all for this land and its people.” He paused, jaw tight as he wrestled with emotion. Snowflakes caught in his hair and on the stubble of his beard. “Now he has passed beyond the Wall of this world, to join our forebears. We commit his body to the earth, his memory to our hearts, and his soul to the gods.” Brandon placed a hand on the heart tree’s trunk, fingers splayed against the bone-white wood beside the carved face. “Old gods of the forest, watch over him,” he said softly, the traditional words of the North. “Let him know peace.”
From somewhere behind Catelyn, a deep voice added, “And let him know he was dearly loved.” She glanced back to see old Lord Galbart Glover, eyes red-rimmed, bowing his head. A ripple of assent passed through the crowd of bannermen and household folk present. “Aye,” rumbled the Greatjon Umber, who stood like a great bear among them. “He was loved.” Even young Jorah Mormont, now Lord of Bear Island since his father Jeor had joined the Night’s Watch, echoed the sentiment gravely. Brandon managed a grateful nod to his lords bannermen. Then he bent to retrieve the wrapped sword. “Come,” he said quietly to his siblings. The final part of the interment awaited in the crypts below the castle. Catelyn did not follow—this next duty was for the blood of House Stark only. As Maester Luwin ushered the other attendees back toward the keep for the funeral feast, Catelyn moved to Ned’s side. Her brother-by-law was still on his knees in the snow, weeping openly with Howland Reed’s arm around him. At Ned’s other side, Lyanna knelt and gently took Ned’s hand. “Ned, we must go below,” she murmured. “Will you walk with me?” Though he had reached Winterfell in time to share Lord Rickard’s final moments, the ache of loss was still fresh and deep. “He waited for me,” Ned choked out at last. “He… held on…” His voice broke. Lyanna squeezed his hand. “He did,” she whispered. “And he was at peace in the end, knowing you were with him.” Ned shut his eyes, and Catelyn saw his throat constrict.
After a long moment, he nodded. Wordlessly, Lyanna helped him to his feet. Ned drew a fortifying breath. Snow clung to the knees of his breeches and melted in his dark hair. He managed a faint, grateful look toward Howland Reed. The crannogman patted Ned’s shoulder and stepped back to allow the Stark siblings space. Catelyn caught Ned’s arm before he could follow the others toward the crypt. She said nothing, only reached up and squeezed his shoulder. Ned looked at her, eyes glassy with sorrow, then to her surprise he pulled her into a fierce hug. She returned the embrace with one arm (the other securely holding young Arya). “Thank you, Cat,” Ned whispered near her ear. She felt a tear of his soak into the fur lining of her collar. “For being here—for taking care of them.” Them. He meant their family, she knew—his father, Brandon, Lyanna, Benjen. Catelyn blinked back a fresh bout of tears. “Of course,” she murmured thickly. When Ned released her, she offered a small, sad smile. “Go now. They need you.” Ned inclined his head. With Lyanna on one side and Benjen on the other (Benjen had stood quiet as a shadow throughout, his face slack with shock), the Stark children bore their father’s sword and departed for the crypts under the great keep. Catelyn watched until their silhouettes disappeared beneath the archway leading down to the tombs. A low howl sounded somewhere off in the distance then—a lonely, drawn-out note that might have been only winter wind, but felt unmistakably like a wolf’s lament. Another answered it, keening from the direction of the wolfswood beyond the castle walls. The direwolves. A shiver went through Catelyn. Lyanna’s own great direwolf often roamed the godswood; Ghost, they called him, for his coat was white as snow and he was eerily silent. Now it seemed even Ghost sang a mourning song.
The old gods have their due, she thought. Even the beasts pay homage today. A small snuffle at her chest drew her focus downward. Arya had awoken, perhaps disturbed by the howls. The toddler’s round face peeped from within Catelyn’s cloak, her cheeks pink from warmth and sleep. She looked up at Catelyn with wide, questioning grey eyes so like her father’s. “Mama,” Arya lisped softly, and that simple word broke Catelyn’s heart anew. She pressed her lips to Arya’s brow. “Mama’s here, sweetling,” Catelyn whispered. She swayed gently, comforting them both. There was no time even to steal away to feed the child; the funeral feast would begin shortly, and she as the Lady of Winterfell in all but name must attend to her duties. Already servants were carrying Lord Rickard’s body back into the keep to prepare it for entombment. The crypt would be sealed and after that, it would fall to Catelyn and the castle staff to see that all in attendance were fed and given some small balm for their sorrow in the form of hearth, meat, and mead. Yet for this moment, Catelyn allowed herself to do nothing but hold her daughter and breathe in her innocence. Arya gurgled and reached a tiny mittened hand to pat at Catelyn’s damp cheek. “It’s all right, little one,” Catelyn said, forcing her voice to steadiness. “We’ll be all right.” Arya was too young to understand death—a babe of nearly three years—but she seemed to sense the somber mood and stayed unusually quiet. Footsteps crunching on new-fallen snow made Catelyn turn.
It was Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at arms, accompanied by a pair of serving women carrying covered baskets. Rodrik’s ruddy face was uncharacteristically subdued. “My lady,” he said respectfully, bowing his head. “The hall is prepared for the feast, and the first of the bannermen have been seated. They await your presence—and the new Lord of Winterfell’s.” A delicate way to say Brandon’s name, as it was no doubt strange for all to speak it yet. “I will come at once,” Catelyn answered. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, summoning the composure taught to her as a girl at Riverrun. A lady must be strong now, she reminded herself, for those who need her. “Thank you, Rodrik. I shall escort Lord Brandon when he returns from the crypts.” Rodrik nodded, and with a brief sympathetic glance at Arya, he withdrew to oversee the next tasks. The serving women lingered a moment, one of them offering to take Arya so that Catelyn might ready herself, but Catelyn declined softly. “I will bring her with me soon,” she said. They bobbed curtsies and hurried after Rodrik, leaving Catelyn again momentarily alone among the silent trees. She took one final look at the heart tree—the dark red weeping face and snow gathered in the hollows of its eyes. My lord father Stark, rest well, she prayed in her thoughts. You kept your vows; now your watch has ended. The words of Lyanna’s dirge echoed. She had never been raised in these northern beliefs, but marriage had made her part of this world. Catelyn hoped the old gods heard a Tully’s prayer. A small gust of wind rattled the branches overhead, sending a sprinkling of snow down onto her cloak. Arya burrowed closer with a tiny squeak of protest. Catelyn kissed her daughter’s head once more and then turned to make her way back toward the keep and the hall beyond, where the living waited in need of comfort.
Winterfell’s Great Hall was ablaze with fire and crowded with mourners by the time the new Lord of Winterfell made his entrance. Brandon Stark walked at the head of the hall, with Ned and Lyanna flanking him and Benjen just a step behind. All four wore the somber grey of House Stark, their cloaks trimmed in snow-white fur. As they passed the threshold, a tall man with a barrel chest and booming voice rose from one of the tables. “To Lord Rickard Stark!” roared the Greatjon Umber, raising a brimming horn of ale. Others immediately stood with him, echoing the toast: “To Lord Rickard!” The hall rang with the sound, hundreds of voices unified in tribute. Brandon paused, and in that brief moment his face was naked with grief. Then he lifted his own cup— already placed at the high table beside the empty seat that would have been his father’s. “To my father,” he said, loudly enough for those nearest to hear. His words were softer than the Umber’s bellow, but in the attentive hush they carried nonetheless. “May his spirit guard the North as fiercely as he did in life.” Brandon drank deep, and the hall followed. Catelyn watched from near the dais, where she had been directing the servers moments before. She had Arya perched on her hip now, the little girl peering curiously at the cacophony of the feast hall.
