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Chapter Text

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings;

How some have been deposed; some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;

All murder'd: for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court.

(William Shakespeare, Richard II, 3.2.155-62)

 

 

It is a story from a song--a fair maid stolen in the dead of night, and her brothers and her betrothed riding to her rescue. They will tear a kingdom apart, pull a king from his throne, and crown another in his place, all in the name of the fair, stolen maid.

 

It is a tale that comforts men and reassures them. Even though the knight is too late to save his lady, he gains a kingdom and a queen even fairer than the maid he lost. But the truth is not so simple. A war is not one story; it is thousands speaking at once. We do not know what the maid thought, or the prince’s wife, herself a princess by birth. And other ladies too, whose parts in this tale are further obscured, as often happens when histories are written by men.

 

This is their story. This was their war.

 

***

 

Chapter 1. Lyanna

 

Lyanna Stark never expected to feel a pang of regret as she passed through the gates of Harrenhal for what she could only imagine was the last time. Lord and Lady Whent had all but bankrupted themselves for their tournament, she'd heard, but they could rest assured it would be remembered. All her disdain for courtly entertainments aside, it had been a thrill to see the knights of the stories at first hand--the Sword of the Morning, Barristan the Bold, and of course the Prince of Dragonstone. Who was another story altogether.

 

"Lya?" Ned's voice jolted her out of her thoughts. He had drawn up beside her, close enough for her to see the yellowing bruise on his temple from his turn in the lists a few days earlier. "I was hoping to find you."

 

"And found me, you have," she replied, smiling. "I had hoped to have more time with you, Ned, before you hare off to the Eyrie again. It's a pity you didn't join the masque, while it still existed." When Ned didn't respond, Lyanna studied his face for a moment, trying to remember something she'd wondered about during the feast on the first night. "Why didn't you, Ned? Surely one learns those things in the Vale."

 

The Eyrie might be a strange castle perched upon a mountainside, but it was nonetheless in the south. If Lord Arryn or the late Lord Baratheon had had any daughters, Lyanna may have found her way there or to Storm's End, but her father had instead kept her at Winterfell with Brandon and Benjen. Besides, the Stormlands bordered the Reach, and everyone knew the Reach was famed for beauty and chivalry.

 

Ned's ears had gone red. "Not really. Not with Robert around."

 

"What, dancing is only for girls and eunuchs?" She rolled her eyes.

 

"Lyanna!"

 

"What? I know about eunuchs. Really, you're as bad as Brandon."

 

Ned turned to her, sudden anger in his face, and snapped, "Oh, that I'm not. I can promise you that."

 

Lyanna frowned. "What has he done?" Ned had hero-worshipped Brandon as a boy, but his years under Lord Arryn's tutelage had made him more critical of faults he'd never noticed before that Benjen excused and that Lyanna did not remark upon. No doubt being around Robert all the time--who was not unlike Brandon in his wilder moods--did not help matters. And yet he won't understand why I might not prefer Robert to be my husband. Trying to explain to Ned that his blindness to Robert's faults was no different than Lyanna's acceptance of Brandon's was as effective and as short-lived as teaching the stable cats not to bring mice into the Great Hall.

 

Ned just shook his head. "Brandon's a bloody fool, that's all. Nothing to concern you, Lya, I promise."

 

"Ned, you know I won't stop asking until you tell me."

 

"Stubborn as ever, Lya." That earned her a smile. "Very well. If you tell me why you and Robert are quarrelling."

 

Of course he knew about that. "Oh, gods above--"

 

"Lyanna, did you threaten to break your engagement?"

 

"He was being unreasonable!" she protested. "Tell me, did you notice anything amiss between me and the prince of Dragonstone?"

 

"He crowned you the Queen of Love and Beauty?"

 

He had a point. Even she had not expected that to happen.

 

She remembered the moment when she realised Prince Rhaegar was coming to her--not to his wife or Ashara Dayne or Cersei Lannister or some other reputed beauty. For a second, she'd wanted to kill him for calling attention to her like this. If Princess Elia had recognised her so easily in armour three days earlier, who else might have guessed? But then he'd held out the crown of blue roses with a smile that made Lyanna's insides twist and, before she knew it, she was taking it from him. Not very discreet, my lord, she'd murmured, and his lips twitched with laughter. Nothing about this tourney has been discreet, Lady Lyanna. Pray forgive me this mummery. It seemed he would never say anything to her that made any sense whatsoever.

 

But Ned was staring at her now. "I think I can see why Robert was jealous."

 

"Not you too!" Lyanna could feel her cheeks grow hot. "That's not fair, Ned. I never even wanted to come to this tournament, but it was the only way I would see you, and now you're being hateful." It was a white lie of sorts--of course she'd wanted to come to the tournament just to see all the knights from the stories that had made their way north along the Kingsroad. But she had also wanted to see Ned. It had been far too long since his last visit to Winterfell.

 

He winced, and Lyanna felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe Ned was right and she did fancy the prince a little, but what red-blooded girl wouldn't? Cersei Lannister had made no secret of it, boasting to her ladies that her father would see her fitted with a royal husband sooner or later and that she--unlike others she might name--was in perfect health. It wouldn't have occurred to Lyanna to even contemplate that. "It isn't fair that Robert fathers bastards in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms--"

 

"One girl in the Vale and a boy in King's Landing. That's hardly every corner."

 

"Don't forget the maid in Maidenpool. Besides, you haven't got any, have you?"

 

Ned's face turned bright red and he suddenly became very interested in his horse's mane.

 

"As I said," Lyanna went on. "And yet, when one man--a man who, unlike Robert, shows some interest in being faithful to his wife--pays even the slightest speck of attention to me, Robert flies into a rage. Explain to me how that's fair, Ned. Please."

 

"It isn't, I know, but that's the world, sis."

 

"Now you really sound like Brandon," she muttered. "A pox on all of you. Stupid men."

 

"Why did he give you the crown, Lya?" Ned was not quite meeting her eyes and he still looked somewhat ashamed of himself. Though it was unladylike to gloat, Lyanna couldn't help it. "Did he say anything?"

 

"What?" Lyanna batted her eyelashes at him. "You don't think he just found my wild Northern beauty irresistible?" It was, after all, what he'd announced to the crowd. For the fairest of the northern roses. The thought made her cheeks grow warm again, though she told herself it was stupid.

 

"Don't be silly, Lya. Father will hear about it and you know he'll have questions." Of course, Ned was right. Ned, rather to her annoyance, was usually right. Even Brandon listened to him sometimes, which was more than could be said for anyone who wasn't their lord father.

 

Lyanna sighed. "I don't know. He didn't say anything to me." It was a white lie; he hadn't said anything useful. "Well, something about mummers."

 

"Mummers?" Ned blinked.

 

"Mummers, mummery, something like that. He's a Targaryen, Ned. Nobody ever claimed they made sense."

 

Ned was frowning down at his horse's mane. "You saw what King Aerys did to Jaime Lannister, Lya."

 

"Of course I did. It was rankest injustice and I don't care who hears me say it. Even the rest of the Kingsguard didn't like it, and they of all people obey the king without question."

 

It was as though they'd silently agreed not to speak of the king himself--his tangled, uncut beard, the yellowed fingernails, and the darting, suspicious eyes. Lyanna remembered feeling those eyes on her as Benjen's borrowed horse stirred restlessly beneath her and her sweat-soaked skin grew cold with terror. The king would have found no humour in her little adventure; that much was certain. And it was the prince who spared me that. A little mummery and a crown of blue roses seemed a small price to pay.

 

She'd seen the expression on Ser Jaime's face when he realised he wasn't to joust--like a lost little boy--and recalled that he was the same age as his sister, and therefore no older than Lyanna. Too young to have given up his life to a king who clearly cared nothing for him. "And it was all to lesson Lord Tywin, who isn't even here. The more I see of court, the less I care for it."

 

"I agree. But we'll neither of us need to spend much time there, thank the gods. Storm's End may not be far from King's Landing, but Robert won't tolerate court for more than a few weeks at a time." He smiled, as though at some secret jest. "He's not a bad man, Lyanna. And he cares for you."

 

"So you all keep telling me," she muttered. "Well, except for Father. Father tells me it is my duty as countless other Starks have done before me, but he doesn't seem to understand that countless other Starks before me never went to Storm's End." To her dismay, she was close to tears. As much to stave them off as anything else, she asked, "And what of you, Ned? Has Father given you your marriage orders?"

 

"Not yet. I think he wants Brandon wedded first." Again, Ned spat his brother's name like an epithet. "Not that Brandon cares for vows."

 

"Enough, Ned. Tell me what he did."

 

"Not what. Who." That startled Lyanna; Ned was not usually vulgar. Perhaps Robert is rubbing off on him. The ensuing blush as he met her eyes mollified her a little. "He's betrothed, Lya. He should have a care for his reputation. And the lady's."

 

"Ashara Dayne, I assume?" Lyanna rolled her eyes. "You needn't worry about her, Ned. From what I saw, she had Brandon well in hand."

 

Indeed, the Dornish lady had occupied all of Brandon's attention from the first day's feast to the final joust. He hadn't even noticed when Prince Rhaegar crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty, too caught up in staring across the lists at the royal pavilion where the Lady Ashara was accompanying Princess Elia. Confusing the matter further, Lyanna had also heard Ned's name mentioned once or twice in connection with Lady Ashara but she had assumed that southron ladies who gossiped simply couldn't tell one Stark from the other. It seemed she might have assumed too much.

 

"Brandon is behaving like a child, and I don't doubt Lady Ashara is treating him like one." She kept her eyes on Ned, though she pretended interest in the reins. "Why do you care so much about who Brandon flirts with? You never cared before. Poor Barbrey Ryswell was pining for him when you visited Winterfell for Father's last name day and you barely noticed. Unless..."

 

"Lya--"

 

"Oh, Ned!" She couldn't help but smile at the thought of her oh-so-serious brother and the Dornish girl who made it a point to laugh at everything. "Of course you must be the one to fall in love with a maid Father would be ever so pleased to have you marry. Why must you make us all look bad by comparison?"

 

"Lyanna, stop it!" Ned's ears had gone red and the blush was inching up his cheeks. "It's not what you think. I've barely spoken to her."

 

Instead, he'd watched his elder brother do as Brandon had done since he was old enough to notice women. Lyanna reached over and took Ned's hand. "She's a fool to choose him over you. I pity Catelyn Tully; she'll have to put up with him for the rest of her days."

 

"There are worse things than being a flirt," Ned allowed. He did not speak further, but Lyanna knew that he too was thinking of Robert and the trail of black-haired Baratheon bastards from Storm's End to the Vale. "Robert--"

 

"--will not give up his whoring when he marries me. I told you that when first I was betrothed, and I tell you again." The only difference is that I care, but not in the way I ought to.

 

A recollection sprang to mind of the final time the motley group of courtiers and guests met under the Queen of Thorns' eagle eye. She'd caught sight of Princess Elia and the prince deep in conversation, the prince whispering something in his wife's ear that sent her into peals of laughter. The way they looked at one another, they might have been the only two people in the room. Even as Lyanna watched them, she knew she would never have that with Robert. Now, she sighed. "The whoring would trouble me less, I admit, if I believed he listened to a single word I said."

 

"He listens," Ned said without conviction. "I'll speak to him, Lya. I'll make him understand."

 

"Dearest Ned," she said, unsure whether to laugh or to cry, "I'm afraid that misses the point."

 

To please him, she listened to Robert's halting, awkward apology and murmured meaningless words of forgiveness. "After your brother marries the Lady Catelyn, we should make arrangements for you to sail to Storm's End," Robert told her. "We'll be married there."

 

"I will do as my lord father wishes," she replied, and bid him farewell, even allowing him to kiss her. All the while, she felt nothing--only a gnawing guilt at that lack of feeling.

 

Robert had even made a jape as he drew away from Lyanna. "I suppose I ought to thank the prince of Dragonstone. He's made it clear to all the realm that the future lady of Storm's End is the fairest in the land."

 

Lyanna had to fight not to grimace at that. Instead, she forced a smile and said nothing.

 

Brandon drew to a halt beside her as she watched Ned and Robert disappear round the corner of the eastward road. "Made peace with him, have you? He means well."

 

"You would think so," Lyanna said. "I didn't even think you'd noticed I'd quarrelled with him."

 

"Lyanna, the man has a voice like a hunting horn. You could have heard him in Winterfell." They made their way back to the kingsroad, where hundreds of leagues stretched between them and home. "You're angry with me too," Brandon finally said. "I can tell."

 

"Not angry. Disappointed." Truth be told, she had barely thought of Brandon in the past few days. "Were you trying to make Catelyn Tully jealous? If so, it was childish and you owe both her and the Lady Ashara an apology."

 

"Oh, the Lady Ashara got exactly what she wanted, I promise," he said with a grimace. "I suppose I deserve no better, you're right."

 

"So quickly?" Some part of Lyanna was disappointed; she'd had a speech planned. "This might be a record."

 

"I'm choosing my battles, sis. But you and Robert are reconciled?"

 

"As much as we're likely to be." She eyed him suspiciously. "So you admit you've been a cad, then?" At her brother's groan, she smiled. "You really are hopeless, Brandon Stark."

 

"And you, Queen Lyanna of Love and Beauty." He made it most of the way through the title before dissolving into laughter. "I can't imagine what the prince was thinking."

 

"Nor I," she admitted. "Maybe you gave him a knock on the head when you jousted."

 

"I don't doubt the Sword of the Morning gave me a knock on the head. I think he must have seen me with his sister."

 

"Everyone in Harrenhal saw you with his sister, Brandon," was Benjen's contribution as their horses caught up to his. "Your odds against Ser Arthur were awful."

 

"They may have seen him, Ben, but I overheard two girls from the Westerlands chattering about Ned and Lady Ashara, so at least the sillier sort can't even tell us Starks apart," Lyanna remarked, rolling her eyes. "At least you're too young to be mixed up in any of it."

 

Benjen grimaced. "Girls are too much trouble."

 

"You'll learn," Brandon told him, "or we'll send you to the Wall where it doesn't matter." He looked both relieved and slightly guilty. It was an expression Lyanna was used to seeing on him and on those rare occasions when she caught a glimpse of her face in the pool of water beneath the heart tree. "I suppose I ought to apologise to Ned. Tell him nothing happened. Not for lack of trying," he added sheepishly.

 

"I'd leave out that part if I were you," Lyanna advised.

 

Perhaps she too would write to Ned about Ashara Dayne. What she had told him was true; it would be a fine match for both of them. And he would be nearby. Dorne and the Stormlands bordered one another, after all. Even Robert would be pleased about that. She wished now that she'd spoken further with the Dornish lady when she had the chance, although Lady Ashara had spent most of her time either waiting on Princess Elia or sneaking off with Brandon. There had been the masque, of course, but that had all come to naught.

 

It seemed some careless servant had left a candle unattended and all the preparations for the masque had gone up in flames. It was an uncomfortable reminder of Harrenhal's history and whispers abounded about Black Harren's vengeful ghost, but thankfully no one had been hurt. Lyanna had been less enthused than she might have anticipated about the masque being cancelled. Any connection it might have had to the presence of a certain prince was her own business.

 

But that was all over now. The air in Winterfell would clear her head soon enough, and she had Robert to worry about. Rather to her disappointment, Brandon had decided not to return north with them and instead spend several weeks at Seagard with Jeffory Mallister and two knights from Lord Arryn's party who had befriended him during the tourney. They had all lost to Ser Arthur Dayne on the same day and, according to Brandon, had spent several hours dissecting every move the Sword of the Morning had made--or at least the ones they could remember, considering how much ale they'd had.

 

Ned had assured her that it was in Brandon's interests to become better known to the lords of the Riverlands. They think all Northmen are mad. Lyanna had laughed and replied that if he expected Brandon to change anybody's mind, he was doomed to disappointment.

 

Behind them, the Riverlands began to recede; and before them the northern road stretched ever onward. Lyanna did not look back.

Chapter Text

The Riverlands were just beginning to bloom as the royal party made its progress southward. In deference to his wife's hatred of the wheelhouse--and to avoid his father--Prince Rhaegar had arranged for a barge to take them along the shores of the Gods Eye and down the river to King's Landing, where they would retrieve Princess Rhaenys and take ship for Dragonstone. It would be slower, but far more pleasant for Princess Elia and safer for her child. The king, much to everyone's relief, elected to ride straight for the capital with the Lord Commander, Ser Jon Darry, and Barristan the Bold, leaving the remaining members of the Kingsguard (save the unfortunate Jaime Lannister) to accompany the prince and his retinue.

 

Ashara Dayne reclined on a pile of cushions near the edge of the barge, her fingers trailing in the water. Her thoughts circled frustratingly, returning always to a young man with dark, curling hair and eyes grey as northern ice. "Bah," she muttered. "Who wants the north, anyway? Let them keep their snows and their wild men."

 

It was embarrassing, really. She'd first kissed Brandon Stark as they paused on the bridge between the Widow's Tower and the Kingspyre--it had been a momentary impulse, something in the way the moonlight caught his face. A stupid impulse, in retrospect. There had followed too many others in its wake, stolen in hidden alcoves, behind ruined walls, and once, memorably, on the roof of the Wailing Tower. Harrenhal became a lovers' maze, and Ashara suspected she had a great deal to do with Brandon's disappointing performance in the lists.

 

It went no further; she wasn't a fool, no matter what rumours certain idiot northmen had heard about Dornish girls.

 

She had even learned more than she might have expected about Catelyn Tully, enough to unjustly resent the girl she'd never met. No doubt the princess would see her fitted with a husband sooner or later; let Catelyn Tully freeze in Winterfell.

 

Brandon Stark's bed would be far from freezing. Ashara muttered imprecations under her breath at her traitorous thoughts. At least, she'd left with her dignity intact.

 

It had been on the final night of the tournament, after the last-minute cancellation of the masque. Brandon had drawn her away from the feast to one of the dozens of unused rooms in the Wailing Tower. As his fingers groped for the laces on her gown, Ashara pulled away.

 

"What?" He reached for her again. "You return to King's Landing tomorrow and I to Winterfell. It's our last chance."

 

Ashara disentangled herself from him, careful not to track dust on her gown. Her handmaid had remarked on how filthy the hems of her gowns had become and Ashara had deflected her with complaints about Harrenhal's general state of disrepair. Her escapades with Brandon, however, had not helped matters. "You are heir to Winterfell. I cannot claim such a distinction, but I am a lord's daughter nonetheless." The Daynes had the blood of kings in Dorne but Ashara had found that that mattered little north of the Prince's Pass.

 

"What of that?"

 

What of that, indeed. Ashara rolled her eyes. "You have a sister, Lord Brandon. How pleased would you be if she ran off with a man at this tourney?"

 

"I'd track him down and kill him."

 

"Even if she chose him." Perhaps she might do better to stick to Dornishmen after all; they rarely required these sorts of explanations. "Even if she gave herself to him of her own free will."

 

"Her honour--"

 

"Then I think you understand me perfectly." Ashara crossed her arms and fixed her eyes on Brandon's face. "You will not give up an alliance with the Riverlands; not for a single castle in Dorne, however beautiful." She even managed a smile. "It's clearly the correct decision. I can't blame you for that."

 

Brandon sighed. "But you won't lie with me."

 

Ashara shook her head. "I fear I command a higher price than you are willing to pay."

 

"But you want this, Ashara." He reached for her again, and Ashara twisted deftly out of the way. "Damn you, you do!"

 

That was beside the point. She paused in the doorway, aware that the torchlight framed her face most becomingly, and said, "You know nothing of women, Brandon Stark." And, with that, turned on her heel and left him.

 

They were good parting words, she supposed, looking back on them. He would marry Catelyn Tully and he would always wonder. Since that was to be her fate too, at least she wasn't alone.

 

"Brooding, Ash?" Arthur knelt beside her. He and the princess' uncle Ser Lewyn were onboard the barge while Ser Oswell Whent rode with the prince, Lord Connington, and Oberyn Martell on the shore. Ashara had promised herself she would ride later, but was rather enjoying the luxury of the barge after the flurry of their departure from Harrenhal. Indeed, it was Prince Oberyn's presence in part that had occasioned their detour south to the capital, in order for Princess Elia to spend as much time as possible with her younger brother. But Oberyn flatly refused to join Elia on the barge and the two had argued for fully ten minutes about nothing whatsoever before the prince rode off with the rest of the party. It was, Ashara supposed, just as it had been for all the years that she had known the princess--Oberyn and Elia fighting like cats and dogs. They would be fast friends again by nightfall. "Is there anybody I ought to skewer?" her brother asked, squinting into the distance.

 

"You already skewered him, implicitly," she said, grinning at the thought. "On the final morning of the tourney, before the prince beat you. In fact, you hit him over the head with Dawn's pommel, but he must have a remarkably solid skull."

 

"Stark, then." Of course he remembered. Arthur catalogued his victories almost as carefully as if he were writing them in the White Book himself.

 

Ashara pulled a face. "Winter, I fear, has come to my heart," she intoned. "But you needn't skewer him, Arthur. Brandon Stark and I have parted ways and shall no doubt never see one another again."

 

"Are you sure, Ash? If he hurt you..." His fingers twitched toward Dawn.

 

"Don't Sword of the Morning at me. Save that for the brigands." She had to fight not to laugh at his expression. "Dearest, I'm fine, I promise. I wanted something and I didn't get it. Woe unto me. I'm still better off than poor Ser Jaime."

 

Arthur's frown deepened. "That was poorly done. It reflects badly on the Kingsguard."

 

"That's the least of our problems, Arthur." She lowered her voice. "Lord Varys sent a raven from the Red Keep to say that Lord Tywin has left the city for good. The realm is Handless thanks to the king's little show."

 

"Not here, Ash."

 

"Oh, very well." She could have pointed out that they were surrounded by those loyal to the prince, but it was too lovely a day and she would indulge Arthur if needs be. "Speaking of shows, did the prince ever mention Lyanna Stark to you before?" She too had come up in the argument between Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia, to nobody's surprise, though the princess' terse reply--whoever wears a crown of roses, only one of us will wear the crown of the Seven Kingdoms--had given the eavesdroppers little to surmise.

 

"Not a word. I think she'd never come south before this tournament." The breeze ruffled his white cloak, immaculate as ever. No one would ever doubt her brother's vanity, or the extent to which he'd go to indulge it--Ashara knew there were at least two spare white cloaks taking up valuable space in his trunk. "He could do worse than to befriend the Starks. One forgets about them sometimes, but there is a great deal north of the Neck and the Starks hold it all."

 

"And when Brandon Stark marries Catelyn Tully, they'll have a foothold in the Riverlands too. He's not going to give that up for a single castle in Dorne. He so much as told me that himself." She smiled, cursing the tears that pricked at her eyes. "Go away, Arthur. I'm going to sulk now."

 

"Are you sure you don't want me to skewer him?" he offered, straight-faced. "The Daynes were kings of the Torrentine longer than the Starks ruled the North. Family honour may demand that I skewer him."

 

"Don't," said Ashara with a watery smile. "He's too handsome to skewer. I'll live, I'm sure."

 

"Just don't threaten to become a septa again. It would suit you even worse than marriage to Prince Oberyn."

 

"Arthur, I'm not going to marry Oberyn Martell. He only flirts with me to please his mother and sister." Princess Elia, she knew, had long harboured a secret hope that her brother would marry her closest friend, but both Oberyn and Ashara had agreed between themselves that they were poorly suited even if neither had had the heart to tell Elia. "I daresay being a septa would be simpler."

 

"Oberyn was telling me about a septa..."

 

"A story I am certain ends with another Sand Snake," she said. "It worked for you, though. Celibacy."

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. "As I said, it would not suit you."

 

"And what do you mean to imply about me, Arthur Dayne?" She raised one hand threateningly. "I'll ask the prince to champion me against you and don't you forget he's now beaten you twice."

 

Arthur scowled and muttered something unintelligible. He might have said more, but for the princess catching sight of them and beckoning them to the dais where she reclined on a pile of brightly coloured cushions. Ashara tucked the one she'd borrowed beneath the princess' feet.

 

"Is this not better than that awful wheelhouse, Ash?"

 

"I'd rather forget the wheelhouse ever existed, my lady," Ashara replied. She'd never considered herself a rider but after a day in the wheelhouse, had taken to the saddle without complaint for the rest of the journey, even riding ahead with Arthur to prepare the lodgings in advance. The barge, on the other hand, practically gleamed with polish, painted bright blue and gold and named, rather ambitiously, the River Queen. Her captain practically glowed with pride as he greeted every passing vessel with cheerful ringing of his bell and pointing to his illustrious passengers.

 

Above the princess was a canopy of striped silk emblazoned with her arms--Targaryen dragon quartered with Martell sun--and the delicate material fluttered becomingly in the breeze. From the shore, they could hear a man's voice singing a particularly filthy rendition of 'Six Maids in a Pool' and the princess rolled her eyes. "Gods preserve us from musical griffins."

 

"At least Lord Connington has some sense of pitch, which is more than one can say for the prince your brother," Ashara remarked. "And, yes, this is far better than the wheelhouse. Better even than Harrenhal, I think."

 

"Really?" Princess Elia raised an eyebrow. "Even with all the attendant...attractions of the castle?"

 

"Even so," Ashara said primly. "Distractions, more like. I'm well rid of them."

 

"Hm." Elia held out her hand and one of the servants passed her a goblet of spiced wine. "So you say."

 

"You don't believe me?"

 

"Ser Arthur, does your sister look lovesick to you?"

 

"Aye, my lady princess," said Arthur, straight-faced, "she does."

 

"Traitor."

 

"If you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn't have carried on with him for all of Harrenhal to see," Elia pointed out. "He remains engaged, then."

 

"He does. They say she's very fair, the Lady Catelyn, and we all know she's exceedingly well-dowered." Ashara pretended great interest in the cushions, taking as long as she could to seat herself even as the princess watched with amusement. "I wish him joy of her. And her of him, for that matter. He's a mannerless oaf."

 

"Oh, it must be very bad indeed," Elia said to Arthur, laughter in her voice if not her face. "A handsome oaf, to be fair, though he did not do so well in the lists."

 

"Thanks to your lord husband and my brother. Though I don't doubt he'd have lost to Ser Barristan too, if he'd advanced that far." She had wondered if the older knight intended to ask for her favour after they danced that first night, but Ser Barristan had merely bid her good evening and Ashara gave her favour to Arthur for lack of any better option. At least it meant the violet-and-silver of Starfall was always in evidence, which would have made their late lord father happy.

 

It was as Arthur had said. The Daynes had been kings of the Torrentine in the Age of Heroes and their lands--harsh and inhospitable as they were--formed a powerful wedge between Dorne and the Reach. Starfall perched high above the mouth of the river, a castle more picturesque than defensible, though the rocky cliffs on which it was built formed a natural deterrent for invaders. They could even claim descent from Nymeria of the Rhoynar through her third marriage to Ser Davos Dayne. But that was all in ancient history, and Starfall could not compare to Riverrun, nor Winterfell.

 

"You're in good spirits, my lady," Ashara finally said, after several sips of wine. The princess had said nothing of Lyanna Stark nor of the prince's curious behaviour, in spite of her brother's objections. Indeed, she hadn't even seemed surprised when Prince Rhaegar urged his horse past the royal pavilion to bestow the title of Queen of Love and Beauty on the northern girl. Though Ashara longed to know the truth, the princess never revealed her heart until she was good and ready.

 

"Why shouldn't I be? The sun is shining and the king is far from here."

 

Arthur cleared his throat as Ashara smiled sweetly at him. "We should do somewhat for Ser Jaime, my lady. To cheer him up. As much as one can be cheered up, I suppose."

 

"He's young," said Arthur. "There will be tourneys aplenty for him."

"And that would make Lady Cersei heiress to Casterly Rock, would it not?" Princess Elia glanced between them. When Arthur did not answer, she sighed. "You cannot be serious. Lord Tywin's other son hasn't been glimpsed outside the walls of the Rock. He cannot possibly inherit."

 

"Other places aren't as sensible as Dorne, niece," said Prince Lewyn from where he stood near the prow of the barge. "Lord Tywin has never chosen the easy path, but in this case, I daresay it was chosen for him. He's shown no interest in marrying again, certainly."

 

"No," Princess Elia murmured. "That he would not do. I saw him after his wife died, uncle, remember?"

 

"I remember when they married, Elia. He used to smile, once upon a time." Prince Lewyn shook his head. "Has the prince said anything?"

 

"The prince wants to make peace with Lord Tywin, but I cannot see a way. No doubt Rhaegar has already written to him, or will do once we've returned home to Dragonstone. In the meantime, we have no notion of who the next Hand of the King will be. Gods preserve the king," she added acidly, raising her glass and draining it.

 

Ashara reached out and squeezed the princess' hand. After a few moments, to break the silence, she asked, "It was a pity about the masque, wasn't it?"

 

"Rhaegar was enjoying himself and I was enjoying him." She sighed. "Did they ever find out how the fire started?"

 

"An accident, I'm sure," said Prince Lewyn, eyeing his niece sternly. "Fires start for any number of reasons."

 

Ashara said nothing, lost in recollection both pleasant and infuriating. Careful, my lord, lest you burn us all to death. Brandon had nearly set one of Lady Whent's tapestries afire by knocking over a candle when he and Ashara stole into an anteroom on the third night of the tournament. A few moments later, they'd had to duck beneath the selfsame tapestry when the steward stormed in to berate one of his underlings, and it had been a miracle that their laughter hadn't given them away.

 

When she looked back at the princess, Elia was laughing. "It seems the Starks are in fashion."

 

"Speaking of Starks..." Ashara could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and took the implied encouragement. "What was your husband thinking to crown Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty?"

 

"He was not thinking, as it happens," said Princess Elia with a rueful smile. "He apologised afterward. Apparently he wanted to create a distraction."

 

"Robert Baratheon didn't find it a distraction," Ashara mused. "The prince might do well to speak to him too."

 

"Nothing happened, Ash. For goodness' sake, it's only a tournament. We have bigger problems." Elia frowned into the distance. "You heard Oberyn. My dear, hotheaded brother took it as an insult to me and overlooked the simple fact that I don't care."

 

There was a tense note in her voice and Ashara suspected that her lady protested too much, but she knew better than to ask. Elia had never considered herself a beauty, not in all the years Ashara had known her, and she had long since given up trying to convince her otherwise. "Prince Oberyn was only being protective."

 

"Overprotective. Rhaegar is my husband. I trust him, and to say anything to the contrary is to insult me as well as him. So let us have done with that."

 

"Of course, my lady," Ashara murmured, sinking into a curtsey. "I beg your pardon."

 

The princess studied her for a moment. "Brandon Stark has a brother, does he not?"

 

"Several, I believe." Ned was the one she recalled best--a serious young man more given to blushing than smiling, Robert Baratheon's quiet shadow. "It explains a great deal about the lady Lyanna."

 

About Ashara too, if she were honest with herself. Arion had been lord of Starfall these past three years since their father's death, but she still remembered him as her eldest brother, forever spoiling her fun. Arthur was no help at all, too busy being the perfect child and the perfect knight, and Allyria had been too young. Lady Lyanna, at least, was closer to her brothers in age.

 

She glanced back when the princess spoke once more. "You are good to stay with me, Ash."

 

Ashara smiled. "I will always stay with you, my lady. I have yet to meet a man I prefer to you. I fear that is my curse."

 

"Not even Brandon Stark?"

 

"Especially not Brandon Stark," Ashara said with a grimace. After adjusting the cushions, she settled down beside the princess, resting her head against Elia's knee. "If you say the prince has not wronged you, I will believe you."

 

"He hasn't, Ashara. There are decisions we must make, but not yet." She looked down at her belly. "Not until this one comes into the world."

 

Ashara did not move, but her heartbeat seemed to grow louder in her ears. "Prince Rhaegar will move against his father?"

 

Princess Elia's fingers brushed through Ashara's hair absently. "I don't think he has a choice."

 

"It's the right choice, my lady. It must be." She looked up, her eyes meeting Elia's. The princess had the most beautiful eyes Ashara had seen, so dark they were nearly black. Oberyn had them too, but to Ashara's mind, even the Red Viper could not hold a candle to his elder sister. "We will all stand by him. All the realm will, you'll see."

 

"We will, indeed."

Chapter Text

They reached the southernmost shores of the Gods Eye by nightfall. Her uncle Lewyn and Oberyn had ridden ahead to find provisions, the very thought of which made Elia ravenous. "You are not helping," she muttered to the baby--she had talked thus to Rhaenys long before she'd felt her first tiny movements.