For the banquet, Catelyn had exchanged her black mourning cloak for a gown of charcoal grey trimmed with black fox fur, out of respect for northern custom. Its high collar was edged in white, reminiscent of Rickard’s own favored cloak. She hoped the sight of her thus attired offered some small steadiness to Brandon—a visual reminder that house and home endured, even in loss.
As Brandon took his seat—the high seat, now—Catelyn moved to join him at the dais. Ned had gently drawn out the chair that had been Lady Stark’s in years past (left empty since Lady Lyarra’s death, as Rickard had never remarried), and he gestured for Catelyn to sit. Grateful, she did so, settling Arya in her lap. She nodded to Ned and Lyanna as they found their places just beside her. Only after they were seated did Catelyn notice that Brandon had not sat; instead he remained standing behind his chair, looking down the length of the hall with an unreadable expression. The Greatjon cleared his throat. “M’lord Brandon—or should I say Lord Stark now?” he called out gruffly, his voice echoing off the stone walls. A few nervous chuckles murmured through the hall. All eyes turned to Brandon. Brandon released a slow breath. After a moment, he spoke, pitching his voice to carry: “You may call me Brandon,” he said, the faintest wryness in his tone. “I am not officially the Lord of Winterfell until the king confirms my title.” A formal nod to law; King Rhaegar’s ravens would need to herald the succession, though it was little more than a courtesy at this point.
The Greatjon grunted. “King or no, you’re our Stark now,” he declared, raising his horn again. Several of the other northern lords thumped their tables in agreement. “We’ll follow you as faithfully as we did your father, by the gods!” Catelyn tensed, unsure how her husband would react to that familiar brashness. Brandon’s face was solemn. For an instant, she imagined she saw a flicker of resistance in his eyes—a spark of that old wild wolf who might have bristled at being compared to his father. But then Brandon inclined his head deeply. “You honor me, Lord Umber, and you all honor my father with your loyalty,” he said, voice resonant and steady. “I can only hope to be worthy of it.” At that, the Greatjon whooped and drained his ale. Other voices cheered; cups were raised high. Brandon took the moment of loud approbation to finally seat himself. Only then did Catelyn notice how exhausted he looked—there were dark circles under his eyes, and a fine line of tension still etched between his brows. Yet he sat tall, wearing his mantle of lordship with a quiet dignity that made her heart swell with pride and pain all at once. She leaned closer and touched his arm. “Eat, love,” she urged softly. “You need your strength.” She nudged the laden trencher in front of him closer. The funeral feast featured all the staples of a traditional northern wake: hot barley and carrot soup in bread bowls, racks of mutton with rosemary, salt-cod and hen stewed with onions. The hall smelled of smoke and meat and mulled ale. Catelyn knew Brandon had little appetite, but the food and drink would fortify him, and the act of partaking was expected of a host at his own father’s wake.
Brandon shook his head slightly. “I’ve no hunger,” he muttered, barely audible over the din of conversation resuming around them. His eyes roamed the hall as if seeking someone. Catelyn’s fingers tightened gently on his wrist. “At least drink a bit. For me,” she coaxed. She lifted his cup— full of hot spiced wine—and offered it. “Just a swallow.” Brandon managed a faint, rueful smile at her persistence. He obeyed, taking the cup and bringing it to his lips. He drank, and Catelyn nodded in satisfaction. For a short while, they sat side by side in relative quiet while around them the wake rumbled on. Servants bustled to and fro with heaping platters. The music of fiddles and pipes wafted from one corner in a somber tune. Some of the lords had begun to reminisce loudly over their ale cups about Lord Rickard’s younger days, trading stories of hunts and campaigns past. Here and there laughter spiked through the sadness as fond memories were shared. It was the northern way: sorrow, then celebration. Life would prevail over death, even tonight. Brandon had relaxed fractionally, seeing his bannermen starting to eat and talk. Catelyn continued to encourage him to take a few bites—she coaxed him into eating a spoonful of soup, a morsel of bread and trout. He did so to please her, though she suspected he barely tasted it. Her little daughter, meanwhile, had curled up drowsily in her lap, soothed by the warmth of the hall and a small bite of sweetberry pie that one of the cook’s boys had slipped her. Arya’s dark head lolled against Catelyn’s breast as she dozed.
After some time, Catelyn noticed a line of northern lords and ladies forming near the dais. One by one they came to offer their personal condolences and pledges of loyalty to the new Lord Stark. Lord Galbart Glover was first, clapping Brandon on the shoulder and murmuring in his ear. Catelyn saw Brandon nod gravely, exchanging a few quiet words. Then came Lady Barbrey Dustin, regal in black wool. Barbrey’s expression was tight with long-held bitterness; Catelyn’s stomach knotted anxiously. Lady Barbrey’s husband, Lord Willam Dustin, had ridden south with Brandon years ago only to perish when a cache of wildfire exploded during a riot, killing him instantly. Though Rhaegar Targaryen’s actions had saved Rickard and Brandon, many good Northmen had still perished in the Mad King’s initial wrath. Barbrey had not forgotten that. Would she slight Brandon here, on this day of all days? Brandon stood to greet Lady Barbrey. Catelyn watched intently, though she could not hear their hushed voices over the hall’s noise. Barbrey’s eyes flashed as she spoke; Brandon listened, head bowed respectfully. Then he replied, earnest and soft. Catelyn saw something in Barbrey’s posture ease just a little. The Dustin widow gave a short nod and moved on. Brandon caught Catelyn’s gaze across the table then and managed a small reassuring smile. He had handled it. Catelyn exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she held. So it went, well-wishers and skeptics alike paying their respects. Brandon endured it all with a grace beyond his years. Catelyn found herself marveling at him—her hot-headed Brandon, who once would rather ride off to the wolfswood alone than sit through an evening of courtesies, was now patiently receiving each lord and lady, thanking them for their fealty and kind words.
He was less polished than Rickard had been, to be sure; Catelyn noticed his hands clench beneath the table when one visitor or another rambled too long, and a muscle in his jaw twitched whenever an old lord waxed on about “how proud your father must be.” But he gave no offense, only nodding and expressing gratitude until each was satisfied. At one point, Lord Wyman Manderly—a great bear of a man—made a toast in Lord Rickard’s honor that soon turned into a bawdy anecdote about a long-ago tourney in Oldtown. A ripple of laughter coursed through the hall. Brandon took advantage of that moment to slip out of his seat. He leaned down to Catelyn. “I should speak to the smaller folk as well,” he said quietly. Catelyn understood; many minor nobles and household folk would appreciate a word with their new lord, even if not bold enough to approach the dais. Brandon intended to walk among them and make himself seen. It was a thing Rickard Stark would have done. “I’ll keep your seat warm,” Catelyn replied with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “Go on, my lord.” He gave her a wan but grateful smile and straightened to his full height. Then Brandon stepped down from the dais and strode into the crowd. At first, a hush fell as people realized the Lord of Winterfell moved among them. All along the benches, men and women stood hastily and bowed or curtsied. Brandon waved a hand, bidding them sit and continue, which they did, if a bit awkwardly. Catelyn watched him make his way from table to table. It amazed her, suddenly, how much he looked the part—tall and straight despite his weariness, his father’s bronze-and silver direwolf pin gleaming on his breast.