 

Rhaegar was waiting on the pier, his hands outstretched as Elia stepped off the swaying vessel. They were leaving her chair on the barge, as it had been carefully lashed in place and she'd been assured that the inn was only a short distance from the river. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

 

"Indecently," she replied, clinging to him to steady herself. "It was divine. I never want to travel by wheelhouse again." The only minuscule blessing in the gauntlet that had been their journey northward to Harrenhal was that the king insisted on travelling in a wheelhouse of his own with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, thus sparing Elia more than moments at a time in his company.

 

"We'll do our best to avoid it, then." He glanced over his shoulder briefly. "I suppose we ought to have sent word." There were upwards of forty in their party, including the guardsmen--a large crowd for a village this size even if the guards brought their own provisions. "They'll be well paid for their trouble, I daresay."

 

"I should hope so," said Elia. The king would be well ahead of them, but it was likely that he too had passed this way. Their timing could have been far worse, as Oberyn and her uncle confirmed when they reached the outskirts of the village.

 

"The king did not stay long," said her uncle. "I imagine he's anxious to get back to the capital."

 

"It is where he feels safe," murmured Rhaegar. Elia squeezed his hand and said nothing.

 

There was a single inn at the centre of the village, light and merriment spilling from its windows. One voice rose above the rest--a singer doing a sprightly rendition of "The Dornishman's Wife." At the sound of muffled laughter beside her, Elia elbowed her husband.

 

"I doubt they get many Dornishmen this far north," Rhaegar pointed out. "I trust your brother will understand."

 

"Oh, Oberyn doesn't care. But surely you know how much Ser Arthur detests that song." One of the song's variations--especially popular in Highgarden--specified that the Dornishman's blade was made of white steel, rather than the more popular and diplomatic black.

 

"All Arthur needs to do is walk through that door and any singer with a half a brain will change his tune to the ballad of the Smiling Knight and no one will say another word on the matter."

 

That was, in fact, precisely what happened. As soon as he caught sight of Dawn, sheathed at Ser Arthur's shoulder, the singer finished the line and, without so much as a pause, switched to the ominous chords signalling the approach of the dreaded Smiling Knight. Ser Arthur gave a bark of laughter and tossed the singer a coin, who caught it with a flourish.

 

By then, the other patrons had caught sight of the white cloaks and the red-and black livery and were falling to their knees, some more steadily than others. Rhaegar led Elia to the cushioned chair the tavern keeper's wife had set nearest the hearth before turning back to the assembled villagers. "Do not let us disturb you, good people." His hair glimmered in the lamplight, marking him apart as it always did. "Who are you, singer?"

 

The singer had continued strumming the accompanying phrases from the ballad of the Smiling Knight, but stopped as soon as Rhaegar addressed him. Rising, he made a low bow. "Your Grace, I am Tom Sevenstreams. Some call me Tom o' Sevens. And it would be an honour, my lord prince, to step aside for you."

 

Elia could see the tavern keeper eyeing them warily--not a surprise, since royal visits were an inconvenience, and unannounced ones almost always worse. But Rhaegar was not his father; surely they all knew that. He held out one hand to the singer now, raising him from the ground. "There's no need for that. There can be two singers in one tavern, can there not?"

 

Whispers flooded the room and Tom o' Sevens grinned, his face alight with excitement. "Aye, my lord prince, that there can. I heard tell of a song of yours just the other day that could reduce the greatest warrior to weeping."

 

"Later, perhaps," Rhaegar said, ducking his head in what Elia knew was pride. "I should hate to ruin a merry evening with weeping."

 

The tavern was full to bursting, and the tavern keeper's wife had just carried a tray of tankards to the guardsmen setting up their camp just outside the village. Rhaegar tuned his harp with careful, expert movements as benches were shifted and tables moved so all could hear. For her part, Elia settled back against the cushions with a glass of spiced wine and watched as her husband indulged both himself and his subjects. The short walk from the pier to the tavern had taken most of her strength.

 

"Cleverly done," Ashara murmured, settling beside her on a low stool. "Mark my words, this story will spread almost as fast as the king's madness."

 

"I hope so," Elia said. "It can't hurt."

 

Tom o' Sevens glanced toward Ser Arthur, who had taken up his customary position next to the tavern's door. "'Tis not often a singer meets the subject of his song. I hope you'll pardon me, Ser Arthur." The knight gave an unsmiling nod--Ser Arthur's smiles were even rarer than Rhaegar's as far as Elia had seen--but said no more.

 

There was a point in the ballad of the Smiling Knight when the fearsome outlaw had cornered the Sword of the Morning near a gnarled old oak in the Kingswood. It was then that young Jaime Lannister, a mere squire, took up his dead master's sword and cut the Smiling Knight's ankles out from under him.

 

Ser Arthur rose to his feet and held up his tankard in a silent salute as the singer's voice rang out across the room. The look he exchanged with his sister spoke volumes. Elia squeezed Ashara's hand. She had not forgotten that, but for Jaime Lannister, the Sword of the Morning would not have seen another day.

 

The room erupted in applause when the last notes died out. Rhaegar waited until they quieted before asking for a song suggestion. "If I don't know it, I promise to sing..."

 

"The Bear and the Maiden Fair," suggested Jon Connington with a wicked smile. "You hate it nearly as much as Arthur hates songs about cuckolded Dornishmen."

 

"There's no art in it," Rhaegar muttered. "Very well, then. If I do not know the song you choose, I shall sing...that."

 

Tom o' Sevens was crying with laughter. "Alas, Your Grace, the audience is king here. I confess, it would be a sight to see."

 

Elia reached out and tugged at Rhaegar's sleeve. He leaned toward her and she kissed his cheek. "It won't come to that, and you know it well."

 

"Of course not, but Griff lives in hope."

 

The first song chosen for him was a Myrish tune, courtesy of a merchant from Saltpans who had brought spices to Harrenhal for the tourney, though Ashara had already known the words, from where she couldn't recall. Elia had heard it several times during the tourney, usually aimed at Cersei Lannister, but Rhaegar had not tried it. When he did now, there were sighs from the handful of women scattered throughout the tavern. On the third verse, where the winter maid's hair was made of spun moonlight and her eyes the shade of twilight, Elia caught more than few glances at her handmaid, but Ashara, leaning as she so often did against Elia's knee, was clearly lost in thoughts.

 

It was a merry evening, to be sure. Tom o'Sevens had offered "The Ballad of the Vulture King" as his forfeit, but neither his memory nor Rhaegar's failed. It began with love songs, bawdy and sweet alike, and each rife with maidens fair (though nary a bear in sight). As the wine flowed and the candles burned low, however, the subject turned to battles, the bloodier the better. At the behest of a young guardsman in Lannister red, the singers joined in a salute to the erstwhile Hand of the King, chilling Elia's blood with "The Rains of Castamere."

 

It was, surprisingly, Jon Connington who cut through the tension that followed by slowly and deliberately setting down the legs of his chair and sighing, in perfect mimicry of Lord Tywin Lannister, "Well, I suppose it's passable for the Riverlands, but you'd never grace the Rock."

 

Rhaegar rolled his eyes. "He's not that bad."

 

"Speak for yourself. You're the heir to the Iron Throne." Laughter bubbled up around Connington as he held up his hands in an exaggerated shrug and suggested 'The Hammer and the Anvil' next.

 

And, finally, when the fire was naught but embers, Rhaegar took up his harp one last time and sang his lament of Jenny of Oldstones, and Tom o' Sevens watched him with tears in his eyes, fingers echoing the chords on his own harp. On the final refrain, he joined in and Rhaegar added a second line of harmony, clear and sweet as any song Jenny herself might have sung.

 

The last notes faded like ripples in the great lake just outside the village, and this time nobody applauded. The older singer held out his hand to Rhaegar. "My honour and my pleasure, Your Grace."

 

"Likewise, Tom Sevenstreams. You would be welcome in Dragonstone, should your path take you there."

 

"I'll hold you to that, Your Grace. Or in the Red Keep, I suppose, in time." It was slipped in so smoothly that Elia nearly missed it. A clever singer, then. "But, if I may," he hesitated, "Jenny's song. Is it your own composition?"

 

"The tune is mine, but the words are not. I had them from a woods witch who dwelt here in the Riverlands, some days' journey west. We had stopped near High Heart on our way from Lord Tywin's tourney at Lannisport and she offered to tell my fortune in exchange for a song." His fingers were flicking idly at the silver harpstrings. "But instead of telling me my fortune, I asked her to tell me what brought her to that lonely place. The story she told me was that of Jenny of Oldstones, but it was no tale I had heard before, and it struck me."

 

"Aye," said the singer with a knowing smile, "I don't doubt that it did."

 

The tavern keeper and his wife had insisted that Rhaegar and Elia take their chamber for the night. Though the quilt was homespun and the mattress filled with rough straw, and though the hour was far later than was advisable, Elia slept more peacefully than ever she had within Harrenhal's walls.

 

She awakened at sunrise to find Rhaegar still asleep, deeply enough that he did not wake when she brushed the hair away from his face. My impossible husband. Oberyn had told her long ago, when he first met Rhaegar, that the prince had inadvertently escaped from a song and would do better to find his way back for his own sake. He was right. There was a strange remoteness about the prince of Dragonstone--as though he'd come from some other world and found theirs perplexing.

 

The journey took three more days, lazy and delightful, Oberyn having forgotten his pique of the first day by that evening. Early on the morning of the fourth day, the party bound for Sunspear turned south at the Blackwater Rush just outside of King's Landing, taking a more direct route to the harbour where their ship awaited. While the guards and servants loaded the last of the baggage carts, Oberyn joined Elia on the riverbank, taking the smaller chair normally reserved for Ashara.

 

"You will tell Doran that I am well?" She had already given him gifts to be passed on to the Princess Arianne and to his own daughters. He had three that she knew of, and no doubt more whose names she did not yet know. "And reassure our lady mother?"

 

"You are well, Elia?" Oberyn was studying her with the concentration he usually reserved for horses. "If he's done anything--"

 

"You will stop this nonsense, Oberyn, and you will stop it now." Elia pressed two fingers to his lips. There is but one queen for Rhaegar Targaryen and he would do well to remember that, he'd snapped as they left Harrenhal, even as Elia dismissed his concerns. To his credit, he hadn't raised the subject since, so she spoke gently. "I happen to be fond of my husband and I would take it amiss if you were to harm him. Do you understand?"

 

"He's an infuriating man."

 

"He's a Targaryen. One takes them as they are." She leant forward in her chair and prodded him in the chest. "He makes me happy, brother."

 

"You would be happier, I think, if he were king."

 

"And so I shall be. And you shall bow to me as queen of the Seven Kingdoms. How like you that?"

 

Oberyn grinned. "I'll believe it when I see it."

 

"And as for you, brother," Elia said, taking his hands in hers, "don't stray too far."

 

"Only to the Free Cities. I'll wait till you've claimed your throne before I go further, I promise."

 

"And give my regards to Lord Uller's daughter," she added with a sideways glance and a grin. "What, did you think I hadn't heard? I remember Ellaria well. She'll be good for you." It was high time her brother found at least a paramour--she dared not hope that he might marry, though their mother still prayed for it--and Ellaria Sand, baseborn as she was, had a lady's dignity and a sweet disposition to temper Oberyn's wildness. "What she gets from the arrangement, I confess I cannot see."

 

"And you never will, my dearest sister. You may have married a Targaryen, but I trust you've the sense to avoid that custom." She swatted him on the shoulder and Oberyn grinned. "He can't hear me, and even if he did, I don't care."

 

Elia covered her mouth with her hand to hide her laughter. "You are a terrible man and I will miss you so much. Write to me and tell me everything."

 

"On my honour, such as it is." He looked down at her, his expression unaccountably serious. "Elia, please, take care of yourself. If you need me, I will come. No matter where or when, I will come for you."

 

"You forget," she said after a moment, "that I have a knight already. One who you have yet to trounce in the field."

 

"I mean it, Elia." Oberyn knelt in front of the chair and clasped Elia's hands in his. "Don't you forget that you have a brother if your knight is unkind."

 

She was on the edge of laughter but his expression forestalled her. It wasn't often that her brother seemed young these days. "I won't forget, Oberyn, I promise," she said, kissing him. "Now, you had best go. You've a long journey to Sunspear."

 

Despite his threats, he bid Rhaegar a smiling farewell before exchanging raucous greetings with the rest--Arthur Dayne, Jon Connington, and their uncle Lewyn--and embracing Ashara just long enough to set Ser Arthur scowling and send her into fits of giggles. "I shall miss him," Ashara admitted as she helped Elia into the litter that would carry her the rest of the way through the capital to the Red Keep. "He makes everything so much livelier."

 

Elia nodded, swallowing the unease that threatened at the sight of the massive city gates. She had only spent a few weeks in King's Landing when she and Rhaegar married, and amidst the sumptuous furnishings in her chambers first in the Maidenvault and later in Maegor's Holdfast, she couldn't help but feel that she was being watched by unseen eyes every hour of the day.

 

Fortunately the only eyes on the island of Dragonstone were either friendly or carved from stone with Valyrian arts long since lost. She still remembered the first time she set eyes on the grey, forbidding cliffs and black rocks that still destroyed unwary ships; the first time she saw the fortress, its walls wrought in the sinuous curves of wings, tail, and teeth, a castle rising from the spine of a dragon ten times larger than Balerion the Black Dread. She'd been so certain that she would hate it.

 

Instead, in spite of its dark, draughty rooms and the chill that never quite lifted even in summer, Elia had come to love the place in its own strange way. The ancient stones reminded her of Sunspear, but more importantly, it was hundred of leagues away from the king. She had nearly forgotten how much she despised King's Landing until they'd arrived from Dragonstone before the tourney, hoping to allay the king's suspicions. Instead, without Lord Tywin to keep the peace, Rhaegar and his father had quarrelled through the entire journey from King's Landing to Harrenhal.

 

We could free ourselves from his father if this child is a boy. She would not think of the illness that had consumed her after Rhaenys was born, leaving her bedridden for nearly five months. I am stronger now than I was, she tried to tell herself, though even she doubted that was true. And she would feel better when they were home again, away from the eyes and whispers of the capital that always judged her and found her wanting.

 

Ashara leant close and hugged her. "It won't be long now, my lady."

 

"I hope not," Elia murmured.

 

When she first arrived in King's Landing as a bride, Elia had ridden with Rhaegar through the streets in an open carriage, rejoicing in the cheers of her future subjects. When they'd arrived before the tourney, all they had seen were suspicious glances and wary, fear-filled stares.

 

It won't be long. It won't be long. She repeated it to herself like a prayer until the curtains opened to reveal the familiar blood-red walls.

 

To Elia's relief, the king did not demand their presence. Instead, they bypassed the Throne Room altogether and made for the queen's chambers. The servants had brought her cushioned chair, carved from the dark wood of the Summer Islands--a wedding gift from Oberyn. He had noted the stairs and passages in the Red Keep on his visit before her marriage, or so he'd explained, and it had brought tears to her eyes even as the guests looked on in puzzlement during the wedding feast. She had taken the trouble to have it brought from Dragonstone, knowing what to expect.

 

She bid the guardsmen set her down in the corridor outside the queen's solar and took Rhaegar's arm to walk to the door, just as a shriek sounded from within the room.

 

"That's not even a real dragon!" an older child's voice shouted back. "It's only Ser Jaime!"

 

Rhaegar opened the door as Prince Viserys launched himself at the newest member of the Kingsguard, already half-unbalanced by the small, dark-haired princess clinging to his back. Elia clapped her hands over her mouth to hide what threatened to be either a shriek of laughter or of fear as Jaime Lannister toppled to the ground beneath the two royal children.

 

He still managed to look astonishingly graceful, however, when he glanced at the doorway and swept back to his feet. "Your graces."

 

"Ser Jaime," said Rhaegar, "we beg your pardon for the princess." Rhaenys was sitting on the ground, grinning widely, her hands outstretched to Ser Jaime, and looked somewhat disappointed when her nurse picked her up instead.

 

"Oh, it's nothing, sire. You forget I have a twin sister. I'm used to demanding women." There was a strange bitterness in Ser Jaime's smile. "Although I don't believe I know which dragon I was meant to be."

 

"Sunfyre, obviously," said Prince Viserys.

 

"Viserys, not everyone is obsessed with dragons," was the queen's contribution. She was seated near the window on a velvet-covered couch, her embroidery frame set before her. Beneath her skilled fingers, Elia could make out two dragons in battle over what she now clearly recognised as Harrenhal. That Rhaegar had his mother's eyes was made apparent when he leant forward to kiss her cheek. "Did you enjoy yourselves?"

 

"We did, as it happens. And you?"

 

The queen's smile was brief but disarmingly sweet. "It was peaceful. Just me and the children. Ser Jaime was the most exciting thing to happen until the king returned." She glanced toward the young Kingsguard knight, who shot her a grin in response. Gods above, he's barely more than a child. A child who had saved Arthur Dayne's life, she reminded herself. It would not do to underestimate Ser Jaime Lannister.

 

"Did you win the tournament, Rhaegar?" Prince Viserys asked, tugging on his brother's arm. "I think Ser Jaime would have beaten you."

 

"I suspect he might have done," said Rhaegar, holding out one hand to Ser Jaime. "So much the better for me that you did not, but it was ill-done on the king’s part."

 

"Your Grace is too kind. And, besides," Ser Jaime added as Rhaenys squirmed in her nurse's arms to grab at his white cloak, "somebody needed a dragon."

 

"You seem to understand children, Ser Jaime," said Elia.

 

"I have a brother, Princess, who loves to play dragons and dragonriders. You've met him." Her eyes met his, brilliantly green just like his sister's. "I didn't think you could forget."

 

There had been a time when she was all but engaged to this young man. After a glance at Rhaegar, Elia turned back to Ser Jaime with a smile. "Of course not, Ser Jaime. He is lucky to have a brother. As I am."

 

If the thought of Oberyn made her breath catch a little, only Rhaegar seemed to notice, discreetly taking her hand. "It's been a long journey. I think perhaps you ought to retire, Elia. I'll give the king your good wishes."

 

Elia leant her forehead against his shoulder for a moment. "Thank you."

 

"Lord Rossart has been here again, Rhaegar," said the queen. There was nothing in her tone, but Elia could see the shadows in her face. "He arrived as soon as the king did and stayed for nearly two hours."

 

Rhaegar frowned. "I thought I'd told Ser Gerold to keep him out."

 

"The king insisted."

 

"Of course he did." He pressed his fingers to his temples as though his head ached. "I'll speak to him, Mother, but I cannot promise he will listen."

 

"Pyromancers, Rhaegar! The last Targaryen foolish enough to consort with them was the Brightflame--"

 

"--and we all know what happened to him," Rhaegar finished, sounding utterly weary. "I'll do what I can, Mother." Leaning close, he murmured something to her, too softly for Elia to hear. Queen Rhaella closed her eyes and shivered, one thin hand reaching up to grasp her son's shoulder.

 

The children's laughter echoed in the corridors as Rhaegar led her toward the guardsmen waiting with her chair. "We must keep it from them," Rhaegar said aloud. "From Rhaenys and Viserys. They are of his blood."

 

But what if he forgets that? Elia did not speak the words aloud, though she was certain Rhaegar too was thinking them. Again, she reminded herself, It won't be long. Gods willing, it won't be long.

 

Their time, it seemed was running increasingly short.

Chapter Text

For the first time in her life, Lysa Tully had a secret she could not tell her sister Cat. The words weighed on her tongue like stones, too heavy to speak aloud. She could not tell. She had promised Petyr, had sworn an oath to keep silent. The Tully words were Family, Duty, Honour, and though Lysa was ignoring the first two strictures, she would cling to the third all the harder.

 

Petyr had been sent back to his father's home in the Fingers. She remembered the one time he'd ever mentioned it, his voice flat and bitter and his eyes fixed on his bandaged hands. A ruin, nothing more, and my father a broken man. No doubt I shall be broken just like him. She'd told him no, never, she wouldn't believe it. His wounds would heal and his heart too, with time. She just needed time, and the news from Harrenhal had given it to her.

 

It had occurred to her when her lord father first proposed the match that to marry the heir to Casterly Rock would make Lysa her sister's equal for the first time in her life. The thought terrified her, though not as much as Lord Tywin Lannister's brief visit to Riverrun after resigning his position as Hand of the King.

 

Lord Tywin's visit had thrown the household into uproar. Lord Tully's steward Master Wayn spent the whole day muttering under his breath, running his fingers across tables, candelabras, and trenchers and roaring with rage every time he found a speck of dust. The honour of Riverrun should shine in its trappings, he insisted, though Lysa had to stifle a giggle at his red-cheeked anger. Edmure had been interested until discovering that the newly-knighted Ser Jaime was not in Lord Tywin's company, at which point he went off to take out his frustrations on the quintain.

 

When the lord of Casterly Rock finally arrived, it was at the head of a massive line of Lannister men-at-arms, most of whom continued along the River Road to the west. "I could hardly ask you to feed all of my men," Lord Tywin insisted as he greeted Lysa's father and uncle on the front steps. "But I bring tidings, Lord Hoster, from the capital and from Harrenhal, that brook no delay."

 

Edmure cried off as soon as they were dismissed, but Lysa and Cat hid themselves just outside the doors to their father's great triangular solar to see if they could overhear whatever tidings Lord Tywin brought. Inside, the two lords and Uncle Brynden were deep in discussion, and the doors were open just a crack.

 

"...must face the truth once and for all. The king is mad."

 

"So that is the real reason," said Lord Hoster after a moment of what Lysa could only assume was shocked silence. There had been mad Targaryens before--everyone knew that--but Lysa had only ever seen the king once, at Lord Tywin's great tourney in Lannisport, where he'd seemed snappish and forbidding but surely not mad. "Not your son?"

 

"My son's investiture in the Kingsguard is a jape and a personal insult, Lord Hoster. I tell you the king is mad." It was strange to hear those words spoken so coldly, as though Lord Tywin cared for neither his son nor his king. Lysa suppressed a shudder.

 

"What is he saying?" whispered Cat.

 

"Something about Ser Jaime joining the Kingsguard," Lysa whispered back. "But the Kingsguard can't marry, can they?"

 

Cat shook her head. "Ser Jaime is Lord Tywin's heir. He can't join the Kingsguard."

 

Lysa shushed her as Lord Tywin began to speak again. "Had you been at Harrenhal, my lord, you would have seen it for yourself. Even so, the rumours are spreading of King Aerys the Mad. It was all I could do to keep them quiet in the capital, and now they're everywhere." She could hear the heavy tread of boots on the floor--one of the men, Lord Tywin perhaps, was pacing back and forth. "I'm for the Rock. Let the king see to his own accursed affairs."

 

"What of the Prince of Dragonstone? Is he mad too?"

 

Lord Tywin gave a bark of laughter. "Not so far as I've seen. Weak, perhaps. Indecisive, certainly. And odd, very odd, but not mad." These were not words Lysa had ever heard used to describe Prince Rhaegar.

 

"It is no great distance between oddity and madness. The king was not always thus. Not when his father was alive, and his grandfather. Is he dangerous?"

 

"He is the king and he is mad. You answer that question, Lord Hoster." There was something in Lord Tywin's tone that made Lysa want to shudder, but then Cat would insist upon knowing why and Lysa had no words to explain it. "I'm for the Rock, and there I shall remain. Now that my heir has been...stolen."

 

"I am sorry for it, Lord Tywin. It would have been a great honour. My Lysa too will be sorry, I have no doubt." But Lysa was not--not if it spared her this cold man as her father-by-marriage. Cat squeezed her hand and Lysa gave her a small smile. "What shall you do?"

 

"An alliance between Riverrun and Casterly Rock could still be effected," said Lord Tywin. "Even though Jaime has been removed from the picture." When he spoke again, the reluctance in his voice dragged like chains. "I have another son."

 

A few moments passed before their father responded, his voice thick with disbelief. "I pray you pardon me, Lord Tywin, but I can only hope this is a jape."

 

"His blood is no less of House Lannister."

 

"My daughter will marry a whole man, Lord Tywin, or she will marry none at all. I'm afraid I cannot consider it. That being said, if you wish to consider a match between my Edmure and the Lady Cersei..."

 

Cat leant forward eagerly, but they heard no more. One of the two lords must have noticed the cracked door, for it was pushed shut. Lysa turned to Cat in confusion. "I didn't know Lord Tywin had another son."

 

Cat wrinkled her nose. "He doesn't, not really. There's the Imp, but he doesn't count. He's a dwarf, like the ones in mummers' shows, and he's ugly like a little demon. That's what I heard."

 

"And he wanted me to marry him?" Lysa squeaked, then clapped her hands over her mouth as she glanced in terror at the door. Cat took her arm and they scurried down the corridor to the chamber they shared. "Cat, is he mad? He said the king was mad."

 

"That's treason, Lysa! Hush!" Cat closed the door. "You mustn't say such things where people can hear you."

 

"Lord Tywin said it first."

 

"Lord Tywin is--was--Hand of the King and remains Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. He can say what he pleases." Cat had always had a better memory for titles and family trees than Lysa did, though Lysa had always enjoyed hearing the stories. Queen Naerys and the Dragonknight, Lann the Clever and his tricks, even the frightful tale that Lord Brandon Stark had told them of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch who fell in love with a White Walker and became Night's King. Stories, however, were of little use now. Reaching out, Cat hugged Lysa close. "It is a pity, though. Jaime Lannister is terribly handsome."

 

"He is. But think how much handsomer he'll be in a white cloak," Lysa replied. "I am not heartbroken, sister, I promise."

 

No, she was something else entirely. She had not bled in two moon's turns, and even Lysa was not so green as to mistake what that meant. Later that day, she left Cat with the seamstress taking measurements for her wedding gown and sat down to write to Petyr.

 

She would not think of his duel with Brandon Stark the very day after they'd all told stories in the godswood. Petyr had foolishly demanded Cat's hand in marriage in front of Lord Brandon and his companions, and of course Cat's betrothed had taken up the challenge. I thought she loved me, Petyr had whispered afterward. Strangely enough, Lysa agreed in principle--after all, it had been only through Cat's desperate intervention that the northman had spared Petyr at all, so she must have loved him at least a little. But she'd then told Petyr the full truth of the night he'd convinced himself that Cat loved him back, her cheeks growing redder as he watched her silently, half in delirium from his wounds. Finally, he'd cracked a smile, sharp as Brandon Stark's blade. I'll be sent away, you know. Perhaps we ought to keep it secret. Pretend it didn't happen. Before Lysa could answer, he'd sunk into sleep.

 

She stayed by his side for days, nursing him, until suddenly her father had barred her from his chambers. The only words Petyr had spoken to her in those days were to beg her to keep their secret, and even after her father forbade her, she crept into his chamber one final time, and this time she knew he recognised her. The next morning he vanished as though he'd never been at Riverrun.

 

No, she would not call back that memory, for herself or for him, at least not until she knew what to do about it. One hand stole to her belly, still flat in spite of the life she was now certain grew beneath her skin.

 

It had all started when Lord Hoster invited the lords Bracken and Blackwood, whose quarrel was as old as their respective houses, to dine at Riverrun and discuss the latest skirmishes along their borders. He'd broken open a new barrel of Arbor gold for the occasion and all three of his children, as well as his ward, were permitted to attend the feast that night. When the lords began to argue--Lysa recalled that it had been over something as foolish as which of Aegon IV's mistresses was the greater beauty, Melissa Blackwood or Barbra Bracken--Lord Hoster shooed them upstairs to his solar, but neglected to take the wine. At Edmure's suggestion, the three Tullys and Petyr drank glass after glass and danced as the minstrels specially hired for the occasion played for an audience of four. They care not, Edmure had laughed, so long as Father pays them.

 

She and Cat spent the first hour thinking up songs for the minstrels, Lysa even flirting a little with one of the singers as Cat teased her, her breath sweet as the golden wine. He'd dedicated a song to both of them about a maid as fair as autumn and Petyr had raised a trembling, giggling glass to the two ladies of Riverrun, fairest in the land.

 

Lysa must have drifted to sleep, for when she opened her eyes again the candles had burned low. Petyr was slumped over the table nearby, his hand outstretched for an overturned goblet of wine. Of Cat and Edmure there was no sign. Ignoring the twinge of pain in her head, Lysa uncurled herself and had only just got to her feet when the door opened to admit her uncle Brynden.

 

"Oh, gods. What mischief was here?" There was a twinkle in his eyes, though, and Lysa dipped her head with a sheepish grin. "They should have known better than to leave the children with the wine, eh?"

 

She glanced toward Petyr. "Uncle Brynden, we didn't mean--"

 

"You needn't explain to me, child. Let's get him to bed. He'll be miserable in the morning, but he'll at least be in good company." He picked Petyr up, easily as a child, and started for the door. Lysa followed, crumpling her skirts in her fists to keep from tripping over them in the scant light. It did not take long to reach Petyr's chamber and, as they passed Edmure's door she could hear the unmistakeable racket of snoring. Uncle Brynden laughed under his breath. "A merry night indeed, it would seem."

 

"For some," she allowed.

 

"He's not the first lad, nor the last, to lose his heart to a pretty face," said Uncle Brynden. "But your sister should know better than to encourage him."

 

Lysa nodded, seeing in her mind's eye the increasingly desperate glances Petyr had turned upon Cat. Her sister had bloomed that evening in deep Tully blue, her coppery hair tumbling brightly over her shoulders. Even the lords Bracken and Blackwood had turned their attention from their quarrel to remark upon her. What chance did poor Petyr have, half in love with Cat already?

 

After Uncle Brynden laid Petyr down on his bed, he started toward the door. Lysa called after him in a moment's panic, "You won't tell Father, will you?"

 

"It'll be our secret, sweetling." He kissed her forehead. "Now, you'd best sleep."

 

"I'll make sure Petyr's comfortable, and then I will," said Lysa. Her heart was pounding, though she couldn't have said why.

 

When the door closed behind him, Lysa turned back to the bed. Petyr's eyes were closed but a frown tugged at his lips even in slumber. He'd tried to kiss Cat on the balcony as Lysa watched from the shadows but Cat had pushed him away, laughter on her lips and unease in her eyes. Those were games, Petyr, nothing more. I'm to marry Brandon Stark and there's an end.

 

It was true; Lysa knew it as well as Cat did. But Petyr's eyes, as he watched Cat return to the hall, tore at Lysa's heart. Even now, she could see them. Perching gingerly on the edge of the bed, she leant forward touched her lips to Petyr's. His mouth opened beneath hers and he murmured something she couldn't catch.

 

Lysa pulled away as his eyes opened. "You came," he whispered, tracing the line of her cheek with one finger. "I knew you'd come."

 

"Did you?" she asked. "I didn't even think you'd seen me." Before he could speak further, she kissed him again. His hands clung first to her waist, then moved to the laces of her gown. "Petyr, what--"

 

"Isn't this what you want?" he asked, looking up at her. His eyes were somewhere between grey and green, like the bay near Seagard. "I would love you in secret if it was what you wanted."

 

He thinks I'm Cat. The thought stabbed like a cold knife even as her gown and shift slipped from her shoulders. He thinks I'm Cat, and that I've come to him in spite of Brandon Stark. Petyr was kissing her again now, his hands hot against her bare skin. It was wicked, what she was doing, so terribly wicked...

 

"Petyr," she gasped, "I'm not--"

 

"You are my lady and my love," he said. "You are all I want in this world."

 

Cat could not have him. Cat would not, by her own choice, but Lysa was free. Oh, there was talk of Jaime Lannister, but talk was nothing. What need had she for Casterly Rock when she cared nothing for lands and titles? Edmure would have Riverrun and Cat would have Winterfell. Lysa needed nothing more than a few rocks and a holdfast and Petyr.

 

Petyr's hands were fumbling at his own clothing. I shouldn't. Her fingers were strangely calm and unhurried, and seemed to belong to someone else. As though by calling her Cat, Petyr had transformed her. I should leave him and go. But she did not. Even as the sky lightened in the horizon, Lysa stayed beside him. Only at the sound of the first servants in the courtyard below did she rise and slowly dress in the morning's chill. Petyr slept soundly, his lips curled in a smile and his arm around where Lysa had just lain.

 

She did not kiss him farewell, but crept from the room on tiptoe. Cat too was still asleep when Lysa crawled into their bed, no longer a maiden and her heart heavy with secrets. The second night had not been as sweet somehow, for Petyr had winced in pain every time she accidentally brushed his wounded side, and he'd kept his eyes shut--he was sore wounded; surely I can't be so cruel as to forget that. And now, it seemed, she was carrying Petyr's child. Petyr's son, perhaps. She could not help but imagine a boy with Tully red hair and his father's sea-green eyes.