He paused at each cluster of guests to exchange a few words. Some clasped his arm and offered renewed oaths; others pressed his hand and shared a memory of Rickard or a hopeful word for the future. Brandon listened to each in turn. Once, she even glimpsed a brief laugh from him when old Lord Cerwyn made a dry jape about Winterfell’s ale being as bitter as the Wall. It heartened her to see. Not everyone was entirely content beneath the surface, of course. Catelyn could read it in certain guarded expressions—the tension lingering between northern and crown-loyalist factions. At one table, tall Lord Smalljon Umber (Greatjon’s heir) muttered something to his neighbor that made both scowl toward a distant corner where Catelyn saw Dornish silks among the crowd. There were still old wounds there. But tonight, at least, none dared voice them. Grief bound them more than rancor, for the moment. After a time, Ned joined Brandon’s circuit. Catelyn saw the younger Stark slipping in among his father’s bannermen as well, lending his quieter presence to bolster Brandon’s. Ned had a way of soothing bristled tempers with a steady look and a few words of plain sense—a gift of his fosterage at the Eyrie, she supposed. The two brothers together presented a united front that could not be mistaken. The North would not lack for leadership.
Lyanna had left the hall by then, overwhelmed by all the eyes and sympathy. She had murmured to Catelyn about going to the kennels to check on the direwolves—a transparent excuse to find solitude and the comfort of the beloved animals. Catelyn let her go with a gentle touch to her arm. She doubted Lyanna would stray far; likely she simply needed the cold night air to dry her tears before rejoining them. And so, for a short while, Catelyn found herself relatively alone at the high table, with only a sleeping child for company. She did not mind. The break from conversation allowed her to marshal her own strength. She sipped slowly at a cup of watered wine, feeling the warmth seep through her limbs. The rhythmic buzz of hall chatter, the crackle of the great fire, the clink of trenchers and horns—all these formed a strange lullaby to accompany her heavy thoughts. She looked down at Arya, snug in her lap. The toddler had slept through most of the feast, awakening only briefly to nibble at some soft bread and be fussed over by Septa Mordane. Now, in the ambient noise, Arya slept once more, her tiny thumb tucked in her mouth, dark lashes resting on plump cheeks. Catelyn smoothed a hand over the downy auburn curls that crowned her head. Our little peace-pact, Lord Rickard had called Arya when she was born. How fiercely proud he had been that day—the day the betrothal was set with Prince Aegon. He had held the swaddled babe up to the light and proclaimed that one day she would sit the Iron Throne, a Stark wolf at the side of a Targaryen dragon.
Arya Stark, future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Catelyn’s throat tightened as she gazed at her daughter now. Arya was so small, so unaware of the grand destiny already woven for her. I will make sure she knows who she is, Catelyn vowed silently. A Stark of Winterfell, blood of the First Men and of the dragonkings both. What a remarkable fate awaited her child—one no Stark in thousands of years had ever held. There would be challenges aplenty, yes, but also possibilities beyond imagining. Arya might one day unite in her person the virtues of North and South, of ice and fire. Rickard had foreseen some of it, Catelyn suspected, even if he would not live to see it realized. He dreamed of her future, she thought, and we will make that future a bright one. She was drawn from her reverie by the creak of the dais steps. Catelyn turned to see Brandon stepping back up to the high table, looking utterly spent. The hall was starting to empty of the older and more distant guests; the hour had grown late. Brandon surveyed the remaining crowd one last time, then let out a long breath. When his eyes found Catelyn’s, the ghost of a fond smile touched his lips. “You slipped away,” he said quietly as he sank into his chair next to her. His voice was hoarse from hours of speaking, and he smelled of smoke and wine and the tang of many bodies pressed close. “I missed you beside me, Cat.” Catelyn reached over and took his hand. “And I missed you,” she replied. She kept her tone light, but her eyes told the rest: I’m proud of you. I’m here. He gave her fingers a grateful squeeze.
She longed to embrace him, to comfort the hurting boy beneath the new lord’s mantle. But conscious of the eyes still on them, she merely rose and moved behind him to knead at the tension in his shoulders. Brandon closed his eyes for a moment, rolling his neck under her soothing touch. “We’ll leave soon,” Catelyn murmured near his ear. “Aye. Soon,” he agreed wearily. He lifted one of her hands from his shoulder and kissed it, then pulled her around to sit once more at his side. Arya stirred and made a soft sound; she sensed her father’s return even in dreams. Brandon scooped her up from Catelyn’s lap and cradled the little girl against his chest. Arya woke long enough to peer up at him, then she gave a tiny sigh and snuggled into his arms with a contented murmur of “Dada.” Brandon’s eyes shone at that. He held her close, one large hand spanning most of her small back. Catelyn’s heart melted at the sight—the new Lord of Winterfell cradling his child amidst the debris of a feast, strength and tenderness in one. “You did well tonight,” she said softly, leaning into him. She loosened the direwolf pin at his collar and began easing him out of his formal coat. “Every person in this hall saw a worthy Lord of Winterfell in you.” Brandon sighed. “I felt like a boy wearing his father’s clothes,” he admitted. He unlaced his boots and kicked them off under the table. “All night, I kept expecting to look up and see him there—glowering at me for slouching or saying the wrong words.” A tremor passed through his voice. “Seven hells, Cat… he’s really gone.”
Catelyn framed his face with gentle hands. She brushed her thumbs across his cheekbones, wiping away a few escaped tears.
“He is,” she whispered. “But you’re not alone. Your father left you an entire kingdom of people who will stand by you. And he left you me, too.” Brandon managed a faint smile. “Aye. I’m fortunate in that.” He pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, then glanced down at Arya sleeping in his arms. The little girl had one fist curled around a tuft of his tunic, her rosebud mouth slightly open in slumber. Brandon’s expression softened. “And there’s her. Our little pup.” Carefully, he shifted Arya, nestling her more comfortably in the crook of his arm. With his free hand he stroked a thumb over the downy tuft of hair on her head. “Gods, she grows each day. Father was so delighted when she started to walk last month. He joked she’d be outrunning us all by spring.” Catelyn smiled through her sadness. “I remember. She toddled straight into his solar and demanded to see the birdies.” Arya had meant the ravenry, of course. Rickard had laughed and taken her at once to show her the ravens, holding her up so she could peek into each aviary. Brandon chuckled at the memory, a low rumble in his chest. The sound faded quickly. He fell quiet, his gaze unfocused on the far wall as Arya’s even breaths rose and fell against him. After a moment, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper: “He made me promise to keep the peace.” Catelyn rested a hand on his thigh. “And you will,” she said firmly. Brandon’s throat bobbed. “What if I can’t?” he asked, anguish tingeing the doubt in his tone. “What if—what if war comes for us, whether we want it or not?”
She understood at once. “Robert. Tywin,” she said, naming the specters that haunted them still. The Baratheon lord who nursed old wounds; the Lion of Casterly Rock nursing old pride. “The shadows of the past.” Catelyn drew a steadying breath and laced her fingers through his. “Then you will face it with honor and courage, as your father did, and as his father before him,” she said. “I will stand with you, and so will Ned—and all the North’s strength. And our children will have a future beyond it.” She nodded toward the sleeping Arya. “The houses of dragon and wolf are bound now. Whatever storms may come, that alliance will hold. It must.” Brandon huffed a quiet laugh then, catching her by surprise. “Little brother seems eager to do his part to bind dragon and wolf as well.” Catelyn arched a questioning brow. “Oh?” “During the feast,” Brandon said, “Ned pulled me aside. Even with all this sorrow, the poor fool was determined to ask my leave to marry Ashara Dayne.” He gave a soft snort. “He even apologized for the timing—as if Father’s passing was any fault of his.” Despite everything, Catelyn felt her lips curve in something close to warmth. A bright spark amid the darkness. “And you gave your blessing, of course?” Brandon nodded. “How could I not? I told him he had my blessing—a thousand times over. Father would have given it too, in time.”
“He would have,” Catelyn agreed softly. Rickard Stark had learned to embrace unexpected alliances; a Dornish daughter in the family would not have displeased him for long. “Ashara will be good for Ned. She already turned his head at Harrenhal, all those years ago.” “Aye. I expect he’ll bring her north before the next winter comes,” said Brandon. He reached over to caress a stray auburn lock that had fallen over Catelyn’s shoulder. “Strange, isn’t it? A Stark wedding a lady of Dorne; our daughter promised to a prince of the Iron Throne. The pack grows in ways we never imagined.” Catelyn covered his hand with hers. “And grows stronger for it,” she murmured. Brandon considered her words, then leaned forward until his brow rested against hers. “You should have been born north of the Neck,” he whispered, voice full of weary affection. “You’ve the heart of a Stark.” Catelyn felt tears prick her eyes again—but this time they were warm, almost happy. How far they had come. She remembered a bright summer day when she first met Brandon—he’d ridden into Riverrun fresh from the Vale, all swagger and smiles to meet his betrothed. She had been shy and uncertain what to make of this handsome, wild young man who was to be her husband. If someone had told her then that she would love him fiercely, that she would bear his child and sit with him on a winter’s night mourning his father, that she would proudly call herself a Stark—she might not have believed it. But the gods, new and old, wove strange tapestries.
“I will gladly be a Stark, if you will have me,” she whispered against his skin. Brandon closed his eyes and kissed her—a slow, gentle kiss full of gratitude and love. “Always,” he murmured. He shifted Arya back into Catelyn’s arms so he could wrap one arm around both of them. Little Arya fussed only a moment, then snuggled into Catelyn’s embrace contentedly. Catelyn settled back against the high seat, the day’s exhaustion weighing heavy on her. Most of the remaining guests had wandered off to find their beds, leaving only a few clusters of men by the fire, still murmuring over their cups. The hall was dimmer now, the torches burning low and the great fire collapsed into red embers. Above, the banners of House Stark and House Targaryen—wolf and dragon—hung side by side in the flickering gloom. In the stillness, the events of the day swirled through Catelyn’s mind: Rickard’s final words, the howls in the godswood, the heartfelt toasts of the bannermen, the glint of the dragon banner in the firelight. Grief and hope, entwined beyond separation. As she began to drift toward sleep, Catelyn took solace in one thought above all: the North had endured another night of winter’s heartache, and come morning, a new day would dawn over the snow-blanketed castle. Brandon would lead them forward, Ned, Lyanna and Benjen at his side, the memory of Lord Rickard at his back. And nestled in Catelyn’s arms was the promise of the future—a small Stark girl with the blood of wolves who would, one day, wear a crown of dragons.
“Sleep, my love,” Catelyn whispered softly to Brandon. She was not even sure he was awake to hear it. “The night is nearly done.” She felt him squeeze her hand in reply. Outside, the wind whistled a gentle lullaby through the tower’s crenellations. In the quiet dark, the Stark family—those of the old generation now gone, and those of the new yet to rise—kept their silent vigil together, awaiting the morning light.
Chapter 17: Chapter Thirteen: Jaime
Chapter Text
Ser Jaime Lannister stood at attention in the shadows of the Iron Throne, the white of his Kingsguard cloak a stark slash of color against the polished obsidian floor. Morning light speared through the high windows of the throne room, illuminating dust motes and the motley assembly of courtiers gathered before the King. Despite the golden sun on stone, the air felt cool. Or perhaps it was simply that King’s Landing itself seemed to hold its breath since Lord Tywin Lannister’s departure. Tywin’s absence loomed like a specter in the Red Keep. Even now, as petitioners droned on about port tariffs and grain stores, Jaime could sense the unease rippling through the court. For four years, his father’s firm hand had guided the realm alongside King Rhaegar’s. Now, after that tempestuous Small Council session and Tywin’s bitter resignation, the Lannister presence had all but withdrawn at first light. The Lion of Casterly Rock had retreated to its den, and those who once flocked to bask in his favor now kept their voices low. Jaime’s jaw tightened behind a mask of bored disinterest. The King sat atop the Iron Throne listening intently to a wrinkled tradesman recount a dispute, Rhaegar’s visage composed and attentive. The Dragon King’s silver hair fell around his shoulders, a bright gleam in the chamber. He looked every inch the storied warrior-prince turned ruler—a noble king from a song, just and measured. He did not lounge or snap as Aerys once did, but leaned forward slightly, eyes earnest, as if no concern of his people was beneath his notice.
He cares, Jaime thought begrudgingly. Seven hells, he even pretends to care about dockmasters and tolls. Under King Aerys, such trivial petitions would have been met with impatience or wildfire. Jaime remembered how the Mad King would fidget on this very throne, overgrown nails digging gouges into the arms of the chair as he grew bored. Rhaegar, in contrast, listened with a solemn courtesy that pricked Jaime’s pride even as it commanded his respect. He shifted his weight, legs stiff from standing guard through the endless audience. The throne room felt different these days. Under Aerys, tension and fear had hung heavy as incense—every whisper could be treason, any moment a new madness. Under Rhaegar, an uneasy calm reigned. Most were grateful for the change, yet not all wounds had healed. Especially not within Jaime Lannister. His gaze flicked over the courtiers. He saw Lord Varys in quiet conference with Master of Coin Petyr Baelish at the edge of the hall, and near them Prince Doran Martell—the new Hand of the King—stood observing quietly with his gouty weight leaned on an ebony cane. A Dornishman as Hand… who in the past year could have imagined it? Certainly not Tywin. When Rhaegar had named Prince Doran to succeed Lord Tywin a fortnight past, the Red Keep had buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Whispers of “Dornish conspiracy” and “Martell favoritism” still swirled through the corridors. Some looked at Queen Elia askance now, as though she had engineered her own brother’s rise. As though a woman so gentle would even desire such a thing.
Jaime himself had stood in the Small Council chamber when it happened. He could still recall every detail: Rhaegar’s face drawn but resolute, Tywin Lannister’s green eyes blazing as the King laid bare Ser Gregor Clegane’s crimes at the tourney and strongly implied the Hand’s complicity. The chamber had gone so silent, Jaime swore they all heard his father’s teeth grind. The King offered Lord Tywin a chance to atone—an apology, a graceful retirement. But Tywin Lannister did not bend, and so he broke. With cold courtesy, Tywin resigned with suppressed fury and then departed, crimson cloak snapping behind him. He had brushed past Jaime without a glance. A muscle in Jaime’s cheek twitched at the memory. He had wanted to speak, to call after his father—to explain, apologize, or something—but duty and shock rooted him in place. Only when the council adjourned did he rush to catch Lord Tywin at his chambers. By then, his father had already left the city with a small retinue, bound for Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister left King’s Landing in disgraced silence, and his golden son remained behind, cloaked in Kingsguard white. Bound to my post like a sworn sword… or a glorified gaoler, Jaime thought bitterly. He kept his eyes forward on the next petitioner—a pot-bellied lord complaining of Dornish outriders straying across his marches—but his mind drifted. His father’s last words echoed in his ears.