 

With that image in her mind, she began to write. He must know, no matter how furious her father would be. Petyr must marry her now, and there was nothing her father could do lest she be disgraced before the world. And he couldn't let that happen, especially not with Catelyn a few short months from becoming the lady of Winterfell.

 

When she heard the dinner summons, she crept along the corridors to the far corner of the castle where Maester Kym kept the ravens. As soon as she arrived, however, the birds set up a raucous chorus and Lysa panicked, dropping the letter into one of the feed troughs. Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched the ravens fight over the parchment, knowing she was too fearful to snatch it back. At least, she supposed, they'll pick it to bits so Maester Kym can't read it. With that in mind, she hurried onward to dinner.

 

***

 

She could not keep her secret forever.

 

Lysa had not tried to send another letter--she had one written, tucked into her bodice, but had not yet found the courage to venture back to the rookery. It had to be soon, she knew; a few more weeks and it would become obvious. Her belly was beginning to grow rounder; her curves filling out. She had begun to catch the guardsmen looking at her the way they looked at Cat.

 

With that, however, came the sickness, every morning at the crack of dawn. Usually it passed by the time she arrived at breakfast, but there came one day when she fled the table, leaving Cat and Edmure baffled in her wake.

 

She was still hunched over the chamber pot when she heard the footsteps in the doorway. "Lady Lysa," said Maester Kym, "I hope you don't mind my intrusion, but I've noticed that you've been unwell."

 

Lysa turned and blinked up at him, narrowing her eyes against the sun on the river behind him. Her heart was pounding. "It will pass, I'm sure. It's just my moon's blood," she lied, willing her hands to stop shaking.

 

"I thought as much," he said, holding out a goblet filled with dark brown, brackish-looking liquid. Lysa wrinkled her nose and the maester snorted. "Sometimes the remedy seems as bad as the ailment, but it will put you to rights. And perhaps some milk of the poppy afterward, to help you sleep while the posset does its work."

 

Lysa thought she recognised some of the smells wafting from the lukewarm potion. Forest herbs, the ones she used to gather with Cat and bring to Maester Kym. "Did I bring you these tansy flowers?"

 

Maester Kym seemed to start a little at her question. "I can't think so, child. That was quite some years ago." She could also smell mint, and a third strand, acrid and smoky and bitter, that she could not identify. Mint, at least, Lysa recognised as something for stomach ills, but the others seemed out of place. "Go on, then," said Maester Kym. "Best to have it over."

 

Lysa studied him for a moment. Maester Kym had been an unexpected whirlwind of activity in the preparations for Cat's wedding, so perhaps it wasn't so surprising that he seemed nervous. She took a sip of the posset and nearly spat it back into the goblet. "But it tastes awful. It'll make me worse."

 

"It's the remedy, child," said Maester Kym, looking at the floor. "I fear it's the only remedy."

 

Lysa bit back her questions. After a moment's steeling herself, she slowly and steadily drank down the vile potion, though her stomach heaved and her head began to spin. Maester Kym caught her arm and pressed a smaller vial into her hand. "There, there, child. Sleep now, and it will all be over when you awaken."

 

"What will be over?" murmured Lysa. He did not answer and instead she heard him call for one of the guards to help him. The vial was cold and smooth against her lips, the milk of the poppy rich and overly sweetened.

 

As he promised, she slept, but her sleep was filled with nightmares.

Chapter Text

Exciting as their long journey had been, Lyanna could not help but rejoice to sleep in her own bed once more. Harrenhal and all that had happened there seemed worlds away--the problems of another girl. It was easier in Winterfell to pretend she had no betrothed--that Robert was no more than Ned's friend and Storm's End a distant castle of no import.

 

It helped that they arrived to find their father absent. He had been called to Karhold, where there had been reports of wildlings south of the Wall, and it was all Lyanna could do to keep Benjen from chasing after him. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, she'd reminded him until he sulkily agreed on the condition that she stay with him any time he needed to receive petitioners in their father's name. And, within just a few short weeks of their return, snow was once again falling on Winterfell's walls. The fair months of spring had been a cruel jape, and this winter seemed likely to be as cruel as the previous year's had been mild.

 

But snow had never stopped Lyanna from riding forth into the woods, and even in the short, grey days of renewed winter, she would find herself ranging farther, returning only after dark. Sometimes Benjen accompanied her, but more often she rode alone--and she found herself looking to the north and wondering how far she could ride before they realised she was gone.

 

Foolish thoughts, she would tell herself, and turn back south to Winterfell. But on the days when letters came from Ned, she waited longer before turning back.

 

Robert has commissioned a ship to be named after you. They're building it at Storm's End as I write. Sadly we had no time in the Eyrie before the snows returned, but Robert desperately wants to take you there. Perhaps next year after you wed.

 

Lyanna never told him that the very thought of the Eyrie made her shudder. To be trapped on a mountain with no way out. She would go mad.

 

There had been no mention of Harrenhal or anything that had happened there. Even Lyanna's playful suggestions on the subject of Ashara Dayne went unanswered. Then, tucked carefully into a disapproving recital of Brandon's duel with Lord Tully's ward, Ned informed her that Lord Arryn had just received word of Princess Elia going into confinement. Nothing more than that, but a pointed reminder all the same. Lyanna scowled every time she read it, wishing Ned were in the room so she could shove his stupidity in his face.

 

He's not entirely wrong to worry, though. Huddled beneath a mound of furs at night, Lyanna found herself thinking more often about the prince, turning his words and Howland Reed's over in her head. You, a lady of winter, would kindle a flame greater than any in all the Seven Kingdoms. "Lady of winter" was easy enough to understand, but none of the rest made sense. A flame bright enough to reawaken the dragons themselves. The song of ice and fire.

 

To her surprise and disappointment, Old Nan had no answers for these questions, though she told Lyanna a story she'd heard many times before of the last hero battling the White Walkers in the darkest hours of the Long Night. It was a perfect tale for winter, best told in darkness with just one candle. Only this time, when Old Nan came to the final great meeting of the armies of Dark and Light before the Battle for the Dawn, Lyanna looked at her with a frown and asked, "Were there dragons during the Long Night?"

 

"Dragons?" Old Nan had to think for a moment. "Not on our shores, child, else the songs would say so. Weren't no dragons south of the Wall before the dragonkings came."

 

"And they came from Valyria," Lyanna said, more to herself than to her old nurse. "Did the Long Night cover all the world?"

 

"Of course it did. Until the last hero led the armies of the Kings of Winter to victory--"

 

"And dawn broke bright as beaten brass," Lyanna quoted with a grin, "and the Walkers melted away like the snow. But if the Long Night happened everywhere, surely there must have been other people fighting the White Walkers. Not just the last hero?" If the dragonkings came from Valyria, perhaps that was where the song of ice and fire came from.

 

Old Nan fixed her eyes on Lyanna's face, curious and darting like a raven's. "The world's full of stories, child. I only know the ones my granddam told me. I've heard tales of dragons made of ice who could kill you with a breath. Ice can burn too, child. Mind the words of your House."

 

Leaving Old Nan to her sewing, Lyanna decided to pay a visit to the Library Tower. It was not a place in which she'd spent much time at all--Old Nan needed no books to tell her stories, so Lyanna had seen little point in them--but the new maester was friendlier than his predecessor and certainly more inclined to answer her questions.

 

She paused before knocking on the door to the maester's rooms. A few moments later, the door opened. "Lady Lyanna, this is a surprise."

 

After the death of Maester Walys a year and a half since the Citadel had sent Luwin, as gangly and unsure as Walys had been round and stern, to replace him. Lyanna gave him her most innocent smile, and to her satisfaction, he smiled back. "Good afternoon, Maester Luwin."

 

"How may I assist you, my lady?"

 

She was trying to see past his bony shoulder to the room beyond and sighed. "I need to find an answer to a question."

 

"I will do what I can," he replied, stepping back to allow her passage. Even then she had to move gingerly to get past the piles of papers and strange objects that covered every available surface. "And you think it's in one of my books?"

 

"I think it must be." Lyanna settled on the edge of one of the trunks and looked at the lectern overflowing with scrolls and books. When she posed her question, she studied Maester Luwin covertly from beneath her lashes. "Will you promise not to tell my lord father?"

 

Maester Luwin just looked at her. Lyanna squirmed. "It's nothing bad, I promise," she assured him. Maester Walys had always seemed to look through her rather than at her, and her words rarely meant anything to him; it was unsettling to have a maester actually listen to her for once. "I just...I overheard something at the tournament and I was curious."

 

"Overheard?" the maester echoed, crossing his arms in front of his chest and making the layered chain around his neck rattle ominously. "What did you overhear, my lady?"

 

Lyanna swallowed. "Maester Luwin, what is the song of ice and fire?"

 

She could almost see the relief in Maester Luwin's posture and couldn't help but wonder why. Of course, maesters were supposed to know the affairs of the realm so it could well have been anything. Now he was almost laughing. "That's a heavy tale for a highborn lady."

 

It was Lyanna's turn to glare. "So you do know."

 

"It's an ancient Valyrian prophecy, but nobody is entirely certain what it means. Our understanding of the language is...spotty, at best." Plucking at his sleeves, Maester Luwin looked round the tower room, still in disarray after several months. "Even the Targaryens gave it up over the centuries, and the destruction of the library at Summerhall was a great blow."

 

Summerhall again. Lyanna frowned. "What happened at Summerhall? All I know is that it caught fire."

 

"I fear that is all anyone knows, my lady. Save that King Aegon, his son Prince Duncan, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard all perished that night. The fires burned for days, until a great storm finally quenched them, and there are only ruins now. They say Prince Rhaegar was born just as the flames came into sight from the Red Keep in King's Landing." After a moment, he added, "Summerhall is practically in Dorne, my lady."

 

"And they could see it from King's Landing?" Lyanna stood and made her way to the map hanging from the wall. The capital was easy to find, and there too was Summerhall. The thought of a blaze massive enough to be seen from that distance made her skin crawl, not entirely from horror. "It must have been as high as the Wall."

 

"Higher, perhaps. I was still in training at the Citadel in Oldtown, and I remember when the raven arrived with the news. We all looked to the northeast, and I could have sworn I saw the smoke in the distance. It was a tragedy, my lady. Greater even than we knew." She heard the clinking of his chains as he moved to her side.

 

They both looked at the map for a few moments, Lyanna retracing their path along the Kingsroad from Harrenhal. "Maester Luwin, is it true that the crannogmen of Greywater Watch can see the future in their dreams?" On the final night of the tournament Brandon had asked Howland Reed to come to Winterfell but the crannogman had his own road to take, or so he said. He bade them farewell and was gone well before dawn the next morning.

 

"First prophecies and now dreams? Who was it you were eavesdropping on, my lady?"

 

"I wasn't eavesdropping!" Lyanna protested, her cheeks growing hot. "Lord Howland Reed was there and he said..."

 

Maester Luwin led her to the window seat. "What did he say, my lady?"

 

"Are they real or not? Green dreams?"

 

He sighed. "I myself do not believe they are, but there are many who do, and if he spoke of this to anyone else, it would be useful for me to know. Will you tell me, please, my lady?"

 

Lyanna leant back against a cushion with a grimace. "I don't remember very well." The lie tripped easily off her tongue--she was getting better at it with practice. She'd gone over the prince's words, and Howland Reed's, over and over in her head to no avail. "Something about...a fire greater than any in the Seven Kingdoms, to reawaken dragons, but it would be kindled by a lady of winter? And that was the song of ice and fire?"

 

"You seem to remember quite well," Maester Luwin said, eyeing her suspiciously. "Reawakening dragons? Rumour has it that is what King Aegon was trying to do when Summerhall burned."

 

"I don't understand any of it, Maester Luwin."

 

Maester Luwin put one bony hand on her shoulder. "Let me explain something to you, my lady." At Lyanna's nod, he continued. "A very long time ago, before even the First Men came to our shores..."

 

"The children of the forest were here," Lyanna interrupted. "Old Nan told me."

 

Maester Luwin rolled his eyes and Lyanna grinned. Old Nan distrusted southrons of all stripes and maesters of the Citadel in particular. She'd crowed about outliving Maester Walys and her first words to his replacement were that she intended to outlive him too. "Did she tell you what happened to them?"

 

"Only that the First Men came."

 

"And then the Andals, who cut down the weirwoods and drove the children of the forest farther and farther north. I fear they are no more, child, and greenseers too."

 

Lyanna was looking at the maester's cluttered worktable. "But we don't know that, do we? Lord Robert was telling me about a red priest he met in Gulltown who could see the future in a hearthfire."

 

"The red priests are another story altogether." Maester Luwin narrowed his eyes. "Lord Robert met one in Gulltown, you say?"

 

"He was on his way from Myr and the ship made a stop in the Vale before turning south toward King's Landing." According to Robert, the priest had drunk him under the table. Lyanna wondered how he hadn't accidentally set himself afire trying to read his own flames if that were the case. "I don't know if I believe that."

 

Maester Luwin looked uncomfortable. "The red priests come from Asshai originally, and there are rumours of mages and warlocks, as there always are from east of the Dothraki Sea. They follow their red god of the fires."

 

"Not the Seven?"

 

"They would burn the Seven and the weirwoods alike if they could. Fire is what they worship." Maester Luwin glanced toward the window as the wind whistled harshly against it, and shivered. "There are days when I don't blame them. We truly hoped it might be spring this time."

 

Lyanna remembered when the hills around Winterfell were green for months on end and apples grew year-round in the woods beyond the walls. It hadn't been so long ago, but the winter before the False Spring had come suddenly and cruelly, and it seemed this one was much the same.

 

"Mayhap there was a red priest at Summerhall when they tried to wake the dragons," she said only half in jest. But Lyanna's thoughts were already elsewhere, trying and failing to fit all the pieces together. It seemed she would need to find her own answers. Maester Luwin would not be as easy to fool as Maester Walys had been, refreshing as it was not to be treated like a tedious child. "Thank you, Maester Luwin."

 

"Is your question answered?"

 

Lyanna paused halfway to the door. "Not exactly, but I don't think it's the sort of question that has an answer."

 

"Lady Lyanna." At the maester's tone, Lyanna reluctantly looked at him. "Whether or not one believes in them, prophecies can still be dangerous if they fall into the wrong hands. Have you told anyone else of this?"

 

"No, Maester Luwin. Only you." She hadn't told her brothers, none of whom would have understood. "You said you wouldn't tell my father."

 

"And I won't, if you leave it be. These are matters that even the maesters of the Citadel do not discuss freely, let alone young ladies." He smiled. "And, really, it's all very boring in the end."

 

He was lying, of course, but Lyanna nodded. "I won't tell anyone else, I promise." But if you will not answer my questions, I shall find someone else who will. And she knew exactly who it was.

 

Instead of returning to her chamber, Lyanna ducked into her father's solar. Near the massive wooden table was a stand filled with newly scraped pieces of parchment, quills, and ink. Nobody would think to come here at this hour with Lord Rickard absent. Benjen was in the tiltyard with the master-at-arms and she had just left Maester Luwin.

 

Behind the table was the carved wooden chair that had belonged to the Starks almost as long as Winterfell had. The cushion was grey wool faded nearly to white, but the direwolf crest had been embroidered by Lyanna's mother as a wedding gift and she knew her father would wear it threadbare before parting with it.

 

Seating herself on the cushion, Lyanna began to write. To his royal grace Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, I, Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, greet you well. They were practised phrases she had used time and time again when writing letters to her lord father's bannermen inviting them to Winterfell. At first she wrote haltingly but by the time she signed her name, most of the parchment was filled with what suddenly seemed to her a hopelessly childish scrawl. Before she could think better of the plan, she rolled it up and sealed it as she'd seen her father and the maesters do. There were always at least two boys who cared for the birds alongside Maester Luwin and an extra handful of coppers saw a raven winging south almost as soon as Lyanna asked.

 

It was just a letter, she told herself as she left the rookery. Just a letter and a question--several questions. Old Nan claimed to have a story about a lady who asked too many questions but Lyanna suspected there was no such thing. More likely than not, she would hear nothing. He was the Prince of Dragonstone, after all; no doubt he had more important things to do.

 

Well, so did she. Perhaps if she made herself indispensable to her father, he might change his mind about Storm's End. Cersei Lannister held court for her father in the Tower of the Hand, or so she'd bragged at Harrenhal, and there seemed no plans to marry her off unwillingly.

 

Brandon couldn't understand it, even when she had tried to explain it to him on the Kingsroad before they parted ways. "I know that our lord father has said it must be so, but nobody ever bothered to tell me why I must marry Lord Baratheon. What need have we for Storm's End? It's thousands of miles away. You've never been there, and nor has Father. Even Ned hasn't, and Robert is his best friend."

 

"Lyanna, you need to stop this," Brandon said, taking both her hands in his. "It's been decided, just as my marriage to Catelyn has been decided."

 

"But haven't you ever wondered what might happen if you weren't to marry the lady Catelyn? If you were free."

 

Brandon looked at her with a sigh. "No, as it happens, I haven't. Because there's no point, Lyanna. Why can't you understand that?"

 

Lyanna opened her mouth and closed it again, the words eluding her. Brandon couldn't possibly understand. Catelyn Tully might; after all, she would be leaving her home behind to come north and be lady of Winterfell. "I'm going to speak to Father when I'm home again."

 

"Do as you like," said Brandon with a shrug. "He won't change his mind." Lyanna could have argued further, and a part of her longed to, but Brandon had always been stubborn, and she hated the thought of spoiling their last few hours together with a quarrel. Then they'd returned to Winterfell to find Lord Rickard gone, and the longer he stayed away, the more anxious Lyanna grew.

 

Finally, nearly two moon's turns after their return from Harrenhal, word arrived from one of the nearby holdfasts that Lord Rickard's banner had been seen on the Kingsroad, and he arrived at the head of some fifty men-at-arms later that evening. Lyanna waited until after supper to approach her father's solar once again. No one had noticed the missing parchment or the raven she had contrived to send by tricking one of Maester Luwin's servants, but she still felt uneasy as she stepped into the room.

 

Her father glanced up, his eyes grey as the stones of Winterfell. "Daughter."

 

Lyanna curtsied. "My lord father, how was your journey?"

 

"Well enough." After a moment's study, he steepled his hands beneath his chin and sighed. "What are these stories I hear from Harrenhal, child?"

 

"I don't know, Father," said Lyanna. "What did you hear?"

 

"That the Prince of Dragonstone crowned you queen of the tournament." He frowned. "Lord Robert was not pleased."

 

"What was I to do, turn him down?" she snapped, without thinking. "I thought you wanted me to be a southron lady, Father. Isn't that what southron ladies do?"

 

"Lyanna, enough." All of Ice's steel was in her father's voice as he looked down at the parchment spread before him on the table. "You will return south as soon as the roads are safe to travel, and I will join you when I can. Brandon is to be married at Riverrun. Once that is done, he, Eddard, and I will escort you to Storm's End for your own wedding."

 

"So soon?" She cursed the quaver in her voice and the tears that pricked at her eyes. "Surely not so soon."

 

"I have been more than patient with you, Lyanna, as has Lord Baratheon. By rights, I ought to have fostered you in Storm's End as your brother is in the Eyrie, but Lord Robert has no sisters and it would have been unseemly. You will marry him and there's an end."

 

"But, Father--"

 

"That is enough." He sighed. "Why must you be so difficult, child?"

 

Because Winterfell is my home and I shall never see it again. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the tears trickling along her cheeks. "Is Brandon in Riverrun now?"

 

"He is in Seagard, but he will meet you on the way. Benjen will escort you as far as the Neck. I would come myself, but there are preparations to be made." Lord Rickard's voice seemed much closer, and without warning, Lyanna found herself pressed against her father's chest in a close embrace that smelled of damp wool and horse. "It is a good match, Lyanna, and one that will only make Winterfell stronger. Think you I wish to lose my only daughter?"

 

She blinked up at him through tear-studded lashes. "I don't want to go."

 

"But you will go." He stepped away from her, hands on her shoulders. "You are a Stark of Winterfell and you will do your duty."

 

"I will do as you bid me, Father," Lyanna murmured. She was halfway to the door when her father spoke again.

 

"Did the prince say anything to you, Lyanna?"

 

"Nothing of consequence," she lied. It was growing easier every time.

Chapter Text

"Lord Merryweather believes that the answer to every problem is a banquet," Ashara remarked as she raised her glass first to the throng of people in the great hall of Dragonstone and then to the white-cloaked man standing beside her. "We shall all be as round as he is if we aren't careful." She'd almost said by summer, as though the air hadn't turned cold within weeks of their return, rendering the once-promising spring a cruel jape. 

 

The Horn-of-Plenty Hand, appointed by King Aerys soon after their return to Dragonstone, had come from King's Landing with the queen and Grand Maester Pycelle to witness the birth of Princess Elia's child. Ashara had heard tales of feasts and banquets in the Red Keep that sounded too outrageous to be real, at least until she witnessed the feast he conjured up to celebrate Princess Elia's going into confinement.

 

Through a combination of draped silks and cunningly hidden wires, the great hall had been transformed into a Dornish palace, strikingly similar to the one Ashara recalled near the Water Gardens--no small feat when, beneath the musicians and the laughter, she could still hear the howl of the winter wind and freezing rain that had battered the island for weeks on end.

 

It had been strangely comforting to return to Dragonstone after the dereliction of Harrenhal and the poisoned splendour of Maegor's Holdfast. The lords of the Crownlands, many newly made at the king's express command for those who told him whatever pleased him, watched and whispered and spoke of Dornish plots, Dornish treacheries, and Prince Rhaegar's growing strength. When they finally drew away from the harbour and into the high tide of Blackwater Bay, Ashara had felt the gloom dissolve like the foul fog of the capital city. She'd all but cheered when the black cliffs and serpentine towers of Dragonstone rose from the mist as their ship entered the bay.

 

Though the king had insisted that all seven Kingsguard remain in the Red Keep after the tourney, Arthur and Ser Barristan Selmy accompanied the queen to Dragonstone with plans to return after the princess was delivered. Earlier in the evening the guests had reclined on couches along the outskirts of the room as servants in brightly-coloured silk passed by with fully sixteen courses of spiced delicacies and Dornish wine. Now even the dancing was flagging, though the Hand still spun in the middle of the room, a scarf tied around his eyes and two of the princess' younger ladies laughing as they twirled around him.

 

Princess Elia reclined against the prince on the dais at the far end of the hall, where the ceiling sloped downward like the swoop of a dragon's spine. He had joined her when the dancing started in spite of Ashara's attempts to lure him onto the floor, and even from her vantage she could see Elia laughing at something he'd said. Their hands were twined over the long-awaited heir to the Iron Throne. Unless, of course, Elia has another girl. But that was not talk for tonight. Tonight was for a promised prince.

 

Lord Merryweather's imported Myrish dancers had moved to the centre of the room to mingle with the remaining courtiers. Beside her, Ser Barristan smiled and took a sip of wine. "I can think of worse things, my lady, than peace and merriment."

 

"Peace?" echoed Ashara, brows twitching upward. "I suppose you're right." There had been no word from Robert Baratheon for good or ill, nor from any of the Starks. Whatever had happened--or not happened--at Harrenhal could be rightfully consigned to memory.

 

Lord Tywin Lannister had written back to Prince Rhaegar to refuse any renewed offers for the Handship that did not come from King Aerys himself, or so Elia had told her, and there was no chance of that. From what the princess had said, Lord Tywin and Prince Rhaegar seemed to have made peace, but Elia had admitted under her breath that it was impossible to tell what Lord Tywin was thinking when face-to-face, let alone in writing. He could be plotting to kill us this instant and we would never know. Not, she added, that she had any such suspicions. Lord Tywin is loyal to the Iron Throne, whoever sits there. This bodes well for us, if perhaps less so for the king.

 

"How fares the king, Ser Barristan?" she asked after a moment.

 

"The king is as he ever was," the knight said carefully. "I would not presume to advise the princess, Lady Ashara, but she might do well to counsel Prince Rhaegar to return to King's Landing. There are many around the king who find it in their interests to speak ill of him, and if the prince will not defend himself, there are few who will."

 

"Is that a threat, ser?"

 

"Never, my lady." His eyes widened with hurt. "A warning. No more than that."

 

Ashara took his hand. "Then I thank you and will tell the princess." She'd heard as much from Arthur but it was strangely touching from Ser Barristan, who had always seemed wholly removed from the court that whirled dizzily around him.

 

She did not know Barristan Selmy well at all, for he and the Lord Commander were almost always in attendance on the king. Prince Lewyn had been named to the Kingsguard as part of the marriage contract with Dorne, making him Elia's guard by default, while Ser Oswell Whent and Arthur attended Prince Rhaegar, or at least had done so until after the tourney at Harrenhal when the king had demanded that they remain with him in the capital. Someday, she supposed, Arthur would probably be very much like Ser Barristan, shepherding the younger knights at court and clucking over them like a mother hen. She wondered if Ser Barristan resented her brother, who would almost certainly become Lord Commander after Ser Gerold, but it seemed rude to ask.

 

"You look very beautiful tonight, Lady Ashara," she heard Ser Barristan say, and collected herself with a start. "If I may be so bold as to say."

 

Blushing, Ashara took a sip of wine. "Thank you, ser. You're too kind." Perhaps she would give him her favour in the next tourney, keep Arthur on his toes. "I should go to my lady."

 

"And I to Her Grace," he said. "I have lingered too long." With a wry smile, he bowed over her hand. "They pull our strings and we follow."

 

"Gladly, in my case, but you speak truth, ser," she replied, squeezing his hand as he left. He was a good man--the sort of man she might have married had fate turned another way, but there was no profit in those thoughts. We are both pledged to other masters.

 

For another moment, she paused, leaning against a pillar--wrought in the shape of a dragon's rib--and once again finding Elia in the crowd. The princess had not moved; indeed, from Ashara's vantage, it seemed she might have fallen asleep, her head cradled against the prince's shoulder. The first few hopeful months of her pregnancy had seen the beginnings of spring, but now that winter had returned, she tired almost as easily as she had before Princess Rhaenys was born.

 

Ashara made her way across the great hall and sank into a curtsey at the foot of the dais. Over Elia's head, Prince Rhaegar gave her a quick nod. As Ashara reached for her hand, the princess stirred.

 

"Oh, no, I did it again, didn't I?" she muttered, wrinkling her nose.

 

It was difficult to tell, but Prince Rhaegar might have smiled, his face half-concealed behind Elia's hair. "I think they're all used to it by now."

 

"Have you no care for my dignity, husband? Poor Lord Merryweather came here and went to all this fuss and you didn't see fit to wake me up?"

 

"Lord Merryweather loves nothing better than a banquet and you were a convenient excuse," Ashara remarked as she held out her hands. "Come, my lady. Your confinement awaits."

 

But Elia wasn't listening. She and the prince were carrying on a murmured conversation that Ashara could not hear and that ended with the princess kissing her husband in a decidedly unladylike fashion. Coughing, Ashara averted her eyes, looking back only when Elia laughed and said, "I'll hold you to that, my love."

 

Prince Rhaegar looked up at Ashara, all signs of laughter gone from his face. "Care for her well, Lady Ashara."

 

The return of winter had dampened all their spirits, but the prince had taken to spending most of his days in the library tower or closeted with Maester Perwyn and the ravens arriving and departing almost daily from Oldtown. He fears this new winter may be a sign of something worse. What that was, Elia did not say, nor did Ashara pry further. She had long ago learned not to ask why Prince Rhaegar seemed so hopelessly fascinated with the downfalls of his predecessors, or with prophecies and curses, none of which made the least bit of sense to anyone save Maester Perwyn. He might have been happier in the Citadel, Elia had confided to her soon after Rhaenys was born, but the gods decided otherwise.

 

All princes had their oddities, she knew, but Rhaegar Targaryen seemed a puzzle even to himself sometimes.

 

"I always do, Your Grace," she replied now, with a curtsey. Elia leant on her arm and Ashara led her to her chair, manned as always by four Dornish spearmen in Martell livery. Elia hooked her arm protectively around her belly as they lifted the chair.

 

"What, you fear he's going to fall out in front of all the court?" Ashara teased. "That would be worthy of the Targaryens and Dorne."

 

"Just you wait, madam," was Elia's rejoinder. "Someday, you'll understand."

 

For the first few days, the only danger was boredom. Despite the Grand Maester's strictures and tradition forbidding any men to visit, Prince Rhaegar contrived to spend one or two afternoons playing cyvasse with the princess. Ashara combed through Dragonstone's library in the meanwhile and, to her delight, found a copy of The Loves of Queen Nymeria with illustrations as anatomically detailed as one might have expected from a Lysene artist.

 

Squinting down at an image of Princess Nymeria seducing Davos Dayne, Elia grinned. "I must admit, she looks more than a little like mine uncle's paramour."

 

Ashara shook her head in mock disapproval. "For shame, my lady, and he a member of King Aerys' chosen Seven. Is she in King's Landing or in Dorne?"

 

"King's Landing. He wants her to go to Dorne, but she's made a life for herself in the capital and won't give it up for a man who cannot marry her." The princess shrugged. "You must keep it to yourself, Ash. He only told me because he wanted to be certain that if he died in service, she and their daughter would be looked after."

 

"Why are you telling me, my lady?"

 

"Because you would have suspected it sooner or later." It wasn't the real reason and Ashara knew it. Finally, with a sigh, Elia added, "And should I die in service, I pass my uncle's bequest on to you. Make sure both of them are looked after or Uncle Lewyn will find me in the next life and I'll never hear the end of it."

 

"Don't say that."

 

"Childbirth is a gamble and we both know it." Ashara's own mother had died after Allyria's birth as had so many other women, hundreds every day, she was certain. As though conjured by her words, Elia gasped, one hand pressed to her belly. "Ash, I think--"

 

Ashara was on her feet instantly. She sent the rest of her ladies away, save the four or five handpicked for their strong stomachs. One of these, Lilias Fossoway, Ashara sent to find Grand Maester Pycelle. Elia had wanted her mother's doctor, a lady physician from Pentos who had delivered Elia and Oberyn, but Prince Rhaegar pointed out that it would cause a diplomatic crisis if they were to refuse the Grand Maester himself, and she had reluctantly accepted his decision.

 

It soon became clear that this was a grave mistake.

 

The Grand Maester had accomplished a great many things during his years at the Citadel and in the Red Keep, including the delivery of Prince Rhaegar's only surviving brother, but Ashara knew, as Elia likely also did, that if given the choice between the princess and the promised heir to the throne, no matter the odds, Pycelle would let Elia die. He has never forgiven me for not being Cersei Lannister, Elia had confessed to Ashara soon after her marriage. As for the king, he had no love for Prince Rhaegar's Dornish wife and had made that abundantly clear.

 

Two days came and went. On the third day, Elia's screams echoing in her ears, Ashara wrote to the Lady Artemisia Martell, Princess of Dorne and Elia's mother. The babe will not come. We are doing all we can, but Elia is in grave danger. Ashara wondered if she ought to write to Oberyn in Braavos, then tried to remember if he was even still there. Pressing one hand to her mouth, she choked on a sob. When Princess Rhaenys was born with their own Maester Perwyn in attendance, Elia had been bedridden for months, but they had never truly feared for her life--at least Ashara had not, though Oberyn had threatened to sail to Dragonstone to confirm that for himself and only a night in a cell on Prince Doran's orders changed his mind.

 

The sound of footfalls on the stairs startled Ashara from her thoughts. Recognising her brother's voice, she hurried to the window alcove and slipped behind the heavy curtains. The only thing worse than being caught eavesdropping by Arthur was not overhearing what he'd said. It was invariably interesting.

 

"That was tactless even by your standards, Griff," Arthur was saying, and Ashara could hear the frown in his words. She almost felt sorry for Jon Connington. "He'll forgive you sooner or later, but I'd avoid him for a few days. Until the baby's born, at least."

 

"It's the question everybody is asking. And he needs to think about it. Even you can't disagree with that, Arthur, surely." Connington was pacing back and forth as he often did when he was agitated. "If the princess dies--"

 

"If," Arthur cut him off. "Don't dig her grave yet, Griff. She's stronger than she looks. And even if she were to die, Rhaegar wouldn't thank you for predicting it."

 

"It's for his own good."

 

"Is that what you tell yourself, Griff? You're a fool." Arthur sounded exhausted. "Stay out of his way for a few days. I'll talk to him. But, please, stop this. You're not helping."

 

After Connington's steps had faded down the stairs, Arthur said, "I know you're there, Ashara."

 

She sighed. "What was it this time?" she asked, pushing aside the curtain. Arthur pointed to the letter she'd left on the table. "And Griff?"