“There stands my finest work,” Tywin had once said the day Jaime first donned the white cloak, pride and bitterness mingling in equal measure. That was years past, when Jaime was little more than a boy, eager to serve and to spite the Mad King all at once. But what would Lord Tywin say of him now? Now, when the Lannisters’ influence at court had waned and the Kingsguard’s duty set Jaime at odds with his own blood? He swallowed, recalling the parchment tucked away inside his cloak. A raven had arrived from Casterly Rock this morning—a terse letter in his father’s own hand. Jaime had yet to read beyond the first line, dreading the disappointment he knew it contained.
“Ser Jaime.”
The King’s voice cut through his reverie. Jaime snapped back to attention, aware that Rhaegar was looking down at him from the Iron Throne. The hall had fallen silent; the petitioners had withdrawn while his mind wandered. Jaime cursed inwardly and hoped his lapse had not been too obvious. Rhaegar’s violet eyes studied him with mild concern. “You have stood vigil enough for one morning,” the King said gently, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Ser Oswell will relieve you.” Across the throne room, Ser Oswell Whent bowed and strode forward, his white cloak billowing as he took Jaime’s place by the dais. Reluctantly, Jaime stepped back from the Iron Throne and gave a crisp nod to Rhaegar. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he murmured. He realized his shoulders had gone rigid. Was the King dismissing him out of pity? Or had he truly noticed Jaime’s fatigue? Either answer rankled. Rhaegar inclined his head in return, an unreadable half-smile on his lips. There was no mockery in the King’s gaze, only a kindness that Jaime did not know how to stomach. As Jaime retreated toward a pillar at the edge of the hall, he heard Rhaegar speak again, addressing the assembly: “This audience is concluded. We will resume after the noon meal.” Courtiers bowed as the King rose from the throne, his Kingsguard falling in around him. Jaime watched Ser Arthur Dayne offer his arm in support—Rhaegar had been spending long nights in the library again, and even a dragon prince could grow weary. Still, the King moved with dignity as he descended. He paused briefly to exchange a few quiet words with Prince Doran, then continued out, flanked by white-cloaked protectors.
Jaime remained by a marble pillar, unsure whether to follow or to take the reprieve Rhaegar had offered. A freedom he had not asked for. Ser Oswell had replaced him on duty, yes, but the sudden emptiness in Jaime’s schedule left him restless. As the throne room emptied, a familiar voice rang out behind him. “Ser Jaime,” called Grand Maester Pycelle, hurrying forward with his chain of office clinking over his robes. The old man’s smile was oily. “Might I have a word, my boy?” Jaime forced a polite expression. “Maester,” he said curtly. Pycelle leaned in, lowering his voice. “Terrible business, your father’s…departure,” he offered with false sympathy. His breath smelled of mint and milk. “We shall miss Lord Tywin’s steady hand, to be sure.” Jaime’s golden fingers clenched into a fist at his side. We? There was no “we” about it—Pycelle spoke for himself. The Grand Maester had been one of his father’s creatures for years. Now Pycelle’s eyes flickered, as if trying to read whether Jaime Lannister might supplant Tywin’s presence at court. “Thank you, Grand Maester,” Jaime replied, voice cool as winter. “If that will be all, I am in need of some fresh air.” “Of course, of course,” Pycelle said, bowing obsequiously. “If you need anything… the Conclave holds your House in the highest esteem, young ser.” Jaime left before his tongue could betray his disgust. He knew an opportunist’s scent; Pycelle reeked of it more strongly than a King’s Landing gutter. Out in the corridor, Jaime strode past a pair of gold-cloaked guards, eager to escape the suffocating halls, if only for a short while.
He made his way out into the inner courtyard beside Maegor’s Holdfast. Here, a small godswood offered a pocket of greenery and solitude. Jaime inhaled deeply. The air was heavy with the scent of leaves and a trace of salt from the distant Blackwater Bay. He savored the quiet, broken only by the faint trickle of a brook and the rustling of leaves. Under the dappled shade of an oak, Jaime exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He realized he was sweating under his gilded armor. Removing his white cloak, he draped it over a low branch to let the breeze cool him. The cloak’s fabric nearly brushed the grass, white as new snow. For so many years he had yearned for that cloak. Now it felt as if it hung heavier on his shoulders by the day.
Jaime flexed his hand, imagining it curled around the hilt of a sword rather than clenched in frustration. A sparring session might clear his mind, but the training yard would be full of gawkers and whisperers. No, what he truly wanted was to ride far from the Red Keep—away from duty and petty squabbles and the eyes of a king who was altogether too perceptive. But he was not free to come and go as he pleased. He was Kingsguard. Sworn to the King’s service, sworn to protect the royal family with all he had. Jaime’s throat tightened. In his mind’s eye he saw his father’s face, stony with disapproval, and beside it another face—a pale, gentle face framed by white hair, kind eyes brimming with sadness. Bruised skin… Queen Rhaella.
Rhaegar’s mother had always treated Jaime with courtesy, even warmth, in the early days when he was a green boy among seasoned Kingsguard knights. She would ask about his siblings and his training and even send lemon cakes to his quarters on his nameday. In truth, she had been the only soul in the Red Keep who made Jaime feel welcome after Tywin left court in protest of his appointment. And how had he repaid her? By failing her utterly. Jaime closed his eyes, the godswood sounds fading as memories came unbidden. Rhaella’s screams echoing through the walls on those nights when King Aerys paid her his unwelcome attentions… the bruises on her arms glimpsed as she passed in the corridor the next morning… Young Prince Viserys tugging on Jaime’s Kingsguard cloak once, tears in his eyes, begging, “Ser, please make him stop hurting Mother.” Gods forgive him, Jaime had not known what to do. He was a Kingsguard, sworn to obey the King in all things. To raise a hand against Aerys then would have meant his own death and likely the destruction of his entire House for treason. So he had done nothing, and the guilt festered like an old wound. In the end, it was Rhaegar who had done what Jaime could not—Rhaegar who had slain his own father to save the family and the city. Jaime’s hands had been red with innocence, while Rhaegar’s dripped with kinslaying. The King’s blood is on his sword, not mine. And yet Rhaegar sleeps soundly while I…
Jaime’s eyes snapped open. A breeze ruffled the leaves above, sprinkling stray sunlight across his Kingsguard cloak as it swayed on the branch. He stared at the white cloth, the symbol of everything he had given and lost. Perhaps it was not guilt alone that weighed on him, but envy. Envy that Rhaegar had possessed the will to do what was needed, damn the cost. Jaime’s own chance to prove himself had been stolen in an instant. One moment Aerys was alive—Jaime poised at his post, deciding if he dared intervene—and the next, Prince Rhaegar burst into the throne room sword in hand to cut down the mad king and the pyromancer by his side. He could still see it: the flash of Valyrian steel, the eruption of wildfire in emerald flame, Rhaegar stepping from the smoke with the Red Keep saved and Jaime Lannister left standing useless. The realm hailed Rhaegar a savior. And Jaime? He was merely the boy in the white cloak who did nothing while his King was slain. Oh, he was praised too—however hollowly—for “wisely staying his blade and bending the knee to the new King.” Songs might one day name it a glorious coup or a heroic sacrifice. But there would be no songs of Jaime the hero. Only Jaime the dutiful. Jaime the pawn, who stood aside while greater men shaped the world around him.