 

"He put his foot in it, as Griff so often does. It's not malice, it's just..." he pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's just how he is."

 

"What, desperately jealous of my lady? Oh, come, Arthur," she added when he glanced at her in surprise, "it's obvious. Griff has always been half in love with Prince Rhaegar, and if he were anything other than a stiff-necked stormlander, he might have found a sensible way of resolving it." She could understand the difficulty of such things here in Dragonstone, but Griff had been with them in King's Landing not so long ago and there were men and women in any number of the pleasure houses on the Street of Silk who made a tidy business pretending to be Targaryens in the dark.

 

"Is that your answer to everything?" Arthur wondered aloud. "Griff wants Rhaegar to be happy, but he can't stand the thought that someone else might be the cause of that happiness. He'll never admit it, least of all to Rhaegar himself."

 

"And the prince?"

 

"He knows," he sighed, shaking his head. "He knows, and he will never say a word unless Griff does."

 

"Your friends are idiots, Arthur. I mean it in the fondest sense I can."

 

Arthur cracked a smile so brief that Ashara wondered if she'd imagined it. "Rhaegar needs her, Ash. I don't think even he realised how much until now."

 

I need her, thought Ashara, but she bit back the words. What she needed did not matter. "You spoke truth, my dear. Elia is stronger than she looks." But when she looked up into Arthur's face, the tears spilled out. Quite unexpectedly, she realised some moments later that her brother was holding her close, the joints of his armour catching awkwardly on her sleeves as her tears soaked the shoulder of his white cloak.

 

"I suppose it must be bad," she murmured, slipping her arms around his waist. "You believe it, though, don't you? That she'll live?"

 

Arthur hesitated too long. "I do."

 

"You're a dreadful liar." Ashara stepped back and dabbed her eyes with one violet sleeve. "And I an even worse messenger. This must go to Sunspear at once."

 

"I'll take it to the rookery for you." Arthur tucked the parchment into his tunic. "It will take days if not weeks for anyone to get here from Dorne, you know. It might be too late."

 

"I am hoping the Princess Artemisia chose to send her physician in spite of the king and the Citadel," Ashara said. "I wouldn't put it past her to have thought ahead." She knew, as the whole realm knew, when Elia had gone into confinement.

 

Ashara was proven right the next day when a commotion erupted outside Elia's door. The princess had fallen into a fitful sleep as the babe struggled within, refusing to turn.

 

"I cannot allow this, Your Grace. The Citadel--" Pycelle's voice rose in outrage as the door swung open to admit Prince Rhaegar and a cloaked figure who pushed back her hood to reveal the face Ashara had most hoped to see.

 

Mariam Servaris had shocked the city of Pentos by taking over the family business from her father, a celebrated physician whose sons had all perished when the sweating sickness came to the city. For lack of any other heirs, and noting her invaluable help during the weeks of pestilence, he had trained his daughter to assist him. Upon his death, she was able to retain some of his less conservative patients, but it was only when Artemisia Martell paid a state visit to Pentos in the company of then-princess Rhaella Targaryen that Mariam found a permanent calling. Official physician to the princess of Dorne was an offer only a fool would refuse.

 

"The Grand Maester tells me he cannot save her, but that he can deliver the child." Prince Rhaegar's eyes kept straying to Elia's pallid, twitching form, and the physician reached forward to clasp his hands for comfort. "Can you save her?"

 

"I make no promises, Your Grace, but I will do all that I can."

 

"Your Grace, I must protest--"

 

"That is enough, Grand Maester." The prince's voice was a whipcrack, and all in the room froze. "I have seen what you can do and it is insufficient. Lady Mariam, you will have all you need. Grand Maester, you will do as she says. I will not repeat myself."

 

Without missing a beat, Lady Mariam withdrew a sheet of parchment from her sleeve and handed it to the Grand Maester. "It will be my honour to work beside you."

 

Grand Maester Pycelle gritted his teeth and managed a nod. His sleeves twitched furiously as he retreated to pass Lady Mariam's orders to one of his assistants.

 

Ashara found herself face to face with the prince of Dragonstone. She reached out to touch his arm. "You made the right choice, Your Grace. Whatever happens." He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. "There's no more you can do," Ashara murmured, and Prince Rhaegar backed slowly toward the door, his eyes never leaving Elia. When the room had emptied and Ashara turned back, she found the physician beside the bed, examining Elia more closely and shaking her head.

 

"Just like her mother and Prince Oberyn. The babe is too large and turned around. He will not come on his own." She made a Rhoynish sign against evil. "If I cut, she may die, but if I do not, she certainly will."

 

Ashara stood frozen in horror until Lady Mariam snapped, "Be useful, girl! Or get out. If you wish to help your lady, choose one or the other."

 

With shaking hands, Ashara retied the scarf around her hair. "Whatever you need, doctor."

 

"Find the Grand Maester and tell him I will need him shortly. I need you to take charge of the babe when he comes. Maester Pycelle and I will be otherwise occupied and are not to be disturbed. Do you understand?"

 

"I do." Ashara turned to leave.

 

"One more thing, Lady Ashara." She paused and glanced back at Lady Mariam, whose voice had grown suddenly gentle. "Pray, my dear. Even I cannot save her if the Mother wills otherwise."

 

Her heart in her throat, Ashara nodded.

 

***

 

Some two hours later, Ashara emerged from Elia's chamber. Swaddled in her arms was a baby boy, his mouth screwed up in displeasure. He does not seem so big to have caused such pain. Behind her, Grand Maester Pycelle and the Princess of Dorne's physician were tending to Princess Elia. Ashara had tried her best not to look, recalling the worse details of the stories Prince Oberyn had told her once of anatomy demonstrations in the Citadel. He would have been horrified at the thought of Elia in that context.

 

Arthur was waiting outside the door, half-asleep. "How is she, Ash?"

 

"We won't know for certain until she wakes." If she wakes. She adjusted the bundle in her arms. "For now, you are the first outside the birthing chamber to be introduced to the new prince."

 

"A great day for the realm." In spite of the words, his eyes were on the door, his thoughts beyond it. "He's in the sept. I was with him until he sent me here."

Dawn was just beginning to break when she arrived at the doorway to Dragonstone's sept, and pale blue light had crept into the interior from the narrow crystal windows set high above. The prince was kneeling before the Stranger's altar---a curious choice, since childbirth was the Mother's domain. But death is the Stranger's.

 

In her arms, the baby gave a soft whimper. Ashara hummed "The Song of the Seven" under her breath, reasoning that the gods would probably prefer it to Elia's favourite ballad about the Black Pearl of Braavos, though she went silent as she moved closer to the Stranger's altar.

 

Prince Rhaegar seemed half a statue himself, head bowed and pale hair concealing his face from view. As she approached, she realised he was speaking, and not to her.

 

"I need her. I need her here, when the time comes. I know I've done wrong, that much is clear--"

 

Ashara frowned. Wrong, how? All men had vices, or so she had assumed, but whatever Prince Rhaegar's were, he hid them remarkably well.

 

"I've wished my father dead and myself upon the throne." He stopped, took a ragged breath. "I wanted it. I listened to Lord Tywin, I knew I'd be a better king than my father could ever be. I thought that was what you wanted. Why, then, do you turn away your eyes?"

 

Ashara opened her mouth, but the words would not form. The light caught on a piece of stained glass in the window and a spill of red fell across the prince--for Targaryen or for blood, who could tell? He looked up at what little could be seen of the Stranger's face, half-cowled with just the hint of sharp, too-long teeth, and Ashara could see the shudder run through his entire body.

 

"I will not fight you, I swear it. Let her live--let my son live--and I swear to you on my honour that I will not take arms against my father."

 

"Oh, no," whispered Ashara. Of course. It made all the sense in the world if one truly believed that the contemplation of a sin was as bad as the sin itself. It was also the opposite of what Elia would have wanted.

 

And she hadn't thought to stop it.

 

Steeling herself, Ashara stepped forward to present the Prince of Dragonstone with his son.

Chapter Text

When she had first heard the unmistakeable voice of her mother's physician, Elia had assumed she was delirious. It was only days afterward that she awakened to find Lady Mariam seated beside her bed polishing her instruments.

 

"I thought I dreamt you," Elia whispered. "I didn't?"

 

"Do you truly think your royal mother would have left you in the Citadel's hands after the last time?" Elia had heard from Oberyn the stories of her mother's rage after the near-disaster of Rhaenys' birth. Lady Mariam put away the last of her now-spotless knives and fastened the well-worn case, and Elia knew from her expression what she was about to say. "No more children, Elia. I mean that."

 

"I am the princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms," Elia said. "It is my duty--"

 

"Your duty is to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and you will most certainly fail in that if you are dead," said Lady Mariam. Beneath the Pentoshi accent she had yet to lose, all Elia could hear was her mother. For a moment, she could even see the sharp eyes that she and Oberyn had inherited, and it was as though a string tugged upon her heart. "Do you hear me, Elia?"

 

She closed her eyes against the tears. "He'll set me aside, I know it."

 

"You're a fool, then," snapped Lady Mariam. "Do you know why I'm even here, Princess?" Elia shook her head. "Because your husband commanded it. He went against his father's own orders and centuries of tradition barring me from that room, and he did it for you. And if you're foolish enough to think he has any intention of setting you aside, then I daresay you deserve it."

 

Furious, Elia tried to rise, but could scarcely lift her shoulders. Her body had never felt more like a prison.

 

"I would have thought the Lady Artemisia's daughter, of all people, would know better than to think of herself as little more than a broodmare."

 

"I never said--"

 

"Are you sure?"

 

Under Lady Mariam's stern gaze, Elia was forced into honesty. She shook her head. "As I am reminded time and time again, Lady Mariam, Dornish rules do not apply here."

 

"Why in all the seven hells did your mother see fit to marry you to the Prince of Dragonstone if not to bring some long-overdue sense into this realm?" Lady Mariam rolled her eyes. "Westerners. I will never understand you."

 

It was as though she was thirteen again, nursing a broken arm after falling from Oberyn's shoulders in the Water Gardens. At least it wasn't your head, Lady Mariam had grumbled as she set the bone and wrapped it tightly in layers of linen and plaster. There's no repairing that. She'd met Rhaegar properly for the first time only a few weeks afterward, swathed in bandages and thoroughly embarrassed with herself.

 

Elia reached up to dab her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. "Am I to abstain from my husband's bed altogether? Even moon tea has been known to fail every so often."

 

Lady Mariam snorted. "That would be my preferred method but I know better than to ask for such miracles from a Martell. I'll brew you something stronger than moon tea and teach that handmaid of yours how to make it. That maester would sooner kill you than cure you; I saw it for myself and so did Prince Rhaegar."

 

"He's Lord Tywin's man. Oberyn told me so after he visited the Citadel; it seems our Grand Maester hails from Lannisport and has always worn his loyalties on his sleeve. Now that Lord Tywin has returned to the west, of course, who can say?"

 

"Then perhaps you ought to be more cautious around him in the future," advised Lady Mariam. "I'll never trust men who do not trust women."

 

"That makes you far more sensible than most men here," Elia muttered. "No doubt he's advising Rhaegar to be rid of me right now."

 

"I promise you, my dear, he's doing nothing of the sort." The voice was Queen Rhaella's. She made her way to the bedside in a rustle of heavy skirts and beadwork. Lady Mariam rose to bow to her and the queen shook her head silently before leaning close to kiss Elia on the forehead. "Thank the gods you've awakened."

 

"Good-mother," murmured Elia. The queen smelled of lilies, as she always did. Elia's mother had once told her of a tourney in the Stormlands when they were girls, where the victor, a young knight of no name and little land, had crowned then-Princess Rhaella the Queen of Love and Beauty with a circlet of lilies. When we returned to King's Landing, her father announced that my lady was to marry her brother Aerys. She burnt the crown in her hearth that night and sometimes I fear the better part of her heart with it. "It is lovely to see you."

 

"I'll have a message sent to your mother. No doubt she's worried sick for you."

 

"She worries too much," said Elia automatically, though her hands strayed to the bandages swathing her belly. Somewhere beneath them was a great, uneven scar that she could feel but had never seen. No more children. "And the baby? My son?"

 

"Thriving," said Queen Rhaella with a glowing smile. "He's with the wet-nurse now."

 

No one had fed Rhaenys but Elia herself. Already her son seemed farther away. "How long was I asleep?"

 

"Three days," said Lady Mariam. After a quick exchange of glances with the queen, she added, "If you feel well enough to nurse him, I don't see why you shouldn't, but you mustn't overtax yourself. He's stronger than you are right now."

 

"Thank the gods for it," said Elia. "I should worry myself into my grave if my children were weaker than me." There seemed little danger of that with Rhaenys, and when the wet-nurse--a buxom, brown-haired woman perhaps five or six years Elia's junior--arrived with the baby, Elia's fears receded entirely.

 

Rhaenys had been red-faced and wrinkled, her head covered in a thick cap of dark curls with a prominent widow's peak just like Elia's. She still favoured her mother, though she had her father's smile and used it to devastating effect in getting away with all imaginable mischief. The babe drowsing in the wet-nurse's arms was just as unmistakeably Rhaegar's child, all smoothness and delicacy, with a soft down of near-invisible silvery hair.

 

No doubt seeing her expression, Lady Mariam snorted. "All the work was yours, princess, and ours, but he's as healthy as one might wish." Slowly and with careful hands, the doctor adjusted the pillows beneath Elia's back to prop her up before the wet-nurse placed the baby in her arms. He made a contented murmur and stirred a little in his sleep but did not wake.

 

"A lazy little prince," said Elia. When she laughed, pain lanced through her belly, but she cared less than she might have otherwise, for she looked up to find her husband in the doorway. With a knowing smile, the queen motioned for Lady Mariam to follow her and, as she passed her son, gave him a swift kiss on the cheek that he barely seemed to notice.

 

When he reached her side, Elia saw the shadows beneath his eyes, the trembling in his hands. Suddenly uncertain, she held out her hand to him. "Rhaegar, what is it?"

 

"You nearly died," he said, hesitating just maddeningly out of reach. "The Grand Maester himself told me there was no hope for you, only for the child, and I almost believed him--"

 

"But you didn't," Elia overrode him. "Rhaegar, you didn't."

 

"Only because of my mother and yours. She made sure Lady Mariam spoke to the queen first; she must have known I'd never have listened on my own."

 

"Rhaegar, stop this. I'm going to be fine, I promise. Now, come here, you foolish man." He settled gingerly on the bed, his head against Elia's hip, just below the swaddled baby. "You've not slept, have you?"

 

"Here and there. In the sept, mostly." She pushed the hair away from his face and he caught her hand in his. "I've never felt so useless in my life."

 

"Now you know how wives feel when their husbands run off to war with one another." Elia shifted the baby a little as her arm began to ache. "I'm not going anywhere, husband."

 

Rhaegar raised himself on his elbow to peer at the baby. "Ashara brought him to me in the sept, but I could barely see him. I was so worried for you."

 

"Well, look at him now. Your son and heir, Your Grace. Your promised prince." There had been a comet lancing across the sky on the night he was conceived. It had been after a banquet on an unseasonably warm night when she'd lured Rhaegar into Aegon's Garden on a whim. Afterward, tangled together on the grass, they'd seen the red star overhead. Rhaegar, she remembered, had watched it with a strange, desperate hunger that unsettled her.

 

Then, as the babe quickened, the air had warmed and it seemed as though this winter might be a short one. Its return had brought back all of Rhaegar's fears, the ones Elia had never entirely understood. "Has Rhaenys met him?" she asked.

 

"She has," said Rhaegar, meeting her eyes with the glimmer of a smile. "She wouldn't let the wet nurse have him back. I think she thought she was protecting him."

 

Elia grinned. "I don't doubt her. Oberyn's eldest girl is already training with a master-at-arms. Not," she added, seeing the growing horror in her husband's expression, "that I am suggesting that anyone put a sword into our daughter's hand. Not yet, at any rate."

 

"Her first word was dragon. Surely that's trouble enough."

 

"I thought you said someone from the Citadel had found dragon's eggs?" Elia half-teased. She only barely recalled herself, but Rhaegar had received a letter before Elia's confinement that she thought might have brought him out of the worst of winter's melancholy.

 

"In Asshai," Rhaegar sighed. "The man who found them could be at the bottom of the Jade Sea for all we know."

 

"Or he could be on his way here with a mighty gift for our children." It was harmless enough to encourage some of Rhaegar's more fanciful notions if only to distract him from gloom and darkness. "Maesters are more resilient than they look. How old would you say Pycelle is?"

 

"Gods, I shouldn't even guess. He was old when I was a boy."

 

The baby chose that moment to let out a sound not unlike an angry kitten. "Someone is hungry," Elia murmured, pressing her lips to his forehead. Rhaegar held him for a moment as Elia slowly forced herself upright, gritting her teeth against the pain screaming across her belly. When her husband handed back their son, his frown had softened into the same disbelief she'd seen when he first looked at Rhaenys. "Will you play something for him?" Elia asked. With another brief smile, Rhaegar rose from the bed and retrieved his harp from its well-worn case. At the first sound of the silver strings, the babe opened his eyes and Elia caught her breath.  Targaryen eyes, for certain.

 

Rhaegar played a series of Rhoynish folk songs that he must have learned in Dorne unless he had travelled to the Free Cities and not told her. There was, after all, a great deal she did not know about her husband. The baby soon fell back into slumber, apparently satisfied with the attentions of both of his parents at once. A lucky little prince to have such a father. She too had been lucky in her father, who spent his days in the Water Gardens with his children while his wife ruled Dorne in her own right and raised her eldest son to rule after her. The only exception was for tourneys since Dorne had not been to war in Elia's lifetime. The Princess of Dorne had chosen for her consort Trystane Qorgyle, a younger son of the lord of Sandstone who had fought with the Golden Company abroad and who had no interests outside of battles, his wife, and his children until his death in his sleep several years before Elia's marriage.

 

"You've chosen a name for him already, I don't doubt," she finally said.

 

"Aegon." Elia all but mouthed the name with him, so certain had she been of his choice. After Rhaenys, it only made sense. "What better name for a king?"

 

Aegon, sixth of that name since the Conquest. Elia grinned. "Will you make a song for him, then?" He had written a song for Rhaenys about Baela Targaryen's Moondancer protecting her from monsters under the bed, conveniently leaving out the young princess' death at the hands of her uncle's dragon Sunfyre the Golden and had forbidden Viserys from telling her until she was at least six.

 

But Rhaegar was looking down at their son as though seeing him from some infinite distance away. "He has a song," he murmured. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."

 

Elia sighed, hiding her expression against Aegon's soft hair. "Not that again," she murmured. The line between prescience and madness was a fine one on the best of days and she had been raised with a careful scepticism of all things prophetic. A souvenir, her mother had once remarked, of living with Targaryens. The red priests in the Free Cities had a similar tale of a warrior with the power of the dawn at his back. To Rhaegar, they were all part of a story older than Valyria itself, of a night that stretched for decades and white shadows in its depths. If this winter gets worse, I might believe it myself.

 

"There must be one more," Rhaegar said after a few moments. "The dragon has three heads."

 

Of course it does. It was exactly as she'd predicted. "We spoke of this before, my love, at Harrenhal."

 

Rhaegar's fingers moved absently over the strings. Rolling her eyes, Elia cleared her throat loudly. With an uncharacteristically sheepish look, he set down the harp and returned to her side. "Yes, I remember. You were being terribly Dornish."

 

Elia raised her eyebrows. "I believe the word you want is practical." She had rehearsed this moment in her head but never had she expected to be so infuriatingly tired. "I am willing to share you, love, so long as I have a say in who I'm sharing you with. Not all wives would be so accommodating. Unless you're willing to allow that your third head may be your brother."

 

"You're making light of it, Elia."

 

"What else am I to do when faced with a prophecy nobody understands? Not even the maesters of the Citadel can make heads or tails of it, or so you say." Elia looked down at the sleeping Aegon. "Don't we have more immediate concerns?"

 

"We don't, as it happens. The realm is quiet, the Iron Bank has stopped complaining about late interest payments, and my lady mother might even succeed in sending Lady Catelyn Tully a wedding present that will reach Riverrun in time."

 

Elia had to think for a moment before sighing, "I concede."

 

Her husband's smile in response was well worth the loss of face. He adjusted one of the pins on the harp and reached into the pocket of his doublet and extracting a folded piece of parchment. "Oh, I suppose there's this. Lyanna Stark wants me to end her betrothal to Robert Baratheon."

 

"She wants you to do what?" Elia held out her hand for the parchment. "That's bold of her." With a shrug, Rhaegar sat on the edge of the bed and handed it to her.

 

I hope you will forgive my presumption, Your Grace, but I have a boon to ask of you. I wish my betrothal to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End to be dissolved. We are not well suited.

 

Elia let out a snort of laughter. Rhaegar had fallen back onto the blankets covering Elia's legs and opened his eyes. "I take it you've reached the explanation."

 

Lest you think I do this to dishonour my family, know that I ask this favour for myself alone. I neither need nor want a husband, and would brave Danny Flint's fate if I thought my lord father would allow it.

 

"Who's Danny Flint?"

 

"There's a northern song about a girl from House Flint who disguised herself as a boy and joined the Night's Watch." Rhaegar wrinkled his nose. "It ends badly."

 

"Lyanna Stark wants to join the Night's Watch?" She could think of few things that sounded less appealing, but evidently the northern girl was of a different mettle. "I suppose it makes sense. She did seem to enjoy putting on armour and teaching squires lessons in honour."

 

"I don't think she means it literally."

 

Elia read further. It seemed the Lady Lyanna took prophecies somewhat more seriously than she did. Of course, the winters must be far worse in the North than here in Dragonstone, so perhaps she had good reason. "I recall the little northman from the Neck. You pointed him out to me on the final night of the tourney at Harrenhal, didn't you?"

 

"Howland Reed was his name. Of Greywater Watch, the castle that moves."

 

"How does it move?"

 

Rhaegar shrugged. "Nobody knows. There are things in the north that nobody can explain."

 

"You've never been there either."

 

"No. Lord Rickard came south when my father was first crowned, and he sent Lord Brandon in his place to Harrenhal, who mentioned his sister and my cousin Robert. I thought nothing of it at the time."

 

"Nobody would." She tried to remember Robert Baratheon, and then remembered him all too well. "Your cousin's charms are lost on Lady Lyanna, it would seem."

 

"I don't know what she expects me to do about it."

 

Lady Mariam chose that moment to bustle into the room and unceremoniously order Rhaegar out. "You've been here long enough, Your Grace. The princess needs her rest and you can see her again tomorrow."

 

Elia, left alone with Lyanna Stark's letter, read it once more from the beginning. A few moments later, Rhaegar slipped back in and pressed two letters into her hand as Elia craned her head upward to steal a kiss. "I should hate for you to stew in suspense too much longer," he murmured.

 

Before he'd even left the room, Elia was reading the next letter. She had slept for long enough.

 

***

 

When Rhaegar came back the next day, he must have seen something in her face, for he laughed as he sat down in the chair now reserved for him beside the bed. "Let me guess. You've been plotting all night. Perhaps I should tell my council to meet here from now on. I can take up hunting."

 

"A fine time you'll have with that on an island in the winter." Elia swatted him on the arm. "This isn't for the council's delicate ears."

 

"Tell me, then."

 

"First, how well do you know your cousin of Storm's End?"

 

Rhaegar considered for a moment. "Not very well. I knew his father, the gods rest him." Lord Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife had both died in a freak storm within sight of their castle. They had been travelling from the Free Cities where the king bade them search for a bride for Rhaegar with no success. Elia squeezed his hand. "Lord Robert is a great warrior. That much everyone can agree on. He drank Griff under the table at Harrenhal and still won the mêlée the next day."

 

"That is impressive," Elia acknowledged. "I don't suppose he would be inclined to end his betrothal to Lady Lyanna on her request?"

 

"I doubt it. Lord Robert doesn't strike me as the sort of lord who encourages his wife to have opinions.'

 

"Nor is especially pleased when she comes to him already full of them," murmured Elia. "Do you want to help her?"

 

"I don't think I can."

 

"My love, you're the heir to the Iron Throne. If you say Lyanna Stark's engagement is broken, who will argue the point?"

 

"But I need to have a reason for it."

 

"When have Targaryens ever had reasons for anything? You must admit, Rhaegar, that your family does not set an admirable precedent." Elia glanced down at the first of the three letters, where Lyanna Stark asked a series of pointed questions regarding the prophecy with which Rhaegar had long been obsessed.

 

She couldn't have been older than Jaime Lannister. She was a child. Old enough, clearly, to be wed against her will, but that scarcely counted. Old enough to deceive nearly everyone watching her at Harrenhal that she was a young knight from the Neck. Old enough to write to the Prince of Dragonstone as an equal.

 

"I thought," Rhaegar was saying, "that I was trying to be less like my family. You cannot imagine the lord of Winterfell would approve of my helping his daughter escape from her betrothal. Not everyone applauds ingenuity, Elia."

 

"Perhaps more people ought to!"

 

"She was avoiding him at Harrenhal," Rhaegar said after a moment's thought. "I remember that much."

 

"Perhaps you ought to ask her why she wants so badly to be rid of him. Then, if the answer pleases you, help her. She'll take it as a bond of fealty."

 

"The Knight of the Laughing Tree bound to my service. It doesn't seem chivalrous to seduce her."

 

"I'm not suggesting you seduce her, husband. I'm suggesting an arrangement." At his blank expression, Elia rolled her eyes. "I know they make those north of the Dornish Marches. How else do you think the Tyrells made all their money? Some people don't feel the need to go to war over bedsport."

 

Rhaegar smiled. "I'll write to her. Before we start deciding the lady's future, perhaps we ought to ask her opinion."

 

Elia sank back against the pillows. She supposed that would do well enough. She had barely taken another look at the letter after Rhaegar left, however, when the door opened once again to admit Ashara. Without a word, she crossed the room and threw her arms around Elia's neck.

 

"You're to listen to Lady Mariam, you hear?" she muttered. "I don't want to see that ever again."

 

"Whatever you saw, I promise it felt worse," Elia said. "Lady Mariam told me you did well."

 

"I'm no physician. Not even a midwife. I scarcely kept from fainting."

 

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you both." Elia looked into her eyes. "I won't forget that, Ash."

 

"You'd better not. I intend to ask for shameless favours when you're queen." Ashara grinned. "What were you reading?"

 

"A petition from an unruly subject," said Elia, tossing the letter onto the table beside the bed. "Lyanna Stark wants to break her betrothal to Robert Baratheon."

 

"She's as mad as her brother if she thinks that will happen."

 

Elia laughed. "We'll see about that."

Chapter Text

Heroes in songs and stories always had a moment of decision, at least as far as Lyanna could recall. Old Nan would always pause for suspense, even when telling the story for the tenth time over. Lyanna couldn't say for certain when she decided that she was not going to marry Robert Baratheon. Maybe that's the sign that you're not the hero of a song, then. She supposed she could claim that the gods had inspired her--after all, since her father's return, she had taken to spending more time in the godswood just for peace and quiet--but that was probably blasphemy.

 

She sat in the shadows of the massive heart tree, the latest letter from Dragonstone in her hand. Why do you wish to be free of your betrothal? Lyanna sighed. She should be glad he had responded at all to her foolish request. And she should answer the question.

 

Her parents had not met before their wedding day, or so Ned had told her once, but Lyanna's mother had died before her fifth name day and she would never dream of asking her father anything about the late Lady Stark. What little she knew, she'd learned from Old Nan or from Harren the master of horse, although sometimes Brandon would mention something about their mother and catch her by surprise.

 

Mother used to sing to all of us. You made her sing the song of Danny Flint every night before bed, elsewise you wouldn't sleep. He'd laughed at her then and said they ought to have known from her favourite song that she'd be troublesome. From Harren she'd learned that her mother was happiest on horseback and that she'd learned the sword from her own father, who had once fought with the Second Sons on the far side of the Narrow Sea. The Wandering Wolf, they called him, but he came home in the end. Old Nan sniffed when Lyanna told her that and remarked that the mountains north of the wolfswood was hardly home. He fell in love, child, with one of the First Flints, as wild as the mountains of her birth; for sure, your mother didn't belong within walls.

 

It was those words that had haunted Lyanna since first she was betrothed.

 

She tried to imagine life with Robert, but she had no idea what Storm's End looked like. Grand, she supposed, and forbidding. Like Winterfell, it was a castle built long before Aegon and his dragons came, its walls woven with magic of the First Men and the Storm Kings of old to keep the winds from battering it to pieces. It was said that Brandon the Builder may have had a hand in it, but Maester Luwin had told her that more castles had been attributed to Brandon the Builder than one man could possibly have built in a lifetime.

 

She could see it on the map in Maester Luwin's chambers, at the heart of Shipbreaker Bay where Robert's parents had drowned when he was fourteen. It had been Ned who told her on the night she learned of her betrothal. It hasn't been easy for Robert. His parents died in a shipwreck just two years ago. Shipbreaker Bay, it seemed, was so named for the storms that came and went without warning. Robert's parents had been returning from a journey to the Free Cities when a storm rose up over the bay, ripping the ship to pieces and battering the castle with gusting winds such that they could offer no aid. Robert and his younger brother Stannis had watched as their parents and everyone else on board perished. He doesn't like to talk about it, Lyanna, but I wanted you to know.

 

And Ned would not be there; it would just be her and Robert.

 

I can't do it. I can't.

 

All she could do was tell the truth. And if the prince thought her a silly girl, well then, she would find another way.

 

"Lya!" It was Benjen's voice that echoed through the godswood, stirring the naked white branches. The weirwood grove and the hot springs beside it were one of the few places in the godswood where the winter's chill didn't seem to penetrate. "Father's going to Last Hearth and he wants to see you before he leaves."

 

"I'm by the pool, Benjen," she said as she tucked the letter into her riding doublet. The less her brothers knew of her plans, the better. "Is it wildlings?"

 

"Of course it's wildlings," said Benjen. He pushed aside a branch and stood over her. He'd started doing that more often now that he was taller than her. "I wish I could go with him."

 

"And you can once Brandon returns from Riverrun," Lyanna assured him. "Until then, you must be the Stark in Winterfell."

 

"I hate being the Stark in Winterfell," muttered Benjen. "Everyone looks through me and nobody listens to me. They're only interested in Brandon and Father."

 

"At least you're not being married off," she pointed out. It was odd that their lord father hadn't found a wife for Ned yet; less so for Benjen, being little more than a year younger than Lyanna. "I'd give anything to be the Stark in Winterfell."

 

Benjen shifted his feet uncomfortably. "I'd give it up to you, for what that's worth. You'd be better at it than I am. You always were." On the few occasions when Brandon and Father had both left the castle since Ned went to the Eyrie, Benjen had always kept Lyanna with him when he received petitioners in the great hall. This was the first time that he would need to do it alone.

 

Lyanna made her way to his side and slung her arm around his shoulders. "You'll be fine, Benjen. Ask Maester Luwin to help you. He knows more than I do anyway."

 

The maester and Lyanna had both kept their promises and she had started coming to him with other questions related to neither green dreams nor prophecies. She had asked about the Stormlands and the families sworn to House Baratheon, which she knew Maester Luwin had relayed to her father. Though she longed to ask him about the Targaryens, she resisted. If she were lucky, he might forget that she'd ever mentioned the song of ice and fire.

 

He was right--it was an ancient Valyrian prophecy and nobody knew exactly what it meant. Prince Rhaegar seemed to think it was connected to dragons and that the prince who was promised was the new heir, Prince Aegon. Lyanna wasn't inclined to argue the point, though she wondered how much of his theory came from wishful thinking. She knew that there had been a comet that passed over the south the previous year, if not the north, but she had never paid much attention to the stars before, least of all as signs of what the future held.

 

Lyanna shook away her thoughts. "We should go. Father won't thank me for keeping him waiting."

 

When they arrived in the courtyard, Lord Rickard was standing impatiently beside his horse. "What took you so long, Benjen? Where was she hiding?"

 

"I was in the godswood, Father. I did not hear him at first." Lyanna sank into a curtsey. "Where do you ride?"

 

"To Last Hearth. Greatjon Umber called for aid against the latest scum from beyond the Wall and the Old Bear is occupied with the squid off the coast. I intervene at his request."

 

"Then I wish you a safe journey and a quick victory."

 

Lord Rickard did not speak at first. With one gloved hand, he tilted her chin upward to look at her face. "I wish your mother were here, child. She would know what to tell you on the eve of your wedding."

 

"It's all right, Father." Lyanna looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Thankfully he let her go and took her hands instead.

 

"They'll laugh at you in the south, but don't let them. You're a Stark of Winterfell with kings' blood in your veins. You bow to no one but the dragon on the Iron Throne."

 

"Yes, Father."

 

Lord Rickard mounted his horse and, with one last look at his two youngest children and rode forth from Winterfell as he had done a hundred times before and would a hundred times again. But he may not see me here again, no matter what happens. If she married Robert, she would spend the rest of her life at Storm's End. Perhaps, if she were lucky, she might make one visit to Winterfell before she died. And if she didn't marry Robert...

 

Father will never forgive me. And the gates of Winterfell would be forever barred to her if Brandon did not forgive her too.

 

If her mother had been here, Lyanna wondered if she would have understood. Even Lyanna's granddam had confirmed it when they'd met beside a bonfire in the northern mountains after her mother died. This one has the wolf's blood in her. You should send her to me for fostering. She sometimes wished her father had done so. Her granddam would never have promised her to Robert Baratheon.

 

After sunset, she returned to her new favourite haunt in the godswood, where it was too dark to see and perfect for thinking. Setting down the lantern beside the heart tree, Lyanna leant against it and looked up at the bare, spiky branches, their leaves long fallen. Through them she could see the stars.

 

She must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes the lantern had gone out. The air was bitingly cold and Lyanna wrapped the fur-lined cloak tightly around herself to little avail. But when she touched the heart tree, it was warm and alive beneath her hand. She found a series of small branches almost like the rungs of a ladder and began to climb. Higher and higher she went, until she wondered just how far the branches of the great heart tree in the Winterfell godswood reached when she could just barely see them beyond the walls.

 

When Lyanna reached the top, she knew she was dreaming. I can see the Wall. It stretched into the horizon to the north, a great sheet of white ice dotted with seemingly tiny castles at its base. Beyond it was a storm of gusting winds and sharp blue cracks of lightning.

 

The true winter is coming, wolf girl. Mind the words of your House.

 

Lyanna turned to the south and gasped in horror. She could see impossibly far, to the blackened towers of Harrenhal, and all the land was charred beyond recognition as the rivers ran red with blood. She saw a direwolf shot through with a stag's antlers as a lion came to feast upon the remains. The direwolf was a soft, pearly grey, and she was great with child. There was just one pup, white as northern snow with red eyes. Hide, sweet pup, where no one can find you, she found herself thinking, not knowing why.

 

She saw a tower in the mountains and a cairn for the dead, rubies carried on a river current, and above it all, the massive shadow of a giant whose gauntleted hands dripped great gouts of blood.

 

Lyanna jerked awake and she was in the godswood again, at the foot of the heart tree, beside the steaming spring. The lantern was still burning, though only barely. Snatching it up, she ran back to her chambers without looking back.

 

She sent the letter at first light the next morning, sneaking into the rookery before Maester Luwin awakened. Within a week she had a reply in writing smaller and less extravagant than the prince's. It seems, Lady Lyanna, that we should know one another better. I have a proposition for you and my husband tells me you are sensible enough not to be shocked by it.

 

In that, Princess Elia was wrong. Lyanna was shocked.

 

She was not, however, shocked enough to refuse.

 

***

 

They had stayed a night at the Crossroads Inn on their journey south the previous year, and Lyanna found herself in the same room. Though it was certainly too far away, she fancied she could see Harrenhal's half-melted towers rising high into the twilit sky. By this time tomorrow, I will be well south of Harrenhal. She sat down on the bed and withdrew the most recent message she had received from Dragonstone, which had arrived on the eve of their departure from Winterfell.

 

Consider this carefully, for there will be no turning back. If you still wish to be free of Robert Baratheon, leave a sign outside your window at the Crossroads Inn and be ready to depart before dawn.

 

"How very romantic," Lyanna muttered. "But I suppose that's the point." She was running away from an engagement, after all, and most of the girls she'd encountered found Robert hopelessly romantic--enough to make Lyanna wonder what was so wrong with her that she couldn't agree. Perhaps because you don't just moon over him from a distance. Of course, she was then forced to admit that all she'd done was moon over Rhaegar Targaryen from a distance. He had, admittedly, written more to her in four months than Robert had in four years, but Lyanna would never have called herself a letter-writer or imagined that was something she wanted.

 

She could never have told Robert about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, for instance. Rhaegar--surely she could think of him now without a title? I have all but agreed to become his mistress, after all. Surely that puts us on a first-name basis. At that thought, she had to stifle a high-pitched giggle, the sort she'd always ridiculed in southron girls. How the mighty have fallen, Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar had told her about the name, apparently courtesy of Princess Elia's brother. Lyanna pulled the small pile of letters from her saddlebag and found the right one, half-ashamed that she knew their contents so well. I confess I would give a great deal to see you meet him first in armour, just to see the look on his face. Elia agrees. She had an image of the princess reading over his shoulder, laughing as Lyanna had seen her at Harrenhal. Try as she might, she could not help but find it strange that a married man's wife should see fit to find her husband a mistress.

 

The prince had never said it outright, though the one letter she had received from Princess Elia was candid enough that Lyanna had blushed on reading it. I fear my health is such that I cannot join you, but rest assured I plan to quiz Rhaegar thoroughly afterward. It seemed that at least some of the rumours she'd heard about Dorne were true.

 

At the sound of a knock on her door, Lyanna knocked the pile of letters onto the rushes. "Just a moment," she called out, scrambling them into a messy pile, upsetting the order and crumpling the edges, all to her dismay.

 

"Lyanna, what are you doing in there?" It was Brandon, of course. It would have to be Brandon at this hour. He had been waiting at the inn when they arrived and delivered the news that Ned was still in the Vale, unable to travel through the Mountains of the Moon.

 

"Nothing that concerns you," she retorted. "I'll tell you when you can come in."

 

 She shoved the mess of letters into the saddlebag and tucked it beneath the bed. Then, smoothing back her hair, she called out to Brandon to come in. When he opened the door, Lyanna let out a shriek of laughter.

 

Brandon had found himself a southron tailor near Seagard and had paid him handsomely to outfit him for meeting Catelyn Tully. Velvet, it turned out, did not become him at all. "Oh, dear, Brandon, I'm afraid that direwolf looks like one of Wat's hunting hounds."

 

Brandon glared at her. "I only ever intend to wear it once. Then I'll hand it off to the meanest stable groom at Riverrun and we'll hear no more about it."

 

"Oh, Brandon." Lyanna shook her head. "I'm going to miss you horribly."

 

He held out his hands and pulled her into a bear hug. "Me too, sis. But you'll send your eldest son to Winterfell for fostering and I'll make him a warrior fit to best his own father in the lists."

 

You may be more right than you think. Lyanna had to stifle her laughter in Brandon's absurd velvet sleeves. "I'll hold you to it, brother. No matter what happens."

 

For a moment, Brandon's grip on her tightened. "If he does anything to make you unhappy, Lya, you need only send me word and, Ned be damned, I'll cut him in half."

 

"That is not what I want to hear on the way to my wedding. Also," she added with a wince, "you're crushing me." He obediently loosened his hold. "You be good to the Lady Catelyn and don't let your children forget about me. Mad Aunt Lyanna, who would have stayed in Winterfell forever if she'd had her choice."

 

"Lya."

 

"Yes?"

 

"You never really thought you could stay in Winterfell, did you?"

 

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "But that didn't stop me from wishing I could. It's my home, Brandon."

 

"And Storm's End will become your home. Besides," he said after a moment, "you can send all sorts of southron sweets to my children and ruin them for life."

 

"Or I'll visit and find that Catelyn Tully dresses you and your children in silks and velvets every day and you'll all laugh at my table manners." She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. "Are you nervous?"

 

"Terrified," he said with a laugh. "Not for the southron ceremony so much, but a heart tree's a heart tree, no matter where in the Seven Kingdoms, and I can't help but remember that I scarcely know Catelyn and I'll be binding myself to her for the rest of my life."

 

"You've been a wonderful brother. Be that way with her and she'll love you. And don't get jealous," she added, recalling what he'd told her about Lord Hoster's ward from the Fingers, though his name escaped her. "For your own sake and hers."

 

"Any other sage advice, Queen of Love and Beauty?"

 

She swatted him on the arm. "Understand that she's going to miss her home, even as she's making a home in Winterfell."

 

"Are you certain you and Robert aren't married already? You sound like an old wife." He ducked his head and caught her hand before she could hit him again. "Very well, I'll follow your advice to the letter. If it doesn't work, I'm blaming you."

 

"Of course it will work." Lyanna disentangled herself and turned away, ostensibly to wipe her nose. "Brandon, may I ask you a favour? As a wedding gift?"

 

He laughed. "Of course you may."

 

"I'd like to visit the Isle of Faces." She took a breath and waited for the volley of protests.

 

Brandon did not disappoint. "Lyanna, are you mad? It's a full day's journey from here, maybe even longer, and we're meant to leave for Riverrun tomorrow."

 

"I'll meet you at Riverrun. The wedding isn't for another week, and you know I'm faster on my own." She turned back to him and realised the pleading in her voice was real. "It might be the last time I'll see a weirwood grove. You know they destroyed them all in the south."

 

"There's a heart tree in Riverrun."

 

"Brandon," she groaned. "It isn't the same and you know it. I don't want people staring at me. I'll have enough of that already."

 

Brandon glared at her for a few moments. Then, as Lyanna's heart pounded in relief, he finally nodded. "Not alone. You'll take guards with you."

 

There wasn't a guard in Winterfell's garrison who could outride Lyanna. If she took them as far as the Gods Eye, she could lose them in the dense woods near Harrenhal, and by the time they reached Brandon at Riverrun, he would already know what she had done. The inn was full of messengers travelling back and forth; a few coins would see her letter delivered to Riverrun by the time Brandon arrived. He would be furious with her. He might not forgive her. Ned might not forgive her. Father most assuredly would not, but it was the thought of Ned that hurt the most.

 

As soon as the door closed behind Brandon, Lyanna pulled the saddlebag out from under her bed and withdrew the pile of letters. Behind it, half-crushed and wrapped in a linen veil that had belonged to Lyanna's mother, was a crown of blue winter roses that she had picked near the Kingsroad yesterday. She could think of no more obvious sign than that.

 

For a moment, Lyanna sat with the crown in her lap, the letters from Rhaegar and Princess Elia strewn in the rushes around her. If Brandon were to walk in right now...

 

But he didn't.

 

Lyanna let out her breath, rustling the rose petals. She raised the crown and placed it on her head, trying to remember Rhaegar Targaryen's face when she'd seen it last. He'd been winded from defeating Barristan the Bold, streaks of dust on his cheeks and his hair sweaty and tangled--as far as could be from the velvet-clad singer at the tourney's opening banquet who had made Lyanna cry with little more than a story of a prince and a peasant girl. She knew him scarcely better than she knew Robert.

 

But Robert didn't speak of prophecies or stories, and if she'd ever told him of the wolf dreams, he'd only have laughed at her. Already Rhaegar knew her better. Surely that meant something. He's just using you for another heir. "And I'm using him," she said out loud, cursing the quaver in her voice. "He's getting me out of my betrothal. I'll be free."

 

She had the princess' word, in her own hand, that she would never be forced into marriage, and the promise of a holdfast and lands somewhere in the Crownlands or in Dorne that would be Lyanna's in her own right. It was more than most ladies could hope for without the burden of a husband and children. The princess had even jested (or so Lyanna imagined) about the need for women in the Night's Watch--except that Lyanna had to wonder if it was truly a jest when the woman who wrote it was heartbeats away from the Iron Throne. It was a world of possibilities nearly dizzying as she thought about them. And all I need to do is give them a sign.

 

A sign, and her honour. She would be branded a loose woman forever, the daughter of Winterfell who ran off with a king's son. But if the choice came down to dishonour as the price of complete freedom and a lifetime's imprisonment as Robert's wife, was there even a choice? Admit it, the thought of bedding Rhaegar Targaryen is not altogether unpleasant, no matter the circumstance. She may have lacked a mother's guidance, but Lyanna Stark was neither deaf nor blind, and she had grown up in a castle full of men.

 

She could hear the sound of hoofbeats on the road below and ran to the window. The inn was prosperous enough to have glass panes to keep out the wind, though she could feel a sharp draft standing just beside it. Below was a lone horseman, hooded and cloaked, on a horse whose colour Lyanna could not make out now the sun had set. The only thing that set him apart was the hilt of the sheathed sword across his back as its leather covering slipped aside, pale silver in the torchlight, nearly white, with a dark stone glimmering on the pommel.

 

Lyanna needed no further confirmation even as the knight swept his cloak over the sword to hide it again from view. Her heart was pounding but he did not look up at first. Only after he dismounted and exchanged words with the stable boy did he glance toward Lyanna's window. Their eyes met, and for a breathless moment, Lyanna wondered if it was actually the prince. Targaryen eyes are not as uncommon as the Targaryens would have us believe. But the man's face was one she did not know. Strange that Arthur Dayne himself was less recognisable than his sword.

 

Brandon had raved about Dawn, having seen it at close hand, admittedly from the pointy end, he added with a rueful grin. After all, Ser Arthur had beaten him roundly at Harrenhal. She wondered if Brandon would appreciate her soon-to-be firsthand opinion on the fabled sword of Starfall or if he would be too angry at everything else she'd done.

 

She removed the crown from her head and unfastened the window. After hanging the crown on a hook that must have once held a shutter, she quickly pulled the window shut against the frigid air. Then she backed away, as though to keep herself from snatching it up again, and knelt to gather up the fallen letters, carefully putting them in order before slipping them into her saddlebag. From her trunk she took a single gown and a spare set of riding clothes and smallclothes. The small sword, a gift from Brandon and Ned on her fourteenth name day that she had carried in the lists at Harrenhal, she would carry on the journey. South of the Neck, far from everyone who had ever known her, Lyanna Stark could disappear in riding leathers, winter furs, and a hooded cloak.

 

Lyanna did not sleep that night. She tried, at least briefly, but only tossed and turned in the sheets. Finally, when all she could hear were the echoes of snoring from other rooms and the whistle of the wind outside, she rose from the bed and dressed.

 

The inn had a main room where the food was served. By now it was mostly given over to those who needed to sleep but couldn't afford a room. Lyanna crept past the rows of sleeping men, including several who had accompanied them from Winterfell, and made her way across the yard to the stables.

 

Ser Arthur Dayne was saddling his horse when she found him. "You're early." After a moment's glance at Lyanna, he added, "My lady."

 

Lyanna ducked her head. "Is it that obvious?"

 

"Only if you're looking for it." He looked beyond her at the full stable. "One of these is yours, I assume?"

 

"Yes, the grey in the fourth stall down."

 

"Well, then." He didn't smile, but Lyanna got the sense that he wasn't the smiling sort. "Where shall I meet you, my lady?"

 

For a second the words lodged in Lyanna's throat. It's my last chance. My only chance. She could turn around and return to the inn, knowing he would not pursue her. But if I do that, Storm's End will be my fate. "Southwest of Harrenhal, beside the Gods Eye."

 

"There's a waterfall that feeds into the lake. You can't miss it. I'll be there tomorrow at nightfall. We've a long ride ahead."

 

"Where are we going?"

 

"Summerhall."

Chapter Text

Kneeling before the Maiden's shrine, Lysa tried to tell herself the statue's eyes were not drilling into her, seeing every sinful thought she was desperately trying to hide. If she had been on her own, it would have been the Mother's shrine she sought, but Cat was with her, and Cat would ask questions. Even in the final chaos of her wedding preparations, Cat had been watching Lysa closely.

 

She suspected something, but she couldn't have known. Lysa had kept her secrets too well from her sister and not well enough from Maester Kym and her father. But today was the year-mind of her baby's death and she could not forget that.

 

She had awakened after what she first recalled only hazily as an awful illness to find her father seated beside her bed. He'd looked years older, his eyes cold and unforgiving, and she'd been reminded horribly of Lord Tywin Lannister who had visited them not so very long ago. She had thanked all of the gods for days afterward that she was no longer betrothed to his son.

 

"Who did this ghastly thing, child? Who dishonoured you?"

 

"Dishonoured?" echoed Lysa, her hand at her waist, where she could no longer find the telltale swelling. "What's...what happened, Father?"

 

"Was it someone in Lord Brandon's train? I can count well enough to know when the deed must have happened."

 

Lysa shook her head. My son, Petyr's son. What happened to my son? "Father, I can explain--"

 

"Can you? Can you explain why a daughter of mine finds herself with child and cannot even tell me the father's name?"

 

"It was Petyr Baelish," she burst out, tears spilling from her eyes. "He didn't dishonour me; I went to him, and willingly. I would marry him, Father."

 

Lord Hoster Tully had never looked more remote than when he looked at her now. "Disgraced or not, you are a daughter of Riverrun. You will marry the next man I find who will take you, soiled goods that you are, and rest assured, that man will not be Petyr Baelish." He rose to his feet, ignoring Lysa's sobs. "And you will speak of this to no one, Lysa, especially not your sister. You've done enough damage to this family without ruining Catelyn's future as well."

 

And he had made her swear an oath on a copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and Lysa had done it, though she nearly choked on the words. Only you and I and Maester Kym know of this, he'd said, and that was when she knew. She'd smelled the herbs when she drank off the maester's posset. I should have known. I should have guessed. But she had trusted him--why wouldn't she have trusted him? She'd known Maester Kym all her life. He smiled at me and murdered my son. And her father must have known too. No, her father would have given the order.

 

The gods would want me to forgive them, but how can I? She looked into the Maiden's grave and lovely face and saw no answers. I cannot forgive them. I will not. Not for murdering her innocent baby. The Mother would have understood as the Maiden could not, so Lysa prayed to her instead and begged forgiveness for her deception.

 

Afterward, she helped the maids dress Cat in a woollen gown of brightest Tully blue to meet Brandon Stark. She was riding out with Edmure and several of their lord father's bannermen to greet him on the road from the Trident. Lysa had begged off, pleading that she didn't feel well and would continue with the wedding preparations in the castle. She had never been as skilled as Cat with a needle, but Septa Finetta had proclaimed her embroidery on Cat's wedding gown to be the loveliest she had ever seen. It was a small victory.

 

"Are you sure, Lysa?" Cat asked, pausing in the doorway. Her colour was high and the complicated plaits of red hair threaded with daisies and pale pink roses made her look like the queen of spring even in the dreary chill of the sudden winter. "Is something wrong? You seem..."

 

"I'm just not feeling well, Cat. It must be something I ate." The past year had made her a far better liar. She smiled and took Cat's hands in hers. "Besides, someone needs to be here to greet you and Lord Brandon properly, and Edmure's going with you."

 

"I suppose," Cat allowed. "I'll see you soon."

 

In spite of the chill, the godswood was the one place in Riverrun where Lysa was certain to be left alone, so she wrapped a thick cloak around herself, gathered the last of the embroidery--the bodice for Cat's wedding gown, covered in red beaded Tully trout--and finished it beneath what would, in summer, have been a blooming rose trellis. As far as she knew, nobody in Riverrun worshipped the old gods, but it seemed like inviting ill luck to cut down the single heart tree in the godswood, so Lord Hoster had left it standing even as the rest of the wood was cleared to make room for a garden for his lady wife. It was in this godswood, blooming in the midst of several glorious years of summer, that she had first kissed Petyr. Cat had kissed him too, but at the time it hadn't mattered.

 

Her father had said no more about finding Lysa a husband. Perhaps he intended to choose Edmure's bride while Lysa took charge of Riverrun as Cat had done these past few years. Nothing had come from his discussion with Lord Tywin--perhaps all for the best, since Lysa couldn't imagine her brother married to the haughty Cersei Lannister--and the only other recent offer anyone had made for Edmure or Lysa had come from Lord Frey, who Lysa's father wouldn't consider at all. He can't bear the thought of being allied to a Frey, even for his disgraced daughter. Perhaps it would be a petty lord somewhere in the Riverlands, then. Or I could run away to the Fingers.

 

The thought was laughable. She wouldn't make it past the Trident before someone found her, and the very thought of her father's rage was enough to make her shudder. He'd lock me up forever and I'd go mad. And even if she did run away, she had nowhere to go.

 

She had written at least six different letters to Petyr, all of which she burnt for fear that her father or Maester Kym would find them. She didn't even know where on the Fingers to find him. Was there a Baelish keep? He'd never said; Petyr never spoke of his home or his family and Lysa had never thought to ask him. Perhaps he'd been writing to her all this while and her father and Maester Kym had destroyed the letters. That wouldn't have surprised Lysa one bit.

 

Lysa couldn't have said how much time had passed before she heard the shouts from the guard tower and the echo of hoofbeats. Folding the bodice carefully, she carried it to the chamber that had been set aside for all the wedding preparations and gifts. Her sister would look magnificent, as befitted the lord of the Riverlands' daughter.

 

As she'd requested, the basket of dried white rose petals--sent at great expense from still-blooming gardens somewhere in the Reach--sat on a barrel near the door. Lysa took it up and made her way downstairs to the great hall where the three or four ladies who had remained in the castle were waiting for her. They all took handfuls of petals as her father's castellan ordered the doors flung open.

 

Lysa ran into the courtyard, her hands full of white petals. She was halfway to flinging them toward Cat when she realised there were far too few riders and that Cat was alone. "What's happened? Where's Lord Brandon?"

 

Cat's face was pale, her eyes restless. "He's gone. I don't know where. Something to do with his sister." She dismounted and grasped Lysa's arms, heedless of the petals that rained down on their skirts. "Lysa, do you remember anything about Lyanna Stark coming here? Did Father say something or did you hear something?"

 

Lysa shook her head. "No, nothing at all. Surely someone would have mentioned it."

 

"He said she'd wanted to pay a visit to the Isle of Faces and was going to ride here directly with an escort of guards. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about, but before he could explain, we found out she'd disappeared near the Trident. Lord Brandon said he needed to look for her, that we'd be wed when he returned." Lysa hugged her close as Cat pressed her face into her shoulder. "I don't understand, Lysa."

 

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Hoster's voice boomed out above the commotion. "Where are the Starks? Where is Lord Brandon?"

 

"He's not here, Father." Cat's voice was steady, though tears glinted in her eyes. She made her way to his side, her hand still twined through Lysa's, pulling her along. When Cat reached the steps, she lowered her voice to explain. "His sister's gone missing and he and his men are searching for her."

 

"His sister?" echoed Lord Hoster.

 

"Lyanna, Father," said Cat. "She's to marry Lord Robert Baratheon in two moon's turns. Brandon was taking her south after our wedding, remember? He was to see Lyanna wedded to Lord Robert and then he and I would start north to Winterfell. But she's gone missing. Father, you don't think...?"

 

"I think it's stuff and nonsense." Lord Hoster looked furious as he dismissed the guards and servants. The banners and garlands were to be put away, the wedding preparations suspended until Lord Brandon's return. "The gallant fool," he muttered, looking down at Cat's miserable face. "I'm sorry, little Cat."

 

"He said he wouldn't be long," she replied with a sniffle. "I'm still to marry him, aren't I, Father?"

 

Lord Hoster sighed. "Yes, child. This is a small obstacle, nothing more." With a practiced smile, he added, "Northerners are eccentric and we knew that, but perhaps more so than we predicted."

 

"He cares for his sister. That's a good sign, surely," Lysa murmured to Cat after their father dismissed them. "You don't think Edmure would interrupt his wedding if one of us were to go missing, do you?"

 

"It would depend," said Cat dryly, "on who he was wedding and how much he wished to avoid her."

 

"You don't think something awful happened to Lady Lyanna, do you?"

 

"I hope not, Lysa. There haven't been outlaws in these parts since we were little girls; Father and Uncle Brynden saw to that. But one never knows, and no matter what Brandon says about the Lady Lyanna, she's a highborn lady no older than you or me and she shouldn't have been running about in strange places, even with an escort."

 

Cat's cheeks were flushed with exertion and anger by the time they reached their bedchamber. Lysa let her rage, unable to think of any reason to argue on behalf of Lyanna Stark.

 

"Of course, Brandon shouldn't have let her go off on her own. He's too indulgent with her; even I can see that from the way he talks about her. Father would have locked us up for life if we'd done half the things Brandon told me she did."

 

"Like what?"

 

"She rides all over the north like a wildling girl and sometimes even fights with a sword. Brandon told me their lord father forbade it but Lyanna practised in the godswood where nobody could see her. Can you imagine?"

 

Lysa shook her head. "She sounds awful."

 

"Not awful, perhaps," Cat allowed after a moment, her rage apparently spent. "Maybe that's normal for ladies in the north." She sank onto the bed, shoving the voluminous blue sleeves out of her way. "Maybe I'll be the stranger in Winterfell who rides only tolerably and scarcely knows one end of a sword from the other."

 

"You'll be a wonderful lady of Winterfell," Lysa told her. "Everyone loves you. I know Father wishes you could stay here." She wished it too, more than anything. For all the secrets she kept from Cat, her sister was the person she trusted most.

 

"If only so he need never marry again," Cat sounded both resigned and pleased. "I offered to help Brandon search for Lady Lyanna but he told me he'd be faster without me." She laughed a little. "Northerners are a bit funny in the head, aren't they?"

 

"They are. But so are you," added Lysa, ducking before Cat could hit her with the pillow. "Oh, Cat, I don't want you to go. Winterfell is so very far away."

 

"You'll have enough to occupy you when I'm gone. You know you'll need to marry sooner or later." Cat's face lit up suddenly. "Brandon has a younger brother! Two, in fact. Father can marry you to one of them. You can freeze in the north with me."

 

"I think I would like that," Lysa admitted, "but I wouldn't dare ask Father." She wondered if Lady Lyanna's disappearance might make her father look more kindly on her in comparison, but Lysa suspected not.

 

"I'll ask him," Cat told her with a grin. "After the ceremony. I'll ask Brandon to come with me; he can't refuse the both of us."

 

It was with a skip in her step that Lysa scurried down to the kitchens to ask that some sweets and wine be sent up for both of them. The easiest way back to their chamber was past the minstrel's gallery, which also had the best view of the hall. Lysa crept to the rail and drew in a delighted breath. The walls had been hung with alternating banners of blue and white, Tully fish and Stark direwolf, and the tables set with fine enamelled plates and goblets. Lysa's favourites were the candlesticks of wrought gold, inlaid with stones to look like scales and river waves. The servants had begun to clear it away, but just as Lysa started back toward her bedchamber, she heard the doors to the hall open below and her father's voice order the servants away.

 

Her uncle was with him, and a third man she could not see, who promptly sank to one knee before the dais. "I'm Ethan Glover, my lord." After a moment, he added. "Lord Brandon's squire. Lord Brandon sends his regrets, but he cannot return to Riverrun right now. His sister the Lady Lyanna has been abducted."

 

Lysa froze. As quietly as she could, she inched back toward the rail and peered down at the three men below. The squire was a young man, perhaps a year or two older than Edmure, and wore the grey-and-white livery of Winterfell, his cloak pinned at the throat with a silver badge in the shape of a mailed fist.

 

"Abducted?" echoed Lord Hoster. "My daughter tells me Lord Brandon was under the impression his sister was visiting the Isle of Faces. She cannot be in two places at once, young man."

 

"I don't know all the details, my lord, but I was there when my lord spoke to the landlady at the Crossroads Inn and she told him about a man who arrived the night before the Lady Lyanna vanished, carrying a white-bladed sword with a great purple stone in the hilt."

 

"There's only one man in all the Seven Kingdoms with such a sword," said Uncle Brynden. In the minstrel's gallery aloft, Lysa covered her mouth with her hand. The Sword of the Morning was the greatest knight in the realm. Great knights don't kidnap maidens in the dead of night. That can't be right.

 

"That's what my lord said, exactly. It was Ser Arthur Dayne."

 

"Are you telling me that Lyanna Stark has run off with the Sword of the Morning?" Lord Hoster was gripping the arms of his chair hard enough that Lysa, from her vantage high above, could see the tips of his fingers turning white. "And that Lord Brandon sees that as reason enough to delay a wedding four years in the making?"

 

"Not run off, my lord," protested Brandon's squire, "abducted. The lady was supposed to be here, my lord. She'd told Lord Brandon as much before she left for the Isle of Faces---that she and her escort would meet them here."

 

"And what does Lord Brandon plan to do about it?" Uncle Brynden put in, setting one hand on Lysa's father's shoulder. "Where is he now?"

 

"He's on his way to King's Landing. I'm to catch up to him and the rest--"

 

"The rest? Who's with him?"

 

"Jeffory Mallister, Kyle Royce, and Elbert Arryn, my lord, and their squires."

 

"Gods, this is all we need," muttered Uncle Brynden. "A runaway girl and a pack of runaway wolves. I'll ready our fastest ship. If I leave now and the currents are kind, I might even catch them before they reach the city."

 

"Hold, Brynden," said Lord Hoster, at the same time that Ethan Glover cried out, "My lords, Lord Brandon has the right to learn what happened to his sister."

 

"He does," snapped Lord Hoster, "and he could have done so just as easily from here without causing a commotion. Think you the king will look kindly on your lord accusing the greatest of his Kingsguard knights of abduction?"

 

"Arthur Dayne has no interest in women," murmured Uncle Brynden. "The man's a perfect paragon." Ser Arthur had unhorsed Uncle Brynden at the tourney at Lannisport, but had refused to accept his ransom. He said that Barristan the Bold spoke too well of me and he couldn't accept it in good conscience. Arthur Dayne, he'd told Lysa soon afterward, was a rare knight who truly believed in his vows. "If it was the Sword of the Morning," Uncle Brynden told Lysa's father, "he wasn't acting on his own behalf."

 

"It's why my lord rides for King's Landing," said Ethan Glover. "He thinks Prince Rhaegar is responsible. After what happened at Harrenhal--"

 

"And your lord expects to get answers by charging into the Red Keep and doing what, exactly?" Lord Hoster rose from his chair and strode so quickly toward the kneeling squire that the young man jumped to his feet. "Demanding justice? For what? Your lord is a hot-headed fool and his sister is clearly no better."

 

"Hoster, fool or not, if he accuses Prince Rhaegar of anything, he's likely to end up in prison or worse."

 

"A few nights in confinement in the Red Keep might knock some sense into him," snapped Lysa's father. "Let him go, Brynden. The Starks forget sometimes that they are no longer kings, and it serves to remind them every now and again. The last time Brandon Stark broke bread under my roof he nearly killed my ward, and now he throws aside our alliance for a foolish girl's whims. A sharp lesson may be exactly what he needs."

 

"Catelyn won't thank you for it," warned Uncle Brynden. "She's fond of him."

 

"Then don't tell her. It seems Lord Brandon told her something today before he ran off, and she expects him to be back with apologies within a week or two." Lysa could not see her uncle's expression, but he must have looked sceptical. "Idiot or not, Brandon Stark is heir to Winterfell and the north. The king can't harm him until he's had a trial."

 

"I don't recall any trials in Duskendale, Hoster. What of Lord Tywin's warnings?"

 

"We've heard nothing from the capital to support them. I suppose one must be a little mad to replace Tywin Lannister with Orton Merryweather, but I hardly think it cause for concern," said Lysa's father. "As for Duskendale, Lord Darklyn took the king himself prisoner and deserved to die a traitor's death for it. An empty threat from a foolish young man whose sister may or may not be whoring herself to the Targaryens already is no cause for trouble." He looked back at Ethan Glover as though having just remembered he was there. "And you, young man, do you intend to follow your lord to the capital?"

 

"I do, Lord Hoster."

 

Lord Hoster sighed. "You'd do better to wait it out here."

 

"Begging my lord's pardon, but I gave my oath that I'd meet them outside the city gates."

 

"Very well, then. We'll see that you're given passage on the first ferry out in the morning. And have a meal before you go. It might be the last decent thing you eat for some time." Lysa heard him muttering under his breath as he strode beneath the gallery on his way out of the hall. Uncle Brynden was behind him, and Lysa heard him call after her father as the door closed behind him.

 

She emerged from the gallery and crept back down the stairs without thinking, wondering if she ought to tell Cat what she'd overheard or if it would just anger her sister. As she stepped into the courtyard, an unfamiliar voice hailed her.

 

"Are you the lady Catelyn Tully?" The young man wore the livery of neither Stark nor Tully--the quartered sigil of black dragons and unblinking eyes was one Lysa had seen before but couldn't recall which House it was. "I was told to give this to Lord Brandon Stark or to you." He held out a folded parchment and Lysa took it without thinking.

 

"Who is it from?" asked Lysa as she withdrew several copper pennies from the purse at her waist. "And where do you come from, for that matter?"