He grimaced and turned away from the cloak, as if he could turn away from the past itself. The godswood path led toward the royal gardens through a gated arch of ivy. Perhaps a walk would calm him. He started down the path, boots crunching softly on gravel. Over the wall he could hear distant chatter—women’s voices and the high laughter of children. Likely the royal children at play, he thought. Princess Rhaenys and little Prince Aegon often took the air with their Septa at this time of day, chasing each other around the fountains. Sometimes Queen Elia joined them if she felt well enough. Jaime hesitated before pushing open the wrought-iron gate into the gardens. He was in no mood for company, least of all the innocent kind. Yet something drew him on—a half-formed thought that perhaps, around those children, he might find a simpler purpose. The Kingsguard protected the King, yes… but also the King’s family. And protecting children felt a nobler calling than guarding any damned chair of swords. Steeling himself, Jaime stepped through the arch into the royal gardens. The garden beyond was a sun-dappled paradise for the cold season. Winter or summer, King’s Landing tended to have a constant subtropical climate. Manicured rose bushes and hedges enclosed little paths that wound past marble benches and burbling fountains. Purple heliotropes and golden sunflowers nodded their heads in a gentle breeze. Near the southern wall, a single tall lemon tree spread its branches over a patch of grass, its fruits bright specks of yellow amid glossy green leaves. Lemon ripened in the autumn and winter seasons after all.
Laughter rang out from that direction—childish and high. Jaime followed the sound, rounding a hedge of fragrant lavender to find Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon in the shade of the lemon tree. Rhaenys, a dark-haired little dynamo of perhaps eight years, was giggling wildly as she chased her younger brother. Aegon, toddling as fast as his stout legs allowed, clutched a wooden dragon toy in one hand and tried to evade his sister’s grasp. Nearby, a flushed Septa Amarys watched the royal children with one hand pressed to her bosom in exasperation, and a Dornish nursemaid hovered protectively near Prince Aegon in case he stumbled. Jaime could not help but smile at the sight. Rhaenys had tackled Aegon in a flurry of skirts and squeals, and now both children rolled in the grass, panting and laughing. The wooden dragon lay forgotten beside them. It was a simple, wholesome chaos—the sort of scene that never unfolded in the Red Keep’s gardens a few short years ago. Under Aerys’s reign, the royal family rarely ventured out together in casual play; fear permeated everything. But here they were, innocent and free. He stepped forward, clearing his throat softly so as not to startle them. “Your Highnesses,” Jaime called with a half grin, “might I ask who won this mighty battle?” Rhaenys’s head popped up, a scatter of grass clinging to her dark curls. Her violet eyes lit up when she recognized him. “Ser Jaime!” she cried, scampering to her feet. In an instant she was at his side, tugging on the white cloak he’d slung over his arm. “Did you see? I almost had him!”
Prince Aegon, still plopped on his bottom in the grass, raised his chubby arms toward Jaime in silent, hopeful greeting. The boy’s cheeks were red from exertion, and his silver hair stuck up in sweaty tufts. He looked the image of Rhaegar at that age, or so the court said. Jaime reached down without hesitation and scooped Aegon into his arms. “Up we go, little dragon.” The prince was almost five years old but light as a feather in Jaime’s grasp. Aegon giggled happily and immediately seized a lock of Jaime’s golden hair to chew, as was his custom whenever Jaime held him. Rhaenys giggled. “Aegon’s hungry. He wants roast lion for supper!” “Seven save me,” Jaime laughed. “I fear I’ve been caught by a fearsome dragon and his sister.” He made a show of staggering under Aegon’s (negligible) weight, provoking more giggles from the princess. The septa and nurse exchanged relieved smiles; Ser Jaime playing with the children was a welcome distraction from mischief. As Jaime entertained them, another figure emerged from behind the lemon tree. A little girl close to Aegon’s age, with fine white-blonde hair and a dark purple dress now smudged with dirt at the hem. In her tiny hands she clutched the corners of her skirt, bunched up to form an impromptu pouch. Inside rested three bright lemons.
Princess Daenerys Targaryen—royal infant turned toddling thief.
She froze when she saw Jaime watching her, her violet eyes wide with guilt and lemon-scented evidence. Clearly she had been quietly collecting fallen fruits while the septa was preoccupied. For a moment, the two regarded each other: the knight caught off guard, the little princess caught lemon-handed. Jaime pursed his lips in an attempt at sternness, but it was hard to keep a straight face. He gently set Prince Aegon down on the grass—where the boy promptly tottered back to his nurse—and strode toward Dany, arms folded in theatrical disapproval. “And what have we here?” Jaime said, looming over the child with one eyebrow arched. “A plunderer in the royal gardens? Someone has been gathering the King’s lemons without permission, I think.” Princess Daenerys’s lower lip jutted out in a stubborn pout. She shook her head vigorously, as if denying everything despite the bulge in her skirts. Jaime fought down a chuckle. The little dragonling had courage. “Oh no?” He crouched to meet her eye to eye, the sunlight filtering through the lemon tree’s leaves to paint dappled patterns on them both. The citrus fragrance was sharp and sweet. “Are you quite sure those aren’t lemons under your skirt, Your Grace?” Dany clutched her makeshift pouch tighter, tiny knuckles whitening. “Mine,” she declared in a small but firm voice.
At that, Rhaenys skipped over, delight dancing in her eyes. “She loves the lemons, Ser Jaime,” the older girl explained conspiratorially. “She eats them plain, even the sour. Septa says it will ruin her teeth, but Dany doesn’t care.” Rhaenys leaned in, whispering loud enough for all to hear, “She’s hiding them so she can eat them later, I think.” “Traitor!” Jaime gasped dramatically at Rhaenys, which set the princess squealing with laughter. Even Daenerys gave her sister a betrayed glare, hugging her lemons possessively. Jaime turned back to Dany, softening his tone. “Your Grace,” he began solemnly, “might I see your treasures?” He held out one gauntleted palm, inviting. Daenerys hesitated, eyes flicking from his face to the white cloak draped over his shoulder. To her, perhaps Ser Jaime was as large and intimidating as the Kingsguard in storybooks—great white knights who carried off naughty children for punishment. But then Rhaenys gave her an encouraging nod, and little Aegon, now safely back in his nurse’s arms, waved his wooden dragon and burbled, “Lem-on!” At last Dany relented. Slowly she untucked the hem of her skirt and let three ripe lemons tumble out into Jaime’s waiting hand. They were warm from the sun, each smooth and glossy. The sharp citrus smell made his nose wrinkle. He inspected the fruits gravely, as if appraising evidence of a heinous crime. “Hmmm, just as I suspected,” he pronounced. “Stolen property.”
Dany’s eyes filled with apprehension. Tiny hands fidgeted at her sides. A single tear threatened in the corner of one eye—more from fear of scolding than true remorse. Jaime’s heart melted at the sight. He exchanged a conspiratorial wink with Rhaenys before continuing in a loud, official tone, “Princess Daenerys, you stand accused of fruit theft. How do you plead?” Dany blinked, unsure what he meant. “It means, is she sorry?” Rhaenys stage-whispered helpfully. “Sorry,” Dany mumbled at once, latching onto the prompt. A tear spilled down her cheek now.