 

"I brought this from the Crossroads Inn, my lady," said the messenger with a scrappy bow. "Begging your pardon, my lady, I can't stay. I've got another two days' journey west. Should've known better," he added with a rueful grin, "that to take money from young ladies to deliver their love-notes, even if it was on the way. Farewell!"

 

"Young ladies?" Lysa echoed to herself as the young man raced toward the gate. She opened the parchment, which had been hastily sealed with a tiny blob of wax.

 

Dearest Brandon,

 

I have no doubt that by the time you read this you will be furious with me. I have known for some time now that I cannot marry Robert, and have made my choice. I can only pray--may the gods hear me even far from the weirwoods--that you can forgive me my selfishness in stealing the thunder of your wedding day, and that Ned will forgive me for abandoning Robert. I did not do it to hurt you.

 

Your loving sister,

Lyanna

 

By the time Lysa finished the letter, her heart was pounding. Lyanna Stark was not abducted. Lyanna Stark ran away. She'd had the sheer nerve to do what Lysa could not.

 

Clutching the letter, she ran back into the castle. Instead of knocking on the door to her father's solar, she burst in to find him mid-conversation with her uncle. "Lysa, what is the meaning of this?"

 

"This letter arrived for Lord Brandon. It's from his sister, the Lady Lyanna."

 

As he read the letter, Lysa's father shook his head, his mouth thinning to a hard line. "And this is the family to whom we are to be allied. A treasonous son and a whorish daughter."

 

"But, Father, shouldn't someone tell Lord Brandon? If he's run off..." It occurred to Lysa that Lyanna had mentioned nothing about another man in her letter, but she couldn't imagine correcting her father.

 

"You did right to bring me this, child. Now go on and find your sister and don't worry your head about Lord Brandon and the rest."

 

Lysa had just touched the door's handle when her father called out, "Sweetling." When she looked back at him, he was smiling, and some small part of her wondered if he might have forgiven her. "You're not to tell your sister about Lady Lyanna. It will only upset her."

 

"Yes, Father." Another secret to keep from Cat. She had acquired more of those in the past year than in all the years before. But Cat had never been her rival before. She never even wanted Petyr; all she cared about was the attention. It wasn't enough that Cat was the eldest, the prettiest, the one the world loved most.

 

Even Petyr. There was that traitorous voice again, the one that reminded her every so often that Petyr had called her by Cat's name that night. But I could change his mind. I could make him happy. All she needed was the chance.

 

She looked back at the closed door to her father's solar. Lyanna Stark had run away. With whom, Lysa did not know, nor did anyone. If she could do it, surely so could I. But Cat knew better than she did and Cat had spoken of a girl who rode like a boy, who fought with a sword and whose brothers and father let her run wild in the northern moors. Lysa was many things, but indulged was not one of them.

 

Family, Duty, Honour. Try as she might, she could not abandon the words. They were in her blood as they were in Cat's. She would wait until her sister was married. There would be time enough after that.

Chapter Text

The Neck and the Riverlands had fascinated Lyanna on their journey south for the Harrenhal tourney partly because the Starks had been travelling with what seemed like an enormous escort that trundled along the Kingsroad at a snail's pace and she had needed something to do. But mostly it had been the colours--from the thousand shades of grey that surrounded Winterfell to the deep greens and browns of the swamplands, and finally, the bright leaves and flowers of the Riverlands in full bloom of what she now knew was a false spring. Nothing in the world could compare to the northern mountains where her granddam lived for sheer beauty--except perhaps the peaks beyond the Wall that Benjen had told her about with a wild look in his eyes--but it had been fascinating nonetheless to watch colour seep into the landscape as they rode southward. She had paid far more attention as they passed the path Brandon marked as the one that supposedly led to Greywater Watch on her most recent journey south, hoping perhaps that Howland Reed might appear as if by magic to answer all her desperate questions. But he did not.

 

All that had changed now. Now the countryside whipped past her at a canter, vistas of frosty farmland and bare-branched forests, holdfasts with banners snapping in the wind and the smoke from village chimneys in the distance. The days bled into one another and every night Lyanna wrapped herself in her nightroll and slept without dreams.

 

They came to the Blackwater crossing on a cold, drizzly night at the same time as a small group of travellers bearing the red-and-gold standard of Casterly Rock. Lyanna wondered if the party's leader--a handsome man who looked like an older Jaime Lannister--had recognised Ser Arthur, for he gazed after the Kingsguard knight for several moments before a shout from one of his fellows distracted him.

 

"That was Lord Gerion Lannister," Ser Arthur murmured as the ferry pulled away from the shore and the so-identified Lannister party turned west along the Gold Road toward Casterly Rock.

 

"Do you know him?"

 

"His elder brother Lord Tywin was Hand of the King for many years. Lord Gerion was one of his pages before he was sent off to squire for...I don't recall who it was. Even if he did recognise me," he conceded, "he's been quarrelling with Lord Tywin for years now. I doubt he'd tell him anything."

 

Lyanna tried to identify Lord Gerion in the crowd and found him easily, his hair a beacon of beaten gold, just like the twins she recalled from Harrenhal. "I remember hearing about Lord Tywin at the tournament." She glanced at Ser Arthur. "Did he leave the king's service because of his son?"

 

Ser Arthur frowned, and for a moment Lyanna wondered if she had stepped out of line. Then, with a sigh, he replied, "Partly. There were many reasons, some good and some bad. But Lord Merryweather seems to have made a suitable replacement Hand and Ser Jaime is a worthy addition to the Kingsguard." She recalled then that Ser Arthur had been the one to knight Jaime Lannister on the field of battle.

 

"You must be proud of him, Ser Arthur."

 

"He's a great fighter for his age. It remains to be seen what kind of man he becomes, but I do have high hopes for him."

 

There was another party waiting on the far side of the river, a motley group of colours and standards, several of which Lyanna recognised in horror as houses sworn to Storm's End: a pair of black-and-white swans for House Swann; three stalks of golden wheat on purple for House Selmy; black nightingales on a yellow field for House Caron of Nightsong.

 

Ser Arthur seemed untroubled. "Even if someone were looking for you, Lady Lyanna, what would they seek?" Before Lyanna could respond, he answered his own question. "A maid of ten and six years, perhaps, dark-haired and grey-eyed? That is not what I see."

 

Lyanna's reflection was splintered and wavering in the currents below, but with her hair wrapped tightly beneath a knitted cap and a sword at her side, covered in dust from the road, she looked like nothing so much as a grubby squire beside Ser Arthur's grey-cloaked hedge knight. She was invisible.

 

They disembarked from the ferry, leading their horses through the throng of stormlanders. Nobody spoke beyond a few grunted courtesies. What would they think if they knew they'd just jostled the Sword of the Morning? As she was coming to learn, however, Ser Arthur cared little for courtesies.

 

Beyond them stretched the fields of the Crownlands, and Lyanna, as she squinted to the east, wondered if she could actually see the red-and-gold towers of King's Landing where the river widened into Blackwater Bay.

 

"We're too far west, I'm afraid," said Ser Arthur, clearly reading her thoughts. "King's Landing will need to wait for another time."

 

Before she mounted her horse, Lyanna looked back toward the river and the lands beyond. I'll have crossed most of the kingdom by now. The thought was a daunting one.

 

No more daunting, however, than her travelling companion. Ser Arthur was quite handsome, much like his sister, though his dark hair was streaked with silver and he had a prominent scar where his nose had been broken. Even the smallfolk seemed to know who he was and let him pass unnoticed and untroubled. She finally asked him when they stopped at a farm near Tumbleton for the night. The farmer had given them the hayloft and refused to take the gold Ser Arthur offered. He left it nonetheless, hidden beneath a bushel of apples.

 

Ser Arthur did not answer at first, occupied with what she now recognised as a customary search for all the ways out of the hayloft. He's even more cautious than Benjen. She was about to speak again when he finally replied, "The Kingswood Brotherhood troubled these lands for years. I helped to get rid of them."

 

"How did you do it?" asked Lyanna. She knew, as all the realm knew, of Ser Arthur's defeat of the Smiling Knight and the Kingswood outlaws. "Brandon always wondered. We know what the song says, but songs are always simpler than the truth."

 

"Don't tell Rhaegar that. He'll talk your ear off to convince you otherwise."

 

That was another thing the songs always mentioned--that the Sword of the Morning was Prince Rhaegar's closest friend. Lyanna rearranged some of the straw from beneath her neck and refolded her riding doublet into a better pillow before venturing, "You know him very well, don't you?"

 

"As well as anyone can, I suppose." Ser Arthur did not smile, though any other man would have done. "He thinks songs can reflect truths if you look hard enough. Much like prophecies."

 

"Does he truly believe that his son is some sort of prophesied prince?"

 

"If he says he does, I'd take him at his word."

 

"Do you believe it, ser?" she asked, only half teasing. However like Ned he seemed, he was nonetheless the Sword of the Morning and the greatest knight in the realm. Suddenly shamefaced, she added, "Or perhaps I shouldn't speak so lightly."

 

"You may speak as you please, Lady Lyanna. As for what I believe..." He was gazing from the window, at what she could not see. "Rhaegar thinks he has found the way to bring dragons back to the Seven Kingdoms and I will do all I can to aid him."

 

Lyanna had only ever seen dragons in drawings or tapestries. There was one in Winterfell of Good Queen Alysanne on her dragon Silverwing above the Wall. The silver thread loops that formed the scales had long since faded to grey, but the dragon's beaded golden eyes still glittered in the torchlight. Like any child in the Seven Kingdoms, she had played at dragons and dragonriders, but everyone knew they were only stories and the dragons all had died long ago. "We're going to Summerhall, you said?"

 

"You know the stories?"

 

"I know that King Aegon was also trying to bring dragons back to the Seven Kingdoms and instead he died there in an awful fire." As high as the Wall, maybe. "I thought it was in ruins."

 

"It is. We're only meeting Rhaegar there. We've yet further to ride afterward." He studied her with what Lyanna suddenly realised was approval. "You don't seem to mind."

 

"Mind?" Lyanna laughed. "I'd spend my life crossing the Seven Kingdoms as a knight errant if I could. I used to fight with Ned and Benjen over which of us could be Ser Duncan the Tall when we played as children. I even won every now and then."

 

"Rhaegar told me you could fight." That might have been the beginnings of a smile, but Lyanna decided not to make assumptions. At the sound of a snapping branch outside, Ser Arthur glanced from the window and then back to her. "That you rode in the lists at Harrenhal."

 

"Only on the first day. I couldn't risk losing, you see; I'd have been found out. I defeated three knights, though. Of course, one of them was a Frey, so he may not count." And she'd caught the king's attention. She saw those eyes sometimes, in her dreams. It was strange that Prince Rhaegar never mentioned his father in his letters. Perhaps everyone preferred not to think about the king, even his own children.

 

"Not that that means very much to you, I'm sure," she added, blushing a little.

 

"Were they the first you defeated?" At Lyanna's nod, he shrugged. "The first knight I defeated in a tourney was named Ser Rodrik Fowler, younger son of the Lord of Skyreach. I still remember his name and the expression on his face when he hit the ground."

 

"How old were you?"

 

"Three and ten. I'd heard stories of Barristan the Bold and took them to heart. Thankfully, so had Ser Rodrik. He knew who I was as soon as he saw me and he broke two lances against me all the same." The smile was brief, but Lyanna congratulated herself on it. "The third one caught him by surprise."

 

Picturing Ser Arthur at three and ten was difficult, but no more so than imagining a ten-year-old Barristan the Bold breaking lances against Ser Duncan the Tall. "Mayhap I'll meet you in the lists someday," she suggested.

 

"Mayhap. But I think that's enough for tonight. We have about four more days to ride till we reach Summerhall."

 

The Roseroad was empty when they crossed it, and by the following evening Lyanna could see peaks in the distance, pale red against the summer sky. The air was noticeably warmer now, the breeze sweetened with flowers. It scarcely felt like winter at all. "The Dornish Marches," said Ser Arthur.

 

Although Lyanna had not asked Maester Luwin any further questions about Summerhall, she had managed to find an account of its construction in one of his books about the great houses of Westeros--where she had supposedly been studying the houses sworn to Storm's End. "I read that King Daeron II built Summerhall for his Dornish queen. Is that true?"

 

"It is. The plans are still somewhere in the Grand Maester's library in King's Landing; Rhaegar means to find them and rebuild Summerhall. They say it was the most beautiful palace in the Seven Kingdoms once."

 

Even knowing that, Lyanna still stared, breathless, for a full five minutes when the ruined palace first came into view. The massive curtain walls seemed to glow golden in the setting sun, their blackened, uneven edges half-fallen, as though the fires had only just stopped burning. On the far side of a rocky ravine from the ruins was a smaller structure built of the same golden stone, its red clay roof partly collapsed and its walls overgrown with weeds. For a second, Lyanna could have sworn she saw a glimpse of light in its windows.

 

"Rhaegar was born somewhere over there," said Ser Arthur, following her gaze with his finger.

 

"But I thought..." She remembered Maester Luwin's story of the massive fires of Summerhall. "He wasn't born in the Red Keep?"

 

"Who told you that?"

 

"A maester of the Citadel!" Lyanna glanced back and forth between him and the ruined tower. "He said the flames could be seen from King's Landing."

 

Ser Arthur stared at her for a moment. "That's impossible, Lady Lyanna. No fire could do that."

 

"Not even the Doom of Valyria?"

 

"If the Doom of Valyria had happened at Summerhall, all of this would be under water and we would all be dead." Ser Arthur was laughing now. The expression suited him. "You should tell Rhaegar that. The Citadel needs to improve its history lessons."

 

"But if he was born when Summerhall caught fire..." She looked back at the tower, the laughter dying on her lips. "How did they get out?"

 

"The smaller palace was Lord Bloodraven's addition when he was Hand of the King and it was connected to the rest of Summerhall by a bridge over that ravine. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard ordered the bridge destroyed to keep the fire contained. Some say that is how he died. But the queen and prince survived."

 

The portcullis was rusted in place, but they passed through one of the doors on the far side of the gatehouse after Ser Arthur retrieved the key from the hollow of a nearby tree. The horses they tethered near the gate, where the grass had long since overgrown the paths, and Ser Arthur led the way through the maze of scattered stones, broken statues, and charred timbers into what once was a great marble-floored audience chamber. The floors were cracked and blasted beneath her feet, the once-intricate wall carvings melted into shapeless forms. The shattered remains of the ceiling had also been carved, she noticed, before they had crashed to the ground during the fire.

 

A series of graceful, slender pillars, alternating in black and white stone, still stood outside the far door from the audience chamber, and Ser Arthur paused there to let Lyanna gaze her fill. The rectangular courtyard had at its centre a circular fountain held up by two three-headed Targaryen dragons. They had perhaps once been painted red, but the paint had long since faded, leaving only the black stone beneath. It must have been so beautiful, once. It still was, as the setting sun gilded the pillars and lengthened the shadows of broken arches on the red tiles beneath her feet.

 

On the far side of the fountain, seated on the remains of a stone bench, was Rhaegar Targaryen. She thought him a statue at first, bent over a book, his pale hair hiding his face from view, until he glanced up at the sound of their footsteps. Lyanna swallowed against the sudden flutter in her stomach like moths. It had been more than a year since she'd last seen him at Harrenhal, but her remembrance had not done his beauty justice. His eyes were darker, his features sharper, rather like the statues she and Ser Arthur had passed on their way to the courtyard. He doesn't even look like flesh and blood in this light.

 

It was Ser Arthur who broke the spell. "Good evening, Your Grace. How long have you been here?"

 

"A few hours. As ever, Arthur, your timing is perfect." He slipped the book into the black saddlebag leaning against the bench and joined them beside the fountain. "Lady Lyanna. I confess, I didn't know if you would come."

 

"Of course I came," she replied, holding out her hand to him. "I gave you my word, did I not, Your Grace?"

 

"I would not have held you to it. I know what we ask of you." His hands were warm on hers. Lyanna met his eyes after a moment to collect herself. "Are you sure?"

 

"I am," she said. Her voice sounded deeper, perhaps from nervousness. "Will we stay here tonight?"

 

He nodded. "Everyone in the Marches thinks the ruins are haunted. Even the bandits don't come here after dark."

 

There had once been square lawns on either side of the path, but the grass had grown as high as Lyanna's knees, the flowers a tangle of bright undergrowth. She peered into the fountain's black basin and saw kindling piled up for a bonfire. When she glanced back at the prince, he shrugged. "Nobody's using it."

 

Ser Arthur had shot down several ducks earlier that afternoon and the prince produced a small packet of spices from his saddlebag to season them, along with a wineskin of Dornish red. Lyanna's eyes were watering by the time she'd finished eating but she licked her fingers clean nonetheless.

 

The sun had long since set, and the moonlight slanted down upon the courtyard. The shadows danced between the pillars and Lyanna could hear an owl calling out in the distance. She could believe there were ghosts at Summerhall. I gorged on grief at Summerhall and there bewept my fate. "Was this where the Prince of Dragonflies died? In your song from Harrenhal?"

 

Prince Rhaegar nodded. "You remembered?"

 

Lyanna could feel a flush rising in her cheeks and thanked the darkness for hiding it. "It was beautiful. You are a fine singer."

 

"Don't encourage him, Lady Lyanna," advised Ser Arthur

 

"He's right, my lady," the prince admitted, ducking his head. "My father disapproves, but the smallfolk seem to enjoy it. And I'm pleased that you do."

 

"It's not every realm has a minstrel prince," said Lyanna, laughing. "Do you know the story of Bael the Bard and the rose of Winterfell?" He shook his head. It was one that Old Nan had told her when she was younger, until Lyanna's lord father ordered her to stop filling Lyanna's head with nonsense. Then the stories had become her secret and Old Nan's. "He was king of the wildlings hundreds of years ago, before the Conquest. The Starks were still kings of the north then, and King Brandon wanted Bael's head, but could never catch him. So he proclaimed Bael a coward, and the wildling king couldn't have that." She held out her hands toward the fire. "So he scaled the Wall--"

 

"Scaled the Wall?" broke in Ser Arthur. "A mighty feat indeed."

 

"There are wildlings who do it to this day, Ser Arthur. Lord Umber told my lord father about a band of raiders a few nights before we left Winterfell. He said they had climbing shoes with blades on, just like the men of the Night's Watch who work on the Wall." On reflex, she glanced over her shoulder at what she thought was the north.

 

She had heard nothing of her father or of Brandon, but she and Ser Arthur had avoided the Kingsroad and therefore the gossip. Surely her brother would have seen the message she'd sent from the inn by now. He would be furious, she knew. Not as furious as their father, who must by now have seen the letter she'd left for him at Winterfell. A flutter of fear settled in her stomach.

 

"And what of Bael, my lady?" The prince's voice jolted her out of her thoughts. "Is something troubling you?"

 

"My lord, had there been any word from my brother when you left Dragonstone? From Riverrun?"

 

Prince Rhaegar frowned. "No, nothing from Riverrun. Nor from Winterfell."

 

"We can send from the tower, Rhaegar," said Ser Arthur. "There are too many eyes between here and there."

 

"I sent word to Lord Rickard myself before I left." He glanced at Lyanna but did not quite meet her eyes. "I confess, I don't know what to expect. I've never met him."

 

"He's..." There was only one answer. "He's the Stark of Winterfell."

 

After a moment's consideration, the prince smiled. "There you have it. So, tell me more of this wildling minstrel prince."

 

They were right, of course. There was nothing to be done for it; Lyanna had made her choice when she followed the Sword of the Morning away from the Gods Eye. There was no crying about it now.

 

"Bael crossed the Wall and walked through the selfsame doors of Winterfell's Great Hall that stand today. He called himself Syggerik of Skagos and he played the harp with such sweetness that King Brandon offered him any reward he asked. The bard asked for the fairest flower that bloomed in the gardens of Winterfell."

 

She stopped, thinking once again of a crown of blue roses, dried and tucked into a hollow of the heart tree in the godswood in Winterfell. She could not bring it with her, so she left it as an offering to the gods. For the fairest of the northern roses. As much to cover her rising blush as anything else, she continued. "King Brandon sent him the most beautiful winter rose in the glass gardens, as blue as the skies over Winterfell, but when he sought the bard to give him his reward, the man had disappeared...along with the king's daughter."

 

"Thus ever for singers and lords' daughters," Ser Arthur murmured. "Were they happy?"

 

"Alas, no," Lyanna said. "King Brandon searched far and wide for his daughter and her runaway minstrel. When his messengers returned with no news, he grew sickly, for he loved his daughter with all his heart. She was the last of his children, and the dearest. But as he lay on his deathbed, he heard the sound of a child crying. He rose from his bed and discovered his daughter in her chamber, with a babe in her arms. Of Bael the Bard, there was no sign." She looked down at her hands for a moment, suddenly aware that both the prince and Ser Arthur were looking at her. "I asked my old Nan what King Brandon's daughter thought of all this. She said the songs did not say."

 

"It depends, I think, on the singer," the prince said, reaching out with a stick to coax the fire higher. "Did Bael's son become the next king in the north, then?"

 

"He did, the more's the pity. The young prince grew up brave and strong, but all the lords of Winterfell needs must guard against the wildlings from Beyond the Wall, you see." Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. "And Bael would not raise a hand against his son, no matter that his son did not know him."

 

For several moments, there was no sound beyond the crackling of the flames. Lyanna closed her eyes and tears trembled on her lashes. She had told herself that her father would understand, and Brandon too, once they'd calmed down. Storm's End was a prize, but even that paled in comparison to a child in line for the Iron Throne. It was Ned whose reaction she truly feared; Ned, whose closest friend she had just humiliated before the entire realm.

 

"I'm reminded of a Valyrian story," the prince said softly. "A king hears a prophecy that his son will kill him. He summons a shepherd and offers him a fortune to kill his son--it's always a shepherd; I don't know why--but the shepherd takes pity on the babe and, lo and behold, thirty years later, the son kills the father unawares at a crossroads." The prince shook his head. "He then goes on to marry his mother and beget a whole new family of unfortunates because otherwise it would not be an Old Valyrian story."

 

"I hear the same of Dothraki weddings," said Ser Arthur. "What is it, three deaths or it's tedious?"

 

"Sounds complicated," Lyanna admitted with a watery smile. Old Nan would love it. "Will you tell me another?"

 

"If you like." His smile flashed in the darkness as he reached into the saddlebag behind him. Lyanna recognised the silver harp he had played on their first night in Harrenhal. She watched in fascination as he adjusted the strings, though she could scarce tell the difference in tone. It had never occurred to Lyanna to pay attention to a singer's hands, so caught up was she always in the words.

 

"Long ago, before the Freehold of Valyria went to war against the great cities of the Rhoynar, there was a young man who went hunting in the woods near Sar Mell, the city of flowers." His fingers were forming a melody, but Lyanna could barely make it out. "He came upon an enchanted fountain and a maid guarding it, fairer than any he had ever seen, with eyes green as the forest leaves."

 

She could not help but think of Cersei Lannister for a moment. "Let me guess. She was under a spell and he rescued her."

 

"Wrong." The prince laughed. "The young man fell desperately in love. He had to have her for his bride, no matter the cost. The lady warned him that if she agreed to marry him, he must grant her one promise, and that if he broke that promise, he would lose her forever."

 

"And he agreed?" Of course he agreed; ladies and knights in stories always agreed to things they shouldn't. She had a dreadful feeling, just as she did when Old Nan told tales of the Longest Winter and the White Walkers coming in the night. "What was the promise?"

 

"On the night of the full moon, when it was said the dragons of Valyria would sing from the topless towers, she would lock the doors to her chamber and not emerge until the moon began to wane. Her husband swore by all the gods he knew that he would never ask what she did behind those doors." The ripple of the harpstrings grew more complex and she glanced in surprise at Ser Arthur, who had begun to whistle softly. The prince's hair had fallen over his face, concealing his eyes from view as he played. "It was not chance that placed her by that fountain. She was a powerful sorceress who could shape stone with magic, and she built him a majestic castle in the hills overlooking what is now the Free City of Volantis."

 

"But the young lord broke his promise, didn't he? They always break promises in songs." In the real world too, she thought. Catelyn Tully probably hated her for running off and distracting Brandon on their wedding day. Perhaps she ought to write to her to explain once they reached the tower Ser Arthur had mentioned. It was the sort of thing ladies were supposed to do.

 

"His family had begun to ask questions about her. His advisors told him he was bewitched, that he must cast aside his wife. He loved her too well to listen to any of them, but when his old tutor, a man he had trusted from childhood, asked him what it was that she did on the night of the full moon and the lord could not answer..." The prince shook his head, his smile the saddest thing Lyanna had seen. "On the night of the next full moon, he watched as his wife climbed the stairs to the topmost tower of their castle. But this time, he followed her and put his eye to the keyhole."

 

His fingers stilled on the harpstrings. "Of his beauteous lady, there was no sign. In her place was a dragon with scales like the currents of the Rhoyne and eyes as green as ever his wife's had been."

 

"He married a dragon?" Old Nan had told her that the Starks of old could transform into wolves, but she had never heard of anyone transforming into a dragon. "So she was under a spell, in a way."

 

"The spell was her own. It is said that the dragons of Valyria could see the future, and she saw a great dynasty of her blood that would turn aside the darkness to come. So she built the enchanted fountain and she waited there--we do not know how long--until the young lord Targaryen found her."

 

"I knew it!" Lyanna laughed. "Is that why they call it the blood of the dragon?"

 

"One reason among many." He was playing again, a different melody this time that seemed to shiver against the ruined stones surrounding them. "The lord did not speak of what he saw; he could not bear to give up his lady, and that was the price she demanded. So he exiled those advisors who mistrusted her and continued to follow her judgement as he had before."

 

"But it wasn't the same."

 

"No. It was as though a veil had been ripped from his eyes. Every time he looked at her, it was the dragon he saw, and though he had loved his lady with all his heart, she would be forever strange to him."

 

"The poor lady. She did not know her lord had already broken his oath." Lyanna realised now that the two melodies fit together, one for the lord and one for the dragon, weaving in and out of one another in a pattern as complex as any tapestry. "And if she was truly a sorceress and a dragon, surely she found him out."

 

"She did. They had three children, two girls and a boy, but even in his infancy, it had been impossible to find a nurse for the new heir. He was a strange, silent child, given to rages unlike any the lord had ever seen, and only his mother could calm him. When he grew to manhood, he became a great fighter, renowned throughout the land, but feared far more than loved."

 

He flicked his fingers hard against the strings, almost like the thrum of a horse's hooves. "The lord was never easy around his son. Every time he looked at him, he thought he saw the glimmer of scales, something darker in his eyes. Then, one day, word came to him that his son had fallen out with one of the shadow-priests from Asshai, and that he had burned that priest's temple to the ground. The lord condemned him before all of his court and cursed the dragon's blood that had wrought such madness in his son."

 

Spellbound, Lyanna's questions died on her lips.

 

"Shamed thus before the court, the dragon revealed her true form and laid a curse of her own upon her faithless lord: Every time a child was born with Targaryen blood, she said, the gods would toss a coin to see which of its natures would triumph--the dragon or the man." Another flurry of discordant notes resolved into the melody Lyanna now thought of as dragonsong. "Without another word, she spread her great wings and shattered the grand rose window that she herself had crafted when still a bride. She flew into the darkness and was never seen again."

 

He'd returned to the first melody--the lord's--but the words were the lady's. Old Nan had said that dragons had their own language, long lost even to the maesters in the Citadel, but this was the first she'd ever heard of songs. Perhaps that too had died with Valyria. The prince's voice, sweeter than any singer Lyanna had encountered, echoed through the ruins of Summerhall, and Lyanna half-expected a dragon to emerge from the darkness, eyes ablaze and hungry for vengeance.

 

As the last notes faded into the night, Lyanna could feel the tears snaking down her face. "That isn't fair, Your Grace. This is the second time you've made me cry over a song."

 

"Really?" He sounded surprised. "I...thank you, I think?"

 

"As you should. Don't all singers want the maids to weep at their laments and laugh at their exploits?" Ser Arthur rose to his feet and stretched. "I'll take the first watch."

 

"What's there to watch for here, Arthur?" the prince asked, barely turning his head. "Nobody ever comes here, save the ghosts of Targaryens long dead."

 

"Then I'll keep an eye out for them. We've got a long ride tomorrow."

 

As Ser Arthur disappeared into the shadows, the prince laughed softly. "Over-cautious by half, but he's saved my life too many times for me to doubt him."

 

"I still cannot believe I ran away from an inn with the Sword of the Morning." Lyanna could feel herself blushing and thanked the darkness for hiding it. "It feels like a singer's tale in itself."

 

"And maybe it will be, someday." He flicked the strings. "I'll even write it for you, if you like. Once we know how the story ends."

 

She could see the flames reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. Like dragonfire. It was a silly thought; his story had just caught her fancy, nothing more. Targaryens were no more dragons than Starks were wolves, and even if they were, the last dragon had died long ago. "How should the story end?"

 

The prince looked at her. "With peace, one hopes. Peace and plenty."

 

"And dragons?"

 

She was rewarded with a smile. "So I was promised. And, I believe, a holdfast in the Crownlands with enough land that you can ride till sundown in each direction. Was that the measurement?"

 

"Not exactly," she replied, "but close. I want to raise horses."

 

"And so you shall."

 

Lyanna looked at him for a moment. "Just like that? It can't be that easy. What about Robert?"

 

"He'll do as he's told." Had anyone else said it, Lyanna would have protested, if not laughed outright, but there was something in the prince's voice that forestalled her. "Or he won't, and I will need to deal with him."

 

"You don't mean...?"

 

"Execute him? Gods, no. Exile him if necessary. I'd send him to the Wall, but that seems unnecessarily cruel for a man of his...temperament." He gazed into the fire for a moment, frowning. "He'd do well with the Golden Company or the Second Sons. All the battle a man could want."

 

"Just like that," murmured Lyanna, wrapping her arms around herself. "It must be strange to know that men live and die on your word."

 

"They do on your father's too, Lady Lyanna, make no mistake."

 

She had seen her father execute deserters from the Wall at least half a dozen times. They abandoned their Sworn Brothers, Lord Rickard had explained to Ned and Benjen as Lyanna sat in the shadows and listened. They abandoned the Wall. For that, they are already dead men.

 

"We'd best sleep," she heard Prince Rhaegar say, as his shadow rose to put out the fire. "We ride into the mountains tomorrow. Sleep well, Lyanna."

 

It was strange to hear him say her name; stranger still to hear herself reply, "You too, Yo--Rhaegar."

 

For the first time since leaving Winterfell, Lyanna dreamed. She saw the palace of Summerhall as it once was--its marble halls inlaid with gems, the fountains sparkling in the sunlight, and the air filled with the scent of roses. A dark-haired young man whose face looked startlingly like Rhaegar's was arguing with a silver-haired king, and she saw him again a few moments later in the courtyard embracing a beautiful young woman with flowers woven through her bright red hair. Jenny of Oldstones with flowers in her hair. As they kissed, Lyanna could see flames in the windows beyond them, see the walls melting and crumbling as the fire advanced. She squeezed her eyes shut.

 

When she opened them, the ruins were as they had looked the day before. For a second, Lyanna was certain she saw a woman standing over the sleeping Prince Rhaegar, her red hair falling over her shoulders to brush against his face. Her eyes met Lyanna's and she raised one finger to her lips.

 

Lyanna blinked and she disappeared.

Chapter Text

Had it not been for Brandon Stark, Elia would have celebrating her daughter's second name-day in one of the great audience chambers in Dragonstone. Rhaenys was still too little to know or care why she was the centre of attention, but it was useful to remind the nearby lords that Rhaegar had two heirs.

 

Instead, wrapped in layers upon layers of costly furs retrieved from hidden stores below Dragonstone, Elia sat in her chair at the rails of the carrack Realm's Delight, Aegon sleeping in her lap, as placid at his age as Rhaenys had been demanding. As for Rhaenys, her daughter had already befriended two of the ship's crew, who took turns carrying her on their shoulders as she cheered and waved her little hands in the wind. Eventually, exhausted by the exercise, she'd been sent down to the cabin for a nap and Elia was relishing the momentary peace. A true Martell, that one, she conceded, wondering yet again how her mother had coped with two at once. And one of them Oberyn, the gods forfend.

 

"I still think," Ashara said, "that you should let your royal husband deal with his father." She leant against the ship's rail, her mouth a flat line of disapproval, as she glanced over her shoulder to the east, where Dragonstone and the Dragonmont had long since disappeared into the horizon.

 

"My royal husband is out of reach, Ash. By the time I track him down, it may be too late," Elia replied. Rhaegar had left some three weeks earlier, taking ship for Griffin's Roost, from whence he would ride north to Summerhall. That much he had told Jon Connington and the rest--that he intended to survey the ruins at Summerhall and make plans for rebuilding the palace. A good lie with more than a grain of truth. That he intended to stay in Summerhall no more than a night or two before disappearing into the Red Mountains with Arthur Dayne and Lyanna Stark was Elia's knowledge to share at her discretion. "I should think you of all people would appreciate my intercession on Brandon Stark's behalf."

 

"That's not the point," retorted Ashara. "I don't trust the king and you shouldn't either."

 

Rhaegar had said nothing about Elia's leaving Dragonstone while he was away---it would have been madness in the winter storms that had battered the island since Aegon's birth. She'd scarcely left her rooms and only in the past fortnight, as the worst of winter's chill finally faded--at least briefly--had she found the strength to venture outdoors. Lady Mariam had only just returned to Sunspear, reminding Elia of her promise in no uncertain terms, and the day after her departure, Lyanna Stark's last letter had arrived.

 

It seems that I will lose Winterfell no matter what I do, and I would rather choose than have that choice forced upon me. You have my word if I have yours that when I have given you your heir, my obligation ends and I am free to do as I will. It wasn't a flawless plan by any standard--Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon would need to be managed, for a start--but Lyanna had assured them that her brothers, at least, might understand and speak in her favour. Rhaegar had written to Lord Rickard before leaving Dragonstone, and it had seemed to Elia that all was going smoothly...at least until the queen's letter arrived.

 

Lord Brandon Stark arrived this morning in a tearing rage, looking for Rhaegar. Why he sought him here, I cannot think, but the king has imprisoned him and his fellows for treason. If you know aught of this, good-daughter, I pray you tell me and Lord Merryweather so we might see it remedied.

 

She and the queen had been writing to one another more often since their last visit to King's Landing. Elia had urged her to send Prince Viserys to Dragonstone--he'd grown attached to Rhaenys in the weeks they'd spent together while she and Rhaegar travelled to Harrenhal--but the queen refused to even raise the subject with the king. He would not have his heirs corrupted, or so she claimed, disgust bleeding through the written words.

 

Elia had only met her father-by-marriage on one or two occasions, by design. Her own mother had warned her before she left Sunspear to be married that the king had no love for Dorne or for its people. He'll snub you and punish you if you react. Whatever you do, do not react. The Darklyns learnt that to their cost. Even Lord Tywin Lannister, who might once have been an ally, had taken Rhaegar's marriage to Elia as a personal insult. It never occurred to Tywin that Rhaegar might choose for himself, and that his daughter might not be that choice. Lannisters did think highly of themselves; even Lady Cersei--at seven years of age--had treated Elia with a queen's disdain, and the several years spent at her father's side in the Tower of the Hand had not improved her.

 

"It's got nothing to do with trust," Elia finally said, straightening in the chair as Aegon stirred in her arms. "This is a formality, Ash. An act of intercession and mercy in honour of his granddaughter's name day and the health of his grandson. What could be more appropriate? I might even ask the High Septon to advise him."

 

"I'd love to see you convince the High Septon of anything," Ashara remarked, though Elia could see the beginnings of a smile on her face. "I thought he was terrified of women, especially Dornish ones."

 

"Not I," said Elia as she turned Aegon to face her lady-in-waiting. "This is my ambassador. Could you refuse this face, tell me?"

 

Ashara leant close to brush Aegon's nose with the tip of her own. "Little imp. I suppose you'll do."

 

"Don't call him that in King's Landing," Elia warned her. "It's what they call Lord Tywin's son. The one nobody talks about." Elia had seen him all those years ago in Casterly Rock and he'd looked like just another baby to her. "I wonder..."

 

"Don't waste your breath, my lady," Ashara said, rising and drawing her cloak more closely around her. "That boy will live and die behind the walls of Casterly Rock. I'm half surprised he lives at all."

 

"He wouldn't kill his own son, Ash. Even Lord Tywin isn't that..." Proud? Mad? She shook her head. Aegon began to fuss and Elia drew him close beneath the blanket to shield him from the wind. "I told you that I wrote to the castellan at Storm's End to ask if Lord Baratheon might consider fostering his younger brother Renly at Dragonstone when he's old enough."

 

Elia had wondered, as she wrote that letter, what it said of her that she could write to a lord of such mundane matters while her husband intended to run off with that same lord's betrothed. If it were Oberyn...but that was hardly a comparison, though Lord Baratheon's reputation, particularly with women, had more than a little in common with her brother's. Oberyn would never have insisted that a woman marry him against her will.

 

"Is that Lord Baratheon who was engaged to Lyanna Stark?" Ashara asked, deceptively careless. Elia raised her eyebrows and Ashara shrugged. "You can't blame me for asking. It was the scandal of the spring."

 

"In answer to your question, yes, it is the same Lord Baratheon. He's a Targaryen cousin, it seems, on his mother's side. Really, given his father's ties to the king, I'm surprised he wasn't one of Rhaegar's fellows in court, but these things are so often a matter of chance." Elia held out one hand to Ashara. "I'm glad you agreed to come, even if you disapprove."

 

"Of course I'm coming," Ashara said with a smile. She took Elia's hand in both of hers. "Who else is going to keep you out of trouble? Besides, there are decent seamstresses in King's Landing and I've worn out half of my gowns," she added, eyeing a fraying seam at the edge of one of her sleeves. "I'm sure I'll survive."

 

***

 

"Her Grace Elia of House Martell, Princess of Dorne and Dragonstone. With her, the ladies Ashara Dayne of Starfall, Serra Santagar of Spottswood, and Lilias Fossoway of New Barrel."

 

The throne room in King's Landing put even the great hall of Harrenhal to shame--Elia knew that, but it had been long enough that she'd forgotten. She and Oberyn had been eavesdropping on their elder brother Doran's lessons on the day his tutor told him about Maegor the Cruel and the construction of the Red Keep and it had given her nightmares for weeks afterward about being imprisoned between the walls of one of its passageways. Somehow, being within sight of the Iron Throne brought that uncomfortably to mind. Along the walls, beneath the tall, narrow windows, were the skulls of eighteen dead Targaryen dragons. Vhagar. Meraxes. Meleys. Arrax. She could not name them all off by heart as Viserys could, but she recalled more than half. Not bad for a Dornish interloper. Hanging above the Iron Throne, just as he must have at the time of its forging, was the skull of Balerion the Black Dread. Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jon Darry stood on each end of the dais while Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell Whent waited outside the door. Ser Jaime had returned to his customary place with the queen and Prince Viserys, now joined by Rhaenys. Aegon was sitting silently in Ashara's arms and it was all Elia could do not to glance back at him.

 

Flanking each skull were two large torches, their flames giving off a queer greenish light and an acrid smell that burned Elia's throat. He's burning wildfire, she realised in slow, dawning unease.

 

Lord Merryweather was seated at the foot of the Iron Throne. As Elia's guards brought her chair to the centre of the throne room, the king looked up, eyes narrowing. "Princess." His voice seemed to echo across the room. Perhaps it was something in how Aegon the Conqueror had crafted his great throne of blades that whoever sat in it truly could command the entire vaulted chamber in a whisper.

 

"Your Grace." Elia waited for a moment to steady herself after the guardsmen lowered her chair to the floor. She needed it more than ever now, after the battle she'd fought to bring Aegon into the world, but in it she sat straight-backed. Be wary of your face, her mother had warned her. Let them stare and remember that they only see what you allow them to see. In her hair was the diadem she'd worn at her wedding, wrought of yellow and rose gold and inlaid with gems. The circlet was fashioned in the shape of a dragon devouring its own tail and its points were spears topped with ruby sunbursts.

 

Her uncle stood at the ready, his white-armoured arm outstretched. Thank you, Uncle Lewyn, she mouthed, meeting his eyes as she rose to her feet. Her ladies, on her orders, remained standing behind the chair, eyes lowered and thoughts to themselves.

 

Elia took one step, then another, her fingernails digging into her uncle's mailed arm. Her head decorously lowered, she glanced sideways at the courtiers as she passed. Many who remained in the Red Keep following the king's return from Duskendale five years before had been Lord Tywin's supporters and had melted away with his departure after the tourney at Harrenhal, leaving only those men who owed their fortunes to the king and the king alone. Elia's footsteps echoed, with painful slowness, in the hall as the lords and ladies of the Crownlands watched, suspicion and contempt in their eyes. We shall find few friends here. Lord Merryweather, at least, saw the wisdom in keeping this affair quiet and resolving it without further injury to either the crown or the Starks, or so Queen Rhaella had assured Elia when they arrived. But the sooner they finished their business and returned to Dragonstone, the better, as far as Elia was concerned.

 

Amongst the unfamiliar faces and sigils--the king, it was said, would make a man a lord for a few flattering words--Elia saw a contingent in Tyrell green whispering furiously. No doubt they were composing a rhapsodic description of how awful she looked to send to the Queen of Thorns in Highgarden, who would then immediately tell her mother. Though they pretended to hate one another in company as the ladies of Sunspear and Highgarden had done for time immemorial, Elia knew her mother regularly traded gossip with Olenna Tyrell, particularly on the subject of her children. She had already received no fewer than four letters chiding her for taking too many risks with Aegon's birth. Two of them had been from Oberyn and it had taken a threat to ruin his reputation with the courtesans' guild in Braavos to silence him. She suspected it was Ellaria's doing and resolved to write to her brother's paramour to thank her for keeping him safely on the far side of the Narrow Sea. The last thing I need is for him to follow in Brandon Stark's footsteps.

 

Fortunately, neither Oberyn nor their mother knew that Elia had come to King's Landing, at least not yet. She recalled, however, that her mother had mentioned sending an embassy to court to discuss trade considerations with the new Hand of the King. Perhaps we'll be on our way home by the time they arrive. That would be a miracle worthy of Baelor the Blessed.

 

Behind her, she could hear Lord Merryweather sending the curious courtiers on their way and Elia hid her relief as best she could. It was bad enough to deal with the king, let alone with his flatterers.

 

The king had not moved from the throne, but she expected no less. "We greet you well, princess," he said, the words seeming to hang in the air as they echoed. "What brings you to court?"

 

Her uncle adjusted his arm so she could stand taller. "I came, Your Grace," she said, pitching her voice to the throne and the empty court alike, "to present you with your grandson, Prince Aegon."

 

On her cue, Ashara moved to her side, the baby in her arms. Ashara wore her house's colours, purple edged and embroidered in silver, and as Aegon blinked up at the shadow of the Iron Throne against the wall of stained-glass windows, it brought out the violet in his eyes to great advantage. As Valyrian as Aegon the Conqueror, Elia thought, sinking in a curtsey beside her son.

 

She could hear the murmurs of the few remaining courtiers as Lord Merryweather chivvied them through the door. The king stayed where he was, though she could see him lean forward curiously. "An ambitious name."

 

"My lord Rhaegar's choice," Elia replied, her eyes carefully focused on the floor. "But it seems a hopeful name, does it not, Your Grace?"

 

"Without doubt," Lord Merryweather chimed in as he returned to her side, his cheeks red from exertion. "And, of course, we should have some sort of celebration for the princess. Two years old, I believe?" Elia confirmed it with a nod. "There's a Dornish embassy, Your Grace, who should arrive in a fortnight's time--"

 

"Enough, my lord Hand," the king intoned. "Rise, princess."

 

"I will, Your Grace, when I have finished." She could hear Lord Merryweather draw in his breath. "I ask, on mine own behalf and Prince Rhaegar's, that you let Brandon Stark and his men go free."

 

Above her, the king frowned, his eyes narrowing as the massive doors closed on the far side of the room. "You would ask that traitors be set at liberty?"

 

"They are not traitors, Your Grace."

 

"I beg your pardon, my lady princess," said Lord Merryweather. "You were not there when Lord Brandon arrived--"

 

"The queen told me, my lord Hand."

 

"Did she?" asked the king. There was a note in his voice that Elia misliked, though she could not say why. "He demanded that the Prince of Dragonstone come out and die. Is that not treason?"

 

Elia coughed, raising her hand to her lips to hide the ill-timed laughter at that thought. "He misspoke, Your Grace, from ignorance." She gave Uncle Lewyn a sideways glance and, very slowly, allowed him to lower her to her knees even as Lord Merryweather protested under his breath. "And words are only wind. I ask for mercy, Your Grace, for Lord Brandon and his men, in my name and in Rhaegar's."

 

"And mine, Your Grace," Ashara called out, sinking gracefully to her knees beside Elia. Her other ladies knelt as well, but--as they had been instructed--did not speak. Aegon waved his hands and reached for Ashara's long hair and the necklace of silver and moonstones around her neck.

 

The king rose to his feet, his long, red-slashed sleeves catching on the bladed arms of the throne until he had to jerk them free. For a second, Elia thought he might lose his balance and she had an image of King Aerys, Second of his Name, impaling himself on one of the Iron Throne's own swords. Would the gods be so kind? It was how Maegor the Cruel had died, after all. But the king steadied himself, though his right sleeve came away stained with fresh blood. Beside her, she heard Lord Merryweather sigh.

 

She could smell the blood when the king drew near, metallic and acrid. "Why, Princess Elia, do you beg for the life of a man who would kill our son, your royal husband?"

 

"Because he is innocent, Your Grace, and because it is what Rhaegar would do if he were here." The king made a disbelieving noise and Elia looked up at him, forcing a laugh. "What, Your Grace? He would defeat Lord Brandon in single combat, make him yield, and send him on his way with his tail between his legs. There's no need to make an example of him or of his men."

 

"You would presume to tell us how to rule, Princess?" The king's words were quiet, but Elia felt herself shrink beneath them all the same, remembering a troupe of mummers set afire by mischance in this very room and the king's smile as he watched them burn.

 

"I meant nothing of the sort, Your Grace, and I beg pardon if I offended," she murmured, keeping her eyes on the hem of his black robes, embroidered with red dragons and heavy with dust. "But I ask for mercy all the same."

 

"Mercy for Brandon Stark."

 

"Yes." Elia gathered herself and looked back up at the king. "And for his men, who are if anything even less to blame than he. All they did was follow their lord."

 

"I beg to differ, my lady. Brandon Stark is not their lord. Royce and Arryn come from the Vale and Mallister from the Riverlands," Lord Merryweather pointed out. "But they are all about the same age, and you know how young men are..."

 

"You grow wearisome, my lord Hand," the king said, turning away, his eyes drawn upward to Balerion's grinning skull. "You believe them innocent, Princess?"

 

"I do, Your Grace." She didn't dare to hope that he would listen to her. In recent months, he had at least pretended to listen to Rhaegar, but Elia had not stopped wondering if it was all a ruse, no matter what her husband thought. "I pray you, let them go in peace. As Baelor the Blessed might have done," she added in a stroke of sudden inspiration.

 

"A worthy precedent, Your Grace," Lord Merryweather echoed, though Elia saw him frowning at someone behind her. She glanced back and saw Lord Varys, the king's spymaster, in the shadows near a pillar. "Lord Brandon is to be married soon, isn't he?"

 

"Yes," said Elia, looking again at the king. "Well, he was supposed to be married five days ago but..."

 

The king turned so quickly that Elia shrank back against her uncle. "We would not be overzealous in punishment, but we cannot allow threats against the crown to stand." He looked down at her, and for a moment Elia could have sworn she saw the hint of a smile behind the tangled, silvery beard. "Send for their fathers."

 

"Your Grace?"

 

"Send for the young men's fathers," the king said. "We would have them answer for their sons. If we are satisfied with those answers, by my good-daughter's will, they will go free."

 

The king's hand was hot to the touch when Elia kissed it, with more feeling than she might have expected. "You are most gracious, good-father. I will be certain to tell Rhaegar."

 

"Where is my son?"

 

That question, at least, was one she was prepared to lie through her teeth to answer. "He has gone to Summerhall with Ser Arthur, Your Grace."

 

"Then leave him be. We would not trouble him with trifles."

 

Elia opened her mouth but she felt her uncle squeeze her arm, and when she glanced at him he shook his head. I've asked for enough today. Besides, she had already sent word to Rhaegar from Dragonstone when she departed. That raven had long ago flown. "As you wish, Your Grace."

 

He turned his back and started toward the throne again. Elia gripped her uncle's arm as he raised her to her feet. She heard the clatter of footsteps as her guards hurried forward and she sank into the chair just as her knees buckled beneath her. She did not open her eyes again until the great oaken doors of the throne room had closed behind them.

 

"I suppose that could have been worse," she murmured. "He could have refused us outright."

 

"What should we do now?" Ashara began to ask, only to stop short.

 

The doors opened again to reveal Lord Merryweather, looking flushed. "That was well done, Princess. I'm to have the prisoners moved to more suitable quarters and will be sending word to Lord Stark and the others."

 

"He will let them go, won't he, my lord Hand?" asked Elia.

 

Lord Merryweather's smile seemed forced, but he made the effort nonetheless. "It's all a misunderstanding, I'm sure. Once the lads' fathers are here, they'll punish their sons accordingly and the king will be satisfied with that."

 

"Let us hope so." Elia considered for a moment and then voiced her question. "Why is the king burning wildfire, Lord Merryweather?"

 

The Hand lowered his eyes uncomfortably. "He believes it will drive away the worst of winter's chill, princess."

 

A madman's whim. Elia bit her tongue. The sooner they were finished with this charade, the better.

 

***

 

After returning to her chambers, Elia had the servants draw a bath in a large copper tub borrowed from Queen Rhaella. She desperately missed the baths at Dragonstone, heated even in the winter by the fires of the Dragonmont and lined in smooth black stone--a glimpse, she supposed, of Valyria of old. How was it too that Harrenhal had baths and the Red Keep did not? It was one of the thousands of mysteries she'd found in King's Landing, few of which she expected to solve.

 

Ashara came in just as Elia sank beneath the blissfully warm water scented with camomile and essence of roses. By the time she came back up for air, her lady-in-waiting had seated herself beside the tub, leaning against its edge. "Do you know what I miss most about Dorne?" she asked. At Elia's nod, she added, "The Water Gardens."

 

"Me too." Elia reached for her hand and Ashara raised it to her lips. "Dragonstone is many things, but..."

 

"Oh, don't even compare them!" Ashara's nose wrinkled in disgust. Elia did not speak, her eyes on their entwined fingers. The children were staying with their granddam this evening; there was a singer visiting from Volantis, and Rhaenys already took after her father in her love of music. "After all this is over, promise me you'll go back, my lady. I know you'll get better there. You need sunlight. Laughter. It might even make your husband laugh, imagine that."

 

"He laughs, I'll have you know," protested Elia with little force. "I will, Ash, I promise." The only reason she wasn't with Rhaegar now was that he needed to travel swiftly over land, and that was simply impossible for Elia. I should have insisted that he send me to Sunspear with the children. We could have met him there. Of course, then she would have needed to explain everything to her mother and brothers. And, lest they ever forget, there was the king, who would view his son's defection to Dorne as an act of war. "I would wish myself there in an instant, if I could."

 

"Close your eyes."

 

Elia obeyed and adjusted the pillow beneath her neck. A moment later, she gasped as she recognised the smell of blood oranges. Ashara held out a slice and Elia took a bite, feeling the juice run down her chin. It was overripe from the journey and tasted like heaven. Elia dragged her tongue across her lips in a decidedly unqueenly fashion and decided she did not care.

 

"They were waiting here when we arrived. Gifts from your brother Prince Doran. He's asked you to take care of the Dornish embassy when they arrive in a fortnight." Ashara took a bite for herself and closed her eyes with a blissful smile. "He writes of sending his daughter Arianne to Dragonstone when she is older as a companion to Princess Rhaenys."

 

"Rhaenys needs other girls. She's half cat already, I swear, and Viserys is only going to encourage her." Elia watched her daughter every second for signs, but Rhaenys was as healthy a child as any mother would have wished. She was reminded of no one more than Oberyn when he was young--covered in scrapes and triumphant in every one of them. "I can't have a wild girl as princess of the Seven Kingdoms; all the lords and ladies will blame me for it."

 

Ashara was giggling behind her hand. "Oh, I know," Elia told her. "Reap what you sow. It's what Lady Mariam told me when she left. 'Rhaenys'," she quoted, in her best impression of a Pentoshi accent, "'is exactly like you at her age, only with Oberyn's constitution'."

 

"Will she marry Viserys?"

 

"Oh, I don't know. I don't want to think about that." Rhaegar was the first in his family to marry into Dorne in more than a century but even she had known that the king was only tolerating her on sufferance because he could find no one with the bloodlines he sought. What he hadn't known was that his queen had already begun discussions with the Princess of Dorne, even before Lord and Lady Baratheon's ill-fated journey to the Free Cities in search of a bride of Valyrian blood. "Do you remember when Rhaegar came to Sunspear with the queen to sign the betrothal contract?"

 

"I remember finding him in your bed," replied Ashara with a grin. She rested her chin on her arms and trailed her fingers in the bathwater. "You won me five golden dragons and a new gown."

 

Elia rolled her eyes. "I should have known."

 

"I only wagered that you'd bed him. Helaena Drinkwater was convinced that your judgement would win out and everyone else followed her, but I knew better." Ashara ducked as Elia splashed water at her. "It's true! What did you say to me when you first saw him? Gods preserve me, Ash--"

 

"I could eat him with a spoon," they finished in unison, Elia covering her laughter with one hand. "It was Oberyn's idea," she admitted.

 

"Baelor Breakwind all over again?" It had been at Starfall that Elia and Oberyn had first encountered Baelor Hightower, before the incident that earned him the nickname. "Nobody ever taught your brother when to hold his tongue."

 

"It was useful advice, for once. Oberyn reminded me that the Targaryens had produced both Aegon the Unworthy and Baelor the Blessed and suggested that I spare myself an unpleasant surprise on my wedding night."

 

"That is useful," Ashara allowed. "Far more so than I would have expected from your brother."

 

Too pretty for my tastes, and too melancholy had been Oberyn's first assessment of Rhaegar Targaryen. Will he make you laugh, sister? Will he warm your bed? One never knows with Targaryens.

 

"So?" Ashara was looking at her expectantly. "How did you do it? You never told me, even after I helped him sneak out of your room before both of your mothers caught you at it."

 

"Because you wouldn't have believed me. You loathe cyvasse."

 

"Only because it is the most tedious game ever conceived."

 

"Not when played by Oberyn's rules." Grinning wickedly, Elia sank deeper into the water. "He learned this variation in Lys, or so he claims. Every time you lose a piece, you lose an article of clothing."

 

Ashara clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek of laughter. After a few moments to collect herself, she murmured, "You cannot be serious. And the prince actually agreed to it?"

 

"I can be persuasive when it suits me," Elia protested. She leant back against the waterlogged cushion, and when she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she was back in Dorne, where the air was drier and sweeter and the shadows infinitely less oppressive.

 

The royal party had stayed for nearly ten days, most of them spent in the Water Gardens outside Sunspear, and Elia had done her best to puzzle out her latest suitor. Prince Rhaegar's own father was once heard to have complained that his son was Baelor the Blessed born again, which did not bode well for her. Ashara had plied her brother with letters as soon as she'd heard about the proposed engagement, but Ser Arthur evidently took his duties to the Kingsguard too seriously to answer her questions. Elia had met the prince once before, when he accompanied his parents on a state visit to Dorne nine years earlier, but she had been recovering from the broken arm she'd sustained in the Water Gardens and had missed most of the festivities, much to her disappointment.

 

This time, however, there were no such mishaps. On the final night of the royal visit, the Princess Artemisia had held a great feast beside the Water Gardens. The guests sat on couches and the air was filled with the sweet tang of orange blossom. Elia had taken especial care with her gown that day--layer upon layer of sheer sandsilk in colours of flame, pinned at one shoulder with a golden sun-and-spear. Girdling her waist was a belt of rose gold, set with onyx and garnet in the shape of alternating red and black dragons. It had been presented as a gift to the Princess Daenerys on the occasion of her marriage to Prince Maron Martell and the official entry of Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms and Elia noted Queen Rhaella's smile as she recognised it.

 

Prince Rhaegar, she was satisfied to see, took several seconds to stare at her before being able to speak. He and Queen Rhaella had both adopted the light silks and linens of the Dornish court; the queen in blues and violets that brought out her eyes and the prince in his customary black, bordered and accented with red. It made him seem half a statue, his eyes dark as midnight. But there is blood in those veins--kings' blood, dragon's blood--and I would have it sing for me. Rhaegar took up the chalice of chased gold, alternating suns and three-headed dragons, and, after taking a sip for himself, held it to her lips. The wine was Arbor gold and tasted of honeysuckle.

 

"A health, my lords and ladies and honoured guests, to this great alliance. House Martell and House Targaryen have been too long apart," said Princess Artemisia, clinking her glass against Queen Rhaella's. "And what a handsome pair they make."

 

Eight courses and countless toasts later, Elia leant close to her betrothed and whispered, "If we sneak out now, while they're serving the final course, we might escape before they notice."

 

The relief on the prince's face nearly made her giggle. "I am all yours, Princess."

 

She shifted to the far side of the couch and tugged on Oberyn's sleeve. "Distract Mother," she hissed.

 

"You're doing it, aren't you?" her brother asked, grinning widely. "I told you."

 

"Shut up and distract her, otherwise we won't make it past the doors."

 

Oberyn strode forward and, with exaggerated clumsiness, tripped on the rug to fall face-first into Queen Rhaella's lap. At her shriek of laughter--for their mother had seen to it that her glass was never empty--Elia grabbed Prince Rhaegar's hand and darted for the door.

 

She briefly met the eyes of one of the guardsmen, a Norvoshi who had accompanied Doran's wife Mellario to Sunspear when they were first married. Elia pressed a finger to her lips and pulled the Prince of Dragonstone down the corridor toward the staircase.

 

Elia's chambers looked out toward the sea, on the far side of the palace from the great court of fountains and blood orange trees where the children played. This late into the evening, they were pleasantly cool, filled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine that curled around the pillared terrace. She had ordered some of the same Arbor gold vintage sent ahead during the feast and it sat in a flagon on the inlaid wooden table with two glasses already filled.

 

Beside the bed, swathed in brightly coloured drapes, were two upholstered chairs and a cyvasse board carved of black and white marble, its pieces brightly-hued semi-precious stones with trappings and pennants in black and white to tell them apart. Prince Rhaegar had paused to take a closer look.

 

"Do you still play cyvasse?" She reached down and picked up the white side's dragon, carved of jade with painstakingly detailed scales and teeth. "They modelled the dragons on Meraxes." Queen Rhaenys' dragon had died from a Dornish scorpion bolt and had become a popular subject for Dornish artists ever since, second only to Nymeria setting her fleet afire. The queen's fate was far darker and not spoken of.

 

Our history is writ in blood and fire. And yet I would marry a Targaryen all the same.

 

"A good likeness," Rhaegar said after a moment. "To answer your question, though, yes, I still play."

 

"I've been told that you can learn a great deal about a man from the way he plays cyvasse," said Elia, turning the white dragon over in her hand. "And I thought..." she turned back to him and bit back her smile, "why not raise the stakes a little higher?"

 

"How so?" His expression was difficult to read, but he plucked the dragon from her fingers and eyed it. "Prince Oberyn mentioned something about Martell house rules for cyvasse when we met at Storm's End but I never found out what he meant."

 

"Would you care to?"

 

"Will I regret it?" There was teasing in his voice, if not his face. "It's difficult to tell with your brother."

 

"I should hope it's quite clear that I am not Oberyn," she remonstrated.

 

For a moment, Prince Rhaegar just looked at her. Then, setting the dragon back on the board, he raised her hand to his lips. "I wouldn't be here if you were, Princess."

 

"I'll have to tell him that. He'll be hurt."

 

"He'll survive. What are these infamous rules?"

 

To his credit, when she explained them, he seemed unsurprised. Lips twitching with what had to be well-controlled laughter, he held out his hand to her. "May the best commander win."

 

As Elia sank into one of the chairs--facing the bed, to take best advantage of the torchlight--she discreetly kicked aside her shoes and stretched her aching feet. Prince Rhaegar, busy with the wine, did not see her reach for the small phial hidden in one of the bracelets snaking down her arm. It was the juice of a berry from the Summer Islands that she had saved for tonight, to stir her blood and keep her from tiring. I will sleep for a week after this, she promised herself. After swallowing the concoction, heavily sweetened and with a few drops of milk, she slipped the phial between the cushions of the chair just as the prince paused beside her with a glass.

 

"You are too kind, Your Grace," she said, taking it from him and swallowing a nice mouthful to wash the bitterness from her tongue. Already, however, the weariness was fading, and she busied herself with setting up her defences behind the elaborately painted silk screen that fit into the centre of the cyvasse board.

 

Elia was the first to lose a piece--a crossbowman, of which she had several more that she could spare. Keeping her eyes fixed on the prince's face, she slowly slid the layers of sandsilk over her knees and unfastened the laces holding the sheer gold stocking in place.

 

"You're trying to distract me," he said, his eyes flickering up and down from her face to the length of her leg, coppery-brown in the torchlight. She'd done well to wear this gown--she would thank Ashara later for convincing her.

 

Elia laughed and let her skirts fall back into place. "That is the point. Now," she added, leaning forward, "we could go back to the normal rules if you truly wish it, Your Grace."

 

"Wouldn't that be cowardly of me?" he asked. His voice was light and his fingers sure as he moved one of his light-horsemen diagonally to the left. "Besides," he said, eyes meeting hers, framed with dark lashes, "I never said the distraction was an unwelcome one."

 

"Good." She swept forward with one of her trebuchets and snatched up one of his elephants carved of shining silvery stone, almost like liquid metal. "Now it's your turn." He blinked down at the board, aghast. Elia threw back her head with a cry of laughter. "I told you. This is how I learn who you are, Rhaegar Targaryen."

 

"Learn away, then." Echoing her, he held her gaze as he unlaced the black silk tunic painted with a red dragon in the Dornish style and pulled it over his head. Beneath it, his skin seemed to glow golden in the torchlight, his cheeks red with drink and excitement. He'd come late to the practice field, or so she'd heard, though with Arthur Dayne as his sworn companion he could have found no better teacher. It showed in spite of his slenderness. If he should turn out to be Baelor the Blessed, it would be such a waste.

 

Elia drew in her breath and ran her tongue across her lips. "I have always enjoyed the life of the mind."

 

But he was staring down at the board, his upper lip tucked beneath his teeth as he looked from piece to piece. Elia forced herself to concentrate on the board as well, at the careful dance of units and obstacles that she had come to love despite its inauspicious introduction.

 

It had been when she was twelve, after having broken her arm playing too roughly in the Water Gardens. Doran, nursing a twisted knee from a joust gone wrong, had taught her to play, and even Oberyn began to watch their matches after scorning them at first. He lacked the patience, however, to play through to the endgame. This was the first time Elia found herself able to sympathise.

 

It also made her careless.

 

To her credit, she managed three hours, or so the notches on the candle told her. Between them, she and the prince had lost only a few more pieces each--a belt, a pair of boots, and Elia's other stocking--but had also finished the entire flagon of Arbor gold.

 

And that was when the black dragon took the white. Rhaegar jumped to his feet with a triumphant shout. Elia stared at the board in disbelief. She'd saved the dragon for last--anyone with half a brain did--but he'd managed to move his just carefully enough that a mountain had hidden it from view at the crucial moment.

 

Elia held tightly to the arms of the chair as she stood, none too steadily. Rhaegar was still smiling as he held out his hand to her. "Call it revenge for Meraxes."

 

She steadied herself in a moment before letting go of his hand and unpinning the single golden brooch at her right shoulder. Taking the gold-fringed edge of sandsilk, she held it out to the prince without a word. Frowning, he took it from her. Elia began to spin, first slowly, then, as laughter bubbled up from within her, faster, as the layers of sandsilk settled around her in a glittering wave.

 

The prince caught her hand and she came to a halt. All she wore now was a shift of sheerest gold.

 

"Gods damn it," muttered Rhaegar Targaryen. "I forfeit."

 

Elia grinned. "I hoped you'd say that."

 

She had kissed him before--a brief ceremonial brush of lips earlier that evening after they'd finished signing their names to the betrothal contract--but that seemed worlds away now as she raked her fingernails across his back and he shivered against her. Even in the chill of the darkest hours, his skin was warm to the touch, his fingers raising delicious patterns through her shift.

 

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered.

 

"Do you doubt me?" teased Elia, her laughter buzzing against his neck.

 

For a moment, he caught her chin in one hand, meeting her eyes. "No. No, I don't."

 

Elia twined her fingers through his. "Good. That's the first lesson."

 

"And the second?"