Seven hells, Jaime thought, this is no fun at all anymore. He had meant to tease, not make her cry. Quickly, he set aside his knightly pretense and offered her a warm smile. “No tears, little one. The King’s Justice can be merciful.” He reached out with his free hand and gently wiped the tear from Dany’s cheek with his thumb. “There, all better.” Sniffling, Dany peered up at him, hope returning. Jaime juggled the lemons lightly in his palm. “These are fine specimens,” he said. “I think such initiative deserves a reward rather than punishment.” Septa Amarys stepped forward then, clearing her throat. “Ser Jaime, Princess Daenerys knows better,” she began, frowning sternly. Jaime flashed the septa a charming grin. “Forgive me, Septa, but I must disagree. One so young cannot know better unless we show her. Perhaps the lesson here is sharing.” He returned his gaze to Dany. “If the princess will share her lemons for a good cause, perhaps we can overlook the theft. What say you?”
Dany tilted her head. “Share…?” she echoed in a tiny voice. “Aye, share,” Jaime affirmed. “I have it on good authority that the royal cook can turn these lemons into the most delicious lemon cakes in all the Seven Kingdoms.” He lowered his voice to an enticing whisper. “Cakes even tastier than eating a sour lemon plain.” That got her. Dany’s eyes went wide. “Cake?” Rhaenys hopped excitedly. “Lemon cakes! Oh, Dany, let’s do it! Please?” The toddler considered, then gave a single decisive nod. “Cake.” “Excellent decision, Your Grace.” Jaime laughed, rising to his feet with one lemon balanced atop the others like a juggler’s trick. He tossed it gently to Rhaenys, who caught it with a grin. “One for the cakes,” he declared. The second lemon he lobbed to the septa, who nearly fumbled it in surprise. “One for the Septa—for her patience,” Jaime added playfully. Then he held up the last lemon between thumb and forefinger. “And one for the little thief who found them.” He bent and offered the final lemon back to Daenerys. She took it carefully, a shy smile creeping onto her face. “No eating it now, mind,” Jaime cautioned with a wink. “You can keep it to scent your chambers or ask the cook to candy the peel. But only after supper.”
Dany hugged the lemon to her chest as if it were a prized doll. “Thank you,” she whispered. Jaime touched a hand to his breast in a florid bow. “You are most welcome, Princess.” The septa shook her head in bemusement but smiled despite herself. “Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said. “Truly, you have a way with them.” Rhaenys agreed enthusiastically. “Ser Jaime tells the best stories too! Will you sup with us, ser? Mama and the King might join tonight, if Mother’s feeling well.” At that, Jaime’s carefree moment dulled slightly. Queen Elia’s health was ever a delicate subject. She had been stronger lately, true, but many an evening her illness overtook her and she retired early. Still, Rhaenys’s hopeful invitation was hard to resist. “Perhaps I will,” Jaime said gently, ruffling Rhaenys’s hair. “If Their Graces don’t mind a lion at their table.” The children beamed. Daenerys held her lemon like a trophy, and Aegon was gnawing on Jaime’s forgotten lock of hair from where he clung in the nurse’s arms. The scene tugged at something deep in Jaime’s chest—a curious warmth he was not accustomed to feeling. Protecting the royal family was his duty, yes. But in moments like these, it felt more like a privilege. These children were the realm’s future: laughing under the sun, blissfully ignorant of the scars and secrets their elders bore. Under Aerys they might have lived in fear or even perished. Under Rhaegar’s rule, they had a chance to simply be children. And Jaime Lannister, despite all his inner turmoil, was one of the knights entrusted to keep them safe.
He realized he wanted to keep them safe. Not out of obligation alone, but genuine desire. Rhaenys’s fearless laughter, Aegon’s trusting arms around his neck, little Dany’s earnest mischief—seven hells, he actually cared for these royal babes as if they were kin. The realization was at once alarming and oddly comforting. Jaime exhaled slowly and returned Rhaenys’s grin. “I’ll see you at supper, princess. Ser Jaime always keeps his word.” Rhaenys clapped, and even Princess Dany gave a small hop of excitement (still clutching her lemon in one hand). With that promise, the septa corralled her young charges to wash up before the meal. Jaime watched them skip away—Rhaenys already chattering about lemon cakes, Aegon squirming in the nurse’s grip to follow his sister, and Daenerys glancing back at Jaime with one last sweet smile. When they had disappeared toward the nursery, Jaime strolled back through the gardens to collect his cloak from the godswood. The sun was drifting westward now, afternoon ripening toward evening. He felt lighter on his feet than he had all day. Pausing beneath the oak where his white cloak still hung, Jaime ran a finger over the pristine fabric. He thought of how tiny Daenerys looked holding that lemon, and how Rhaegar had looked earlier holding court with such grace. He thought of Tywin too—his father’s cold fury and the stern words no doubt waiting for him in that letter.
In the balance of his mind, competing loyalties warred as ever. House Lannister’s pride versus the vows of the Kingsguard. The expectations of the father he idolized versus the respect—however reluctant—he was growing to feel for the king he served. Jaime retrieved his cloak and swung it around his shoulders once more. The white wool settled, familiar and heavy. Duty, honor, service. It was all he had now, aside from a brother’s love and a father’s scorn. But perhaps that was enough. He made his way out of the godswood, through quiet halls to the White Sword Tower where the Kingsguard kept their barracks and the great White Book of records. His steps echoed on the stone stair as he ascended to his private chamber at the top—a modest room with a narrow window overlooking Blackwater Bay. Evening’s orange glow seeped in as Jaime closed the door behind him. On a small writing desk by the window lay two scrolls sealed with wax. One bore the stamp of House Lannister—a roaring lion in crimson—he recognized at once. The other bore the seal of Storm’s End: a crowned stag. Jaime’s stomach clenched. He had known Casterly Rock’s raven arrived this morning, yet he’d delayed reading it. Now it seemed his twin had written as well. He broke Cersei’s seal first, hands suddenly unsteady. Unfurling the parchment, he drank in Cersei’s neat, bold script. The fading light made him squint, so he lit a tallow candle to continue. She wrote of her life at Storm’s End with caustic disdain. Robert was boorish, Robert was drunk, Robert stumbled into their marriage bed stinking of ale and muttering a stranger’s name (Lyanna’s, Jaime knew without her saying).
Cersei spoke of the empty coldness of the halls there, the lack of familiar faces, her contempt for the stormlanders who treated her like a prized broodmare yet to foal. Her loneliness seeped through every line, thinly veiled by sarcasm and venom. “I hate it here,” she confessed in one uncharacteristically raw sentence. “I hate him.” Jaime’s throat tightened as he read on. Cersei recalled with bitter nostalgia their days in the Red Keep before Rhaegar’s ascension—how she’d dreamed of being a queen and how that dream was stolen from her. “He gave me to Robert as if I were a coin to buy his peace,” she wrote of Rhaegar. “The Dragon King thinks himself just, but he will never see us as more than tools. You remain his sworn sword and I his discarded treaty-wife. How I despise it.” Jaime set the letter down for a moment, running a hand over his face. He could almost hear her voice through the words—angry, wounded, yearning for vindication. For a moment he was back in the secret passages of the Red Keep with her, or in the depths of Casterly Rock’s tunnels as reckless teenagers, stealing kisses and whispering how one day they would belong only to each other. His eyes fell to the letter again. Cersei ended it on a note that felt like a dagger between his ribs:
“Come to me if you can. I need you, Jaime. I feel as though I’m drowning in this storm and you are the only one who can pull me out. Please… remember your promise: we always keep each other’s secrets and each other’s souls. I will wait for you.”