 

She gave him a sharp shove onto the bed and straddled his hips. Leaning forward, she kissed him. "If I marry you, Rhaegar Targaryen, you must promise me one thing. Never forget that I am of Nymeria's line, and that I bound myself to you, one prince to another."

 

His gaze was steady on hers. "You have my word. By the old gods and the new."

 

By the old gods and the new. He'd kept that promise these three years, through the illness that had plagued her after Rhaenys' birth and now Aegon's. She had nothing with which to fault him.

 

"Well?" Ashara was looking at her expectantly. "How was he?"

 

Elia laughed and motioned for her handmaid to retrieve the thickly woven towel from where it was warming near the brazier. Ashara wrapped it around her shoulders as she rose. "Not quite Baelor the Blessed and a very quick learner."

 

Lilias Fossoway brought the black-and-gold brocade robe embroidered with red dragons and lined with soft black wool; it was Rhaegar's and hung loosely from her shoulders, but Elia had stolen it after his departure for Summerhall and brought it with her to King's Landing, intending to have the fabric copied while she was in the city. She wrapped it closely around herself as she sank into the chair before her dressing table so Ashara could comb out her hair.

 

For several moments Ashara worked as Lilias settled on the window-seat with her lute. Elia had no skill whatsoever for music, though she had always wished for it, having lacked the strength to hunt and dance and the patience for embroidery and other more ladylike pursuits. She had attempted to learn the harp when she was fifteen with disastrous results and it was only a conversation with her mother and her subsequent invitation to join the Princess of Dorne in council that gave her a more useful outlet for her energies.

 

"Where is the prince, my lady?" asked Ashara. She'd found a knot and was working at it with one of Elia's combs. "I know Arthur is with him."

 

"He's in the Marches, as I told the king." She looked around the room, imagining all the hundreds of places where Lord Varys' spies--little birds, he called them--could be hiding. "Serra," she called, "will you sing for us?"

 

It was a code they had devised long ago. Elia had known before her marriage of the spies in the Red Keep and Serra had a remarkably lovely singing voice--Rhaegar had written one or two songs for her already. Lilias whispered something in her ear and adjusted the lute-strings. Despite being from the Reach and despite the fact that she occasionally sent letters to the Queen of Thorns, Elia had grown fond of her. Besides, Serra would have pined away to nothing and Elia was not foolish enough to stand in the way of love between two younger daughters who did not need to marry for their families.

 

They listened to the first verse of the ballad of the Vulture King, if only because it had been Elia's father's favourite song and, despite having no ear at all, he'd sang it to her as a lullaby. What would he do if he were here? Would he challenge Rhaegar for shaming me before all the world? Ashara was brushing her hair with long, slow strokes now, just as her nurse had so many years ago in Sunspear. "You were right. He's with Lyanna Stark, Ashara," she murmured.

 

Ashara started, pulling hard on Elia's hair until she blinked away tears. When she spoke, it was in a hiss. "What do you mean he's with Lyanna Stark? Is Brandon telling the truth?"

 

"Gods, no!" Elia shuddered. "She's with him by choice. But she is indeed with him." Saying the words made her mouth dry as dust; she tried to tell herself it was a coincidence. I am not a jealous woman. I am not. She was a princess of Dorne; she was better than that. What she loathed was indiscretion, and for that she blamed Brandon Stark.

 

"Why?" She met Ashara's remarkable eyes in the mirror and saw tears sparkling at the corners. The brush hung forgotten from her fingers. "Why, my lady?"

 

Why, indeed. "I can't give him another child, Ashara."

 

"He has two children already," Ashara protested, sinking to her knees beside Elia's chair. "Two beautiful children that you nearly died to give him. What need has he for another?"

 

Elia shook her head. She had to fight to keep her voice to a murmur. "It's that prophecy, that thrice-damned prophecy, and this last winter made it all worse. I don't understand it and I never will, but Rhaegar believes..."

 

Ashara snorted. "A convenient belief, if you ask me."

 

"Enough, Ashara," she snapped. "It was all very simple until your bloody Lord Brandon got involved."

 

"You can hardly blame Brandon for caring about his sister! What in the world made Prince Rhaegar think he could run off with her and nobody would notice? Has he forgotten what he did at Harrenhal?"

 

Gods. She had all but forgotten about that. "Yes, they were talking of it, weren't they? He did it to distract them from his father, or so he told me then. Or maybe you're right," she added with a bitter laugh. "Maybe Oberyn was right. I chose to trust my husband and perhaps I was mistaken." She looked down at her hands, brittle fingernails cut to the quick because they broke too easily, the skin dry no matter how many ointments she used. "I would not be the first wife thus shamed, would I? Not even the first Targaryen queen."

 

"I'm sorry, my lady," Ashara whispered. "I shouldn't have said anything."

 

"No, dearest, you must always tell me the truth. Promise me you will." Queen Naerys had endured the constant shame of being married to Aegon the Unworthy. But Rhaegar is better than that. I must believe it. She brushed Ashara's hair away from her face and Ashara kissed her palm. "It will be over soon enough. Lyanna Stark has no interest in being queen; she's told me so herself."

 

"You've spoken to her?" Ashara blinked up at her, brows furrowed. "Wait...that letter she sent to Dragonstone after Aegon was born. You didn't really think that would work, did you?"

 

"Of course I thought it would work. I shouldn't have done it otherwise." Elia bit back the utterly inappropriate desire to laugh. "If I believed in Rhaegar's prophecy, I'd think it all for the greater good. But I was never very good."

 

"Then you're doing a dreadful job of being selfish," remarked Ashara, glaring up at her. "Have you heard from him?"

 

"Only that they've arrived...I can't tell you where, Ash. The fewer people who know, the better."

 

"Are you sure of that now, Elia? Is this what you want?"

 

"What I want," Elia whispered, "is impossible. I'm making do with what I have."

 

For a few moments they sat in silence, Elia's fingers idly combing through Ashara's long, dark hair. "What will you do, my lady?" her handmaid finally asked.

 

"I wrote to Rhaegar before we left. No doubt he'll write to his father telling him more or less what I've told him, and once this mess is dealt with, we'll return to that dismal island of ours that we love so much."

 

"And Brandon Stark?" Elia couldn't help but smile even as Ashara glared at her. "It's not what you think."

 

"Are you sure? You've had long enough to miss him and forget his bad parts. And he's not married yet."

 

"For shame, my lady," Ashara laughed. "You're supposed to be a good influence on us. May I tell him about his sister?" At Elia's sigh, she took her hand. "He deserves to know the truth. If it were Arthur who had gone missing, it would eat me alive."

 

"Very well. But swear him to secrecy first, however northerners do it. And use your judgement, Ashara," she added, as Ashara rose to her feet. "We don't know whose side he's on."

 

"I'd imagine he's on his sister's side," said Ashara mildly. "Whichever one that is."

 

Elia retrieved her hairbrush and finished combing out the knot Ashara had left. From somewhere in the background, Serra finished the ballad of the Vulture King and began a second song--Rhaegar's lament of Jenny of Oldstones. It sounds right in a woman's voice. She added it to the list of things to include in her letter.

 

He would be back before she knew it. And we will go to Dorne, and I will get better. Elia reached into the drawer of her dressing-table, drew out a fresh sheet of parchment, and began to write.

Chapter Text

The final part of their journey took them deeper into the red mountains, along what Rhaegar eventually explained was the Boneway. Daeron the Young Dragon had used a goatherd's path nearby to sneak into Dorne as part of his conquest.

 

"Don't forget," added Ser Arthur, "that Daeron Targaryen lost Dorne just as easily as he won it. You had to marry us to keep us."

 

"The Dornish are very proud of that," Rhaegar said, glancing at Lyanna. "As, I suppose, the Starks must be too."

 

"The kings in the North knelt before Aegon the Conqueror, aye," Lyanna confirmed. She'd thrown off her cloak in the heat, as Rhaegar had. Only Ser Arthur persisted, through some strange feat of Kingsguard-inspired stubbornness. "Now that I've seen Harrenhal in person, I can understand why."

 

It had been Brandon who said it when they first glimpsed Harrenhal a year ago. I think I understand why Torrhen Stark knelt if that is what dragons do to stone. She'd been thankful that they, like most of the visitors for the tourney, slept out in the meadows in tents, rather than within the castle's walls. Only the royal family had that dubious privilege and Lyanna had been content to leave them to it.

 

"Is it truly haunted?"

 

"Harrenhal?" Rhaegar shook his head. "I saw no ghosts if that's what you're asking."

 

"But what about the fire? Nobody ever found out how it started."

 

"If you mean to suggest that we offended Black Harren..." His lips were clearly twitching from suppressed laughter.

 

"That isn't what I meant," Lyanna protested, blushing. "You believe you can bring dragons back to the Seven Kingdoms but you don't believe in ghosts?"

 

"Do you believe in ghosts, Arthur?"

 

"I was convinced I saw Prince Aemon the Dragonknight on the night I said my vows, but it might have been the lack of sleep." Ser Arthur shrugged. "I had an entire conversation with him, though I sadly can't remember what he said."

 

"You're worse than my brothers, the pair of you," sighed Lyanna. "What about the White Walkers? Do you believe in them?"

 

"You'd be a better authority than either of us. I've never been further north than the Twins," Rhaegar admitted. After a moment, Lyanna met his eyes. "I do mean to change that, although I confess I found Lord Walder's hospitality somewhat lacking."

 

Lyanna opened her mouth to say he would be welcome at Winterfell, but stopped. I don't know if he would be, do I? She couldn't imagine her father refusing the king's son, but Lord Rickard was a prickly man on the best of days and Lyanna had just flouted him before the whole kingdom. She shook her head as though clearing away cobwebs. "I've always wanted to visit the Wall. My lord father wouldn't take me. He said it was no place for ladies. I even tried to sneak along in the baggage train but Father caught me and sent me back to Winterfell."

 

"When was the last royal visit to the Wall?" Ser Arthur asked Rhaegar after a moment. "I gather it's been some time."

 

Rhaegar shrugged. "Aegon the Unlikely visited with Ser Duncan the Tall when he was his squire, but I'm not certain that counts as a royal visit. We might be overdue," he added, glancing at Lyanna.

 

She smiled. "You might be. But, as you said, we rule the north for you."

 

They camped that night in the ruins of a castle called Vulture's Roost that sat at the mouth of the river Wyl as it snaked through the red mountains toward the Prince's Pass, and before sunset the following day, Lyanna saw the tower for the first time. It stood like a lone sentinel on a cliff, and she drew to a halt, frowning, as she stared at it.

 

"Is something wrong, my lady?" Ser Arthur asked. Beside him, Rhaegar studied her curiously but said nothing.

 

"I..." She had seen it before. Winter is coming, wolf girl. For a second, instead of a tower, Lyanna saw a tomb, a cairn for the dead. She shook her head and it was gone. "Nothing. Just...I thought I'd seen it before."

 

"The tower? Might be there's somewhat like it in the north," Ser Arthur mused. "Although I'd always thought secret lovers' hideaways were a Dornish staple rather than a northern one."

 

You think northerners don't fall in love?"

 

"The Dornish just think they do it better than everyone else," Rhaegar pointed out. When Lyanna did not answer, he urged his horse closer. "Is something wrong?"

 

"It wasn't in the north," Lyanna finally confessed. "It was in a dream I had at Winterfell, before I came south." Now both men were staring at her and she lowered her eyes. "It was the same tower. I'm certain of it."

 

"Was there anything else?" She could feel Rhaegar's eyes on her but couldn't quite look at him. "Lyanna?"

 

Lyanna urged her horse forward, as though the sheer sides of the narrow passage were closing in on her. Over her shoulder with the best smile she could muster, she called, "Race you there!"

 

Without waiting for a response, she kicked her heels into her grey's sides and Sym shot forward like a bolt. She stretched herself out along his neck, ignoring the shouts from behind. The path opened up to one side as it climbed the mountain and she hugged the rocky wall to her right. Finally she mustered the courage to look to her left and saw a vista of red peaks across the horizon, draped in clouds as a storm rose to the west against the setting sun. Impossibly far below was a great white road snaking its way along the valley floor, tiny paths spreading forth into the mountains like finger bones. The Prince's Pass. I am in Dorne. Winterfell was unimaginably far away. There is no going back.

 

Before her rose the tower, its walls the gold of the sunset beyond. As she drew nearer, she could see vines climbing along its sides, framing the windows with intricate tendrils and clinging white blossoms closed against the light. There were roses too, red and white, growing in a bramble along the tower's base, their scent filling the air. It looked like the ruined towers of Summerhall, its windows crowned with curving, pointed arches. And is it just as doomed as Summerhall? Where the thought came from, she did not know, and she spurred her horse closer.

 

This was no watchtower or fortress. The far side of the tower, perched close to the cliff's edge, had a row of graceful arches open to the west and a small courtyard paved with red stones. At the top was a balcony, its railings carved of marble. I would feel like the queen of the world to see this at my feet.

 

She glanced back at the sound of hoofbeats on the stone path. The black Dornish stallion danced to a halt and Lyanna vowed at that instant that she would try him out as soon as the prince could be convinced. She of all people could understand being possessive of one's horse, but Balerion was a creature like none she'd ever seen.

 

"Are you mad?" demanded the prince. The colour had risen in his cheeks and the reins were clenched hard in his fingers. "These paths are treacherous. You could have been killed."

 

"Hardly," Lyanna snapped. "I trust Symeon more than I trust you."

 

Their eyes met. After a moment, the prince shook his head. "Just, please, be careful."

 

"I assume your horse can see," Ser Arthur observed, "unlike his namesake."

 

"He earned the name. Sym brought me home to Winterfell once, in the dead of night and all on his own," explained Lyanna as she dismounted. "What is this place?"

 

"If you hadn't run off, I was about to tell you," replied Ser Arthur. "But now you can guess."

 

"You said it was a lovers' hideaway." Now that she saw it up close, it was obvious; there were no walls, no defences at all, save the tower's location. This was built for beauty, not for protection. There were several smaller outbuildings--a kitchen, perhaps, and a makeshift stable partly leaning against a rocky outcropping. There were four stalls. One held a mule whose ears barely pricked up when they drew near. "Who built it?"

 

"A knight of my house," said Ser Arthur. "The stories don't tell us his name. They say he was the Sword of the Morning, but they would say that."

 

"It's better if he is," Lyanna allowed. She could feel Sym relax as she lifted the saddle off his back. He was the youngest of the horses she and Benjen had shared at Winterfell and her favourite. He's happiest when he's running free. They understood one another, Sym and Lyanna. "He built it for his lady?"

 

"Yes and no. His lady was the most beautiful in the land and married to the lord of Highgarden, a man old enough to be her father and impotent to boot--"

 

"He'll say that of any lord of Highgarden, especially the present one," interjected Rhaegar. "The Daynes and the Tyrells have hated one another cheerfully for hundreds of years. I believe it all began over stolen sheep."

 

"I was about to explain how it began," Ser Arthur informed him, his voice echoing strangely in the wood-plank stable. "Sheep had nothing to do with it. This knight went to the princess of Dorne and confessed his love. She helped him find a place in Highgarden in disguise, so he could court his lady, and gave him land in the mountains to build a tower where they could escape from her husband."

 

"Why did the princess help him?" Lyanna began to brush Sym's coat as the horse dug into a well-deserved meal.

 

"She was his friend," said Ser Arthur. "They had known one another since they were children together. She would have done anything to help him and he would have done the same for her."

 

"I like that." Lyanna smiled. "And what of the lady of Highgarden? Did she love him back?"

 

"Not at first. She did not care for her husband, but she had no desire to dishonour him or herself. But every day she would see the knight and compare him to her lord, and every day she found her lord wanting."

 

"But she was faithful to him."

 

"She was. Unfortunately, her lord's bannermen grew jealous and began to whisper in his ear that the knight was too familiar with his wife. They laid a trap for them one day. Near the banks of the Mander was a small bower of roses that the lady of Highgarden loved more than any other place in the castle. She and the knight would meet there in secret, and on that day, the lady's husband found them. He accused them of treason before all his bannermen, but when the time came for the execution, the guards found both cells empty. The knight and the lady had escaped."

 

"They came here?"

 

"They did." Ser Arthur leant against the post, watching her. "It nearly came to war between Highgarden and Dorne, and the princess was forced to intervene. She gave the knight a choice--to run even further with his lady to the Free Cities while Dorne battled Highgarden yet again, or to give her back to her husband in exchange for peace."

 

"That isn't a choice," Lyanna murmured. "Not for a knight."

 

"No, it isn't. But they were happy for a time, here." He looked back toward the tower, framed against the setting sun. "They called it the Tower of Joy."

 

"And after she went back to her husband? Was it still the Tower of Joy then?"

 

"It stuck, I'm afraid," said Rhaegar. "As did the hatred of House Tyrell for House Dayne."

 

"The sheep came afterward," added Ser Arthur with a sideways glance at the prince. "What can I say? They're very good at raising them and we're very good at stealing them."

 

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. If I had a copper for every letter the Queen of Thorns sends to the crown that includes the word 'sheep'..." He shook his head. "But never mind that. I'd show you around, but there's really very little to see. Upstairs is all yours."

 

By the time she climbed the stairs, a candle in her hand, one of the tower's two servants had already lit several in the circular chamber. The entire western-facing wall was open to the evening air and gauzy curtains floated lazily in the doorway. Outside was a balcony with posts and a railing made of stone that glowed white in the rising moon.

 

At the foot of the bed was a wooden trunk elaborately painted with scenes Lyanna soon recognised as the story of Florian and Jonquil. Within were gowns of Dornish silk and several linen shirts embroidered on the collars with a sword and shooting star. On the far side of the balcony was a table and beside it a bookcase about half full.

 

The book that caught her eye was a thick volume bound in black leather with the familiar three-headed dragon on the front. She sat down at the writing table and set her candle between the two already burning in holders above. Opening the book, she peered at the faded writing on the flyleaf. Aegon Targaryen's book. Steal at your peril. That means you, Aemon. She grinned, wondering which Aegon it was and resolving to ask Rhaegar later. Below was his own signature, crossed out twice before he got it right. She wondered how old he had been when he'd first read it.

 

The title page identified it as The Book of the Conquest and Creation of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros by an Archmaester whose name Lyanna couldn't have pronounced to save her life. On the facing page was a painting of a black stone fortress on an island, surrounded by grey waters. Its towers were wrought in the shape of dragons and in the background were several winged shapes, one with a tongue of flame emerging from its mouth.

 

She paid little attention to the words, having heard the story of the first Aegon's conquest many times, but none of the books in Winterfell had pictures like these. There was a glorious one of Aegon himself, riding Balerion the Black Dread to victory on the Field of Fire, his sisters in his wake. Several chapters later, Queen Rhaenys, grave and beautiful, sat in state on the Iron Throne for her brother and husband while he subdued his other foes. But the picture that held Lyanna's attention longest was of Queen Visenya landing in the courtyard of the Eyrie astride Vhagar, armoured in black, Dark Sister held aloft in triumph--she wondered how the painter had made the steel gleam just as Ice did when her lord father sharpened it by the fire. The queen looked different from any other portrait Lyanna had seen--her features sharp as the blade she bore and her pale hair cropped to her shoulders like a boy's instead of the long silver-gilt braids she recalled from one of the faded tapestries at Harrenhal. In comparison, the picture in the book was so lifelike that Lyanna half-expected the dragon to unfurl its tail from the page and strike her for presumption.

 

Lyanna looked up from the book and blinked, startled. At first she thought she was looking at another, far younger, painting of the same queen, except that the colouring was all wrong--dark brown hair caught in a braid and grey eyes instead of silver and violet. She blinked again, and so did her reflection.

 

Lyanna had only seen a looking-glass in Maester Luwin's chambers and later learned from Brandon that he used it to read letters in cipher. This one was much larger, bordered with flowering vines, and framed within was Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Or should I say formerly of Winterfell now? She bit her lip, and the woman in the glass suddenly looked younger. Her sixteenth name day had come and gone during their journey and she had barely noticed.

 

The dragon has three heads. Lyanna hadn't known what that meant, save that it was the Targaryen sigil and that the first Aegon had made his conquests only because he had his sisters by his side--clever Rhaenys and fierce Visenya. She doubted that even Rhaegar entirely understood, though it was the reason he had brought her here, to what seemed like the edge of the world. The dragon has three heads, and I am one. There is no going back now.

 

Rhaegar had said he wouldn't force her. But he is the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne itself. If he commanded me, how could I say no? And she had made her bargain, after all. I have given my word. Lyanna straightened her back and, before she could change her mind, drew the dagger from her waist and cut off the braid in a single stroke. Ser Arthur had shown her how he kept Dawn's edges so sharp Lyanna suspected she could cut herself by looking at it too hard, and even her castle-forged steel had become dangerous if she didn't pay close attention.

 

"If he wants Visenya," she said aloud, "Visenya is what he shall have."

 

She awakened with a start the next morning when she heard the unmistakeable snapping sound of wooden practice swords echoing strangely against the surrounding peaks. Stretching, Lyanna crawled out from beneath the gauzy silk curtains that she could now see were violet and grey, the colours of House Dayne, and made her way to the balcony. The sky was a crystalline blue she had seen only in high summer at Winterfell and she could make out the occasional green trees clinging to the red Dornish mountains that had been lost in shadows the evening before.

 

The wooden swords had stopped, but Lyanna could hear laughter from below. "You're relying too much on the strength of your blade," she heard Prince Rhaegar say. "Not that I can blame you. I hadn't noticed until today."

 

"It hasn't been the same since Toyne nearly took off my leg in the kingswood," Ser Arthur replied. "I use what advantage I can. If you're concerned..."

 

"I'm not concerned, Arthur. I was observing, nothing more."

 

Lyanna slipped into her riding clothes--the Dornish gowns in the clothespress were finer than anything she'd ever worn in Winterfell but she'd felt strangely exposed in them as she never had in dresses before--and started down the tiny spiral staircase built into one side of the tower. Suddenly shy, she paused beside the doorway leading to the tower's main room.

 

"She's not what you expected, is she?" Ser Arthur was seated at the wooden table carving up a fruit that looked a bit like an apple but was neither red nor yellow. "Are you certain you thought this through, Rhaegar?"

 

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself," Rhaegar admitted. He was pacing back and forth, tossing a second fruit back and forth between his hands. "So I suppose not."

 

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but the time for thinking has passed you by. If you plan to go through with this..."

 

"She's a child, Arthur." Lyanna froze as the prince spoke. "I'd forgotten that. It's easy when you're reading her letters."

 

"She was on her way to be married," said Ser Arthur, taking a bite of the fruit. "I doubt Lord Baratheon had any qualms about bedding her." After a second, he shook his head. "Don't give me that look. I don't like it either, but it's true."

 

"That doesn't mean I want to think about it."

 

A few moments passed and Lyanna very nearly took her chance to step into the room when Ser Arthur spoke again. "Will you stop prowling about? Now is hardly the time for cold feet."

 

"It's not cold feet. I don't want to hurt her."

 

"Then don't. Ask her what she wants. Ashara complains to me that men never ask her what she wants, and I can promise you Lord Baratheon is not the asking sort."

 

Unable to stop herself, Lyanna stepped into the doorway. "You can stop talking about me as though I'm not here." Both men turned to stare at her, the strange fruit arrested in Rhaegar's fingertips as though he were about to toss it in the air again.

 

"You look...different," he said after a moment, eyes narrowing.

 

"It suits you," Ser Arthur added around another mouthful of fruit. "Did you plan to become a knight errant, Lady Lyanna?"

 

"I'm not ruling it out," replied Lyanna, her eyes still on Rhaegar's face. "I know the terms of our bargain, Your Grace," she said, satisfied when his eyes dropped in embarrassment. "You needn't be squeamish on my account." Then, with what she felt was admirable self-possession, she sat at the table beside Ser Arthur. "What's that?"

 

"It's an orange." He held out what looked to her like a slice of the sun at sunset, deep red and pulpy on the inside. "They only grow properly this far south."

 

Lyanna's eyes widened as she took a bite. She'd had sweet plums packed in wine at banquets, and berries grew aplenty near Winterfell in warmer months, but the orange tasted like none of those. It was sweet and rich and the juice flooded her mouth all at once. She had seen them from afar, she now remembered, in the great hall at Harrenhal, where there had been some at the high table. This is what queens eat, she thought as she licked her fingers clean.

 

"Watch out," warned Ser Arthur. "Once you've got the taste for them, there's no going back."

 

"I'm feeling that way about a lot of things," Lyanna murmured. Stepping past the table, she made her way toward the door that led out toward the stables. "Do you really think I'm a child, Your Grace?"

 

He shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way."

 

Lyanna bared her teeth in what Brandon and Benjen called her wolf grin. "Care to put it to the test?"

 

Ser Arthur let out a whistle between his teeth. "I believe you've just been challenged."

 

Rhaegar was studying her suspiciously. "Are you serious?"

 

Lyanna crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Are you frightened?"

 

"Not remotely."

 

She'd seen him fight at Harrenhal both for show and in the lists. He was about half a head taller than her, but he was accustomed to fighting opponents his own size and larger--Yohn Royce had seemed massive in his bronze armour until Rhaegar had cut his legs out from beneath him with a spear-thrust. She had no chance of beating him. But that isn't the point, now, is it? It hadn't been the point at Harrenhal, and that had made it easier.

 

Lyanna had no armour of her own, but snatched up a pair of leather vambraces from the wooden crate holding the practice swords. Like everything else, they were embroidered with the star-and-sword of House Dayne and she wondered briefly if they had been Ser Arthur's long ago. To her surprise, they fit perfectly.

 

"Are you sure about this?" Rhaegar asked from the doorway. A moment later, he staggered forward as Ser Arthur appeared behind him.

 

"Of course she's sure." He crossed the courtyard to where Lyanna was swinging one of the wooden swords and leant close to murmur, "He fights better with his left hand."

 

Brandon too had favoured his left hand. Lyanna grinned. "I noticed that at Harrenhal."

 

"Well done. Know thy opponent," he said. "What else?"

 

"I don't feel this is fair," Rhaegar complained, sounding less bothered than Lyanna might have expected.

 

"Call it revenge," said Ser Arthur before turning back to Lyanna. "What else?"

 

"He's larger than me." She frowned. "Mayhap he's faster, but I don't know. I'm faster than Ned, but Benjen is faster than me."

 

"Well, what is it that you want?"

 

Lyanna met his eyes and smiled. "I want him on the ground. To prove a point."

 

Ser Arthur didn't smile, but she could see the laughter in his eyes. "It's been years now since he's sparred with someone your size. Strike low and strike fast. If you're lucky, you'll get what you want."

 

"And if I'm not lucky?"

 

Ser Arthur shrugged. "I think the point is already proven, but I'm not the man you're aiming for."

 

She turned away from him to hide the flush in her cheeks and found herself facing Rhaegar, who was turning the practice sword over in his hand. "You don't need to do this."

 

"Of course I don't," said Lyanna with a grin. " I want to. I haven't had a proper match since I left Winterfell."

 

"One of your brothers?"

 

"Benjen. My younger brother." He must know by now where she had gone and why. Of her three brothers, he was the one most likely to understand. He might even have suspected.

 

She could almost see him counting in his head. "How many are there?"

 

"Three, Your Grace. Brandon is married at Riverrun, Ned is in the Eyrie--" with Robert, may the gods forgive me, "and Benjen is home with my lord father." She raised the sword. "Are you ready?"

 

At first, it wasn't especially different from the handful of times she'd convinced Brandon to spar with her in the practice yard at Winterfell. Once, he overreached and she nearly managed to catch him beneath the ankle, but he kept his balance and gave her a sharp crack across the elbow that brought tears to her eyes. "No," she cried out when he lowered the wooden sword, "I'm fine."

 

The next time she got close enough, she whipped the sword hard to her right and it hit him in the ribs, earning her a growled curse. The sword jumped to his left hand, and Lyanna couldn't suppress a smile as she darted to the opposite side and swung out her own sword in a parry.

 

Rhaegar lunged forward, the tip of the wooden sword just barely missing Lyanna's ear, and she dropped to the ground, swiping the wooden blade low so it caught him square in the knee. With a yelp of pain, he crashed to the ground, and she rolled swiftly, snatching up the fallen sword and holding both to his throat. "Do you yield?"

 

Ser Arthur was doubled over with laughter. "Don't ever try that in a tourney," he finally managed, "or someone will have your guts for garters."

 

When she looked back down at Rhaegar, her smile faltered a little. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

 

The next thing she knew, she was on her back, one sword tossed beyond her reach and the other beneath her chin. The prince of Dragonstone smiled down at her and Lyanna was suddenly glad she was already on the ground. "I hadn't yielded yet."

 

"I should have guessed," she said. At this distance, his eyes looked especially striking against the clear blue sky above, and it was only when Ser Arthur cleared his throat from his perch on the tower stairs that Rhaegar jumped to his feet.

 

They fell into a pattern, even as the days grew longer and Lyanna ranged further afield. They rode to the banks of the Wyl on one day and explored the ruins of Vulture's Roost on another. One morning, Ser Arthur awakened early and set off down the path to the south.

 

"Supplies," was Rhaegar's explanation. "Also letters, if there are any."

 

There were three servants in the tower, two of whom came from further into the mountains and a groom who stayed in the stables. One was a young woman named Wylla Sand, a handful of years older than Lyanna who had been trying since her arrival to coax her into a dress. Faced with the prospect of being alone with Rhaegar, she'd given in and found herself looking at a face in the glass that she did not recognise. The Dornish girl had woven flowers through her short hair, pinning them in place, and had chosen a gown of silk blue as the sky at twilight.

 

The gown was both too narrow and too long, and Wylla's rushed hem was uneven--if thankfully not as bad as what Lyanna would have managed on her own. "Just watch yourself on the stairs," was the maid's advice.

 

The shoes she found were little more than thin straps of leather attached to a sole, so Lyanna pulled on her boots in spite of Wylla's disapproval. They, at least, felt natural. She could scarcely breathe and the gown's long, flowing sleeves kept knocking into things before Lyanna could see them.

 

She heard him before she saw him, the sound of harpstrings echoing through the circular room from the terrace beyond. Rhaegar was leaning against one of the pillars, a sheaf of papers on a chair beside him. The harp was on his knee and he was playing it half-heartedly as he frowned down at the single sheet on the ground beside him.

 

"Are you writing a song?" she asked, clasping her hands at her waist as she recalled seeing other ladies do at Harrenhal. Her fingers clung together awkwardly and she suddenly longed for the familiar weight of a belt around her hips.

 

Rhaegar didn't speak at first, his eyes widening at the sight of her. For one awful moment, he seemed on the verge of laughter, but instead, he just nodded. "Trying to, at least. What's the occasion?"

 

"I don't know," she admitted. "I found it upstairs. Some of your books are there, too."

 

"I haven't been here since I was a boy. I must have forgotten them." He looked out across the horizon where the sun hung in the sky above the mountains and then back at her. "Anything good?"

 

Lyanna sat gingerly on the chair opposite him. "There was one about the conquest. I'd never seen paintings that beautiful in a book before. Which Aegon was it who wrote his name at the front?"

 

"Aegon the Unlikely, long before anyone even dreamt he'd become king. He had three elder brothers, one of whom apparently tried to steal that book. He's still alive, on the Wall, if you'll believe it."

 

"My father says you could find a man from every house in the kingdom on the Wall." It's where they send the men they wish to forget, Lord Rickard had added. "Did he do something wrong?"

 

"That isn't the only reason to join the Night's Watch," Rhaegar pointed out. "He did it so his younger brother could be king. He swore the vows and stepped out of the succession."

 

"He didn't want to be king?" She was reminded of Benjen's hatred for taking petitions in the great hall and the painful shyness Ned had only just begun to overcome and for which Lyanna had to credit Robert. But they were younger sons and they had Brandon, the perfect Stark in Winterfell, to carry on their father's legacy for them.

 

Rhaegar set down the harp. "He was a maester of the Citadel already, so he'd taken one set of vows. But to prove once and for all that he would never challenge his brother or his heirs, Aemon took the black."

 

He found her on the balcony later that evening. She had abandoned the silken gown for a squire's breeches and shirt, though she left the roses pinned in her hair. As she raised the glass of wine--Arbor gold, he'd told her--to her mouth, it tasted a little of roses. When he said her name, she set the glass down on the balcony rail.

 

"I wanted to apologise," said Rhaegar. "I shouldn't have laughed before. You just...you startled me, that's all."

 

"It's all right," Lyanna admitted. "Would you believe me if I told you it's a relief?"

 

"You looked beautiful, for what that's worth."

 

"You're a bad liar."

 

"Which is why I don't do it often," he replied. "And I'm not lying