Jaime realized his hand was trembling. He clenched his fist to still it. The room had grown dim, the candle flame dancing as a draft snuck through the arrow-slit window. Beyond, he could see the sky purpling over the bay and one lone ship’s light twinkling in the distance. Only then did he recall the other letter. Tywin’s seal stared up at him from the desk—imposing, expectant. Jaime did not reach for it immediately. Instead, he carefully folded Cersei’s missive and tucked it into the inner pocket of his tunic, close against his chest. Her words left him with a riot of emotion: protectiveness, anger on her behalf, longing that bordered on ache. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to leap atop his charger, ride to Storm’s End, cut down anyone who dared trouble her, and spirit his twin away to someplace safe—someplace they could be together, vows and kingdoms be damned. But that was a boy’s fantasy. The man in him knew better. Cersei was Lady Baratheon now, wed and bound. And he was a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, bound by oath as unyielding as Valyrian steel. The two of them had chosen paths that made staying together impossible, yet neither of them could fully accept it.
With a heavy sigh, Jaime broke the seal on his father’s letter at last. Tywin Lannister’s handwriting was as precise and stern as the man himself. Jaime’s eyes roved over the lines, jaw tightening with each word. Tywin wasted little parchment on pleasantries; he went straight to command. He wrote of the slight King Rhaegar had dealt their house by forcing Tywin’s resignation and naming Kevan the new “Warden of the West”. He spoke of “Lannister honor” and how it must be avenged or restored. How Jaime was ordered to remember where his true loyalties should lie. “A King may move a man where he will,” Tywin wrote, invoking some old saying, “but the wise man remembers that blood is thicker than oaths.” Jaime’s mouth twisted at that. Easy enough for Lord Tywin to say—he had never taken an oath he could not break or bend if needed. The letter continued, implying that Rhaegar’s favor toward Martells and Starks left the West isolated, that Jaime must act as the proud lion among vipers at court. Tywin stopped short of outright telling him to desert his post (even Tywin would not urge open treason… yet). But the expectation was clear: Jaime must be his eyes and ears now. “Do not forget who you are,” the last line read, signed simply Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. Jaime slowly rolled the parchment, hands steady now with cold resolve.
Two letters, two voices pulling at him: Cersei begging him to abandon duty for love, and Tywin commanding him to subvert duty for family pride. Both wanted him away from Rhaegar’s side—one to save her, the other to serve his House’s ambitions. And what did he want? He wanted them both to be safe and happy. He wanted to ride to Cersei, to console her, to cut down Robert Baratheon for ever making her shed a tear. He wanted to please his father, to be the heir Tywin deserved, not a white cloak bound to a rival king. Jaime’s eyes stung with frustration. He could not be all things at once. He could not split himself in two. He crossed to the narrow window, the parchment crackling in his fist. Below, King’s Landing stretched out in twilight hush, torches flickering to life along the walls. Somewhere in the city, bells tolled the hour of the bat. Jaime looked south, as if his gaze might pierce the dusk and distance to find Storm’s End where Cersei languished. Then he looked westward, imagining Casterly Rock rising from the sea, his father pacing in his tower expecting obedience. Finally, he looked inward—into his own heart. There he found a spark of stubborn resolve that surprised even him. He was Jaime Lannister… but he was also a knight of the Kingsguard. He had made his choice on the day he took that cloak, whether it was forced on him or not. If he threw it away now, what would he become? Oathbreaker, deserter, a common sellsword with no honor to his name and a father still disappointed that he’d tarnished their legacy further. No. Jaime would not run. Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
Tywin Lannister would have to scheme without him, and Cersei… gods, he loved her, but she would have to endure a little longer without him at her side. Unless the King released him from his vows (and what cause would Rhaegar have for that?), Jaime was bound to this path. His fist unclenched, and he carefully placed Tywin’s letter atop the desk. He would answer it with guarded pleasantries, he supposed, assuring his father that he remained ever vigilant of the realm’s and House Lannister’s interests. It was cowardly in a way—placating Tywin with dutiful words while doing nothing. But a direct refusal would only inflame matters, and Jaime was not ready to burn that bridge. As for Cersei… he would write to her as well. Tonight, once the castle slept, he would compose a letter full of sympathy and subtle caution. He would tell her to stay strong, to play the dutiful wife a while longer, to trust him. He hated himself for it, knowing she would read those words as abandonment. But better a living sister angry at him than a dead one executed for treason if he foolishly tried to steal her away. A sharp rap on his chamber door interrupted his brooding. Jaime turned.
“Yes?”
The door cracked open and Ser Arthur Dayne’s familiar face appeared, stern yet courteous. The Sword of the Morning inclined his head. “Jaime. We wondered if you’d join us for supper. The Lord Commander insists we all dine together this night.” By “we” he meant the Kingsguard. Jaime realized he had lost track of time. Supper. He had promised Rhaenys he would join them, but the Kingsguard dining together was a duty of camaraderie he could not shun lightly, especially with Ser Barristan as Lord Commander. Still…if he had the king on his side, could Barristan be all that mad? “I’ll be down shortly,” Jaime lied. He had to keep his promise…and enjoy the lemon cakes too. Arthur nodded and withdrew.
Jaime took one last glance at the two letters on his desk. Then, decisively, he slid them into a drawer and locked it. They would keep until later. For now, he straightened his white tunic, fastened his cloak, and donned the easy grin he wore like armor. Reluctant or not, he served King Rhaegar Targaryen—a man he was coming, slowly and stubbornly, to respect. And he served the royal family, those innocent children who believed him a hero in shining white. He would not fail them, as he once failed their grandmother. He would protect them with every ounce of his strength. One day, Jaime vowed silently as he descended the winding stairs quietly as to not draw the attention of his brothers-in-arms, I will find a way to reconcile the lion in me with the white knight I swore to be. Until that day, he would walk the knife’s edge of duty, striving to live up to the ideals of the Kingsguard even as shadows of Lannister pride tugged at his cloak. And perhaps, in doing so, Ser Jaime Lannister might finally earn the songs he hungered for—songs of honor, not infamy. Perhaps one day he would make both his King and his family proud.
But that day was not today.
Today, he would simply serve—protecting the realm’s peace one sworn breath at a time, under the reign of the dragon he had chosen to follow. With that thought tempered by equal parts regret and resolve, Jaime grew close to the feasting hall. The sound of laughter drifted met him—royals talking, glasses clinging, life going on. Jaime squared his shoulders and walked forward, a white shadow in the twilight halls, guarding a peace he wasn’t sure he deserved, yet determined to keep all the same.
EleanorDarkholme on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 02:02PM UTC
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ChroniclesofVampy on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 08:09PM UTC
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ChroniclesofVampy on Chapter 8 Thu 14 Aug 2025 11:16PM UTC
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ChroniclesofVampy on Chapter 12 Wed 27 Aug 2025 03:07AM UTC
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ChroniclesofVampy on Chapter 12 Mon 08 Sep 2025 12:46AM UTC
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ChroniclesofVampy on Chapter 16 Mon 08 Sep 2025 02:11AM UTC
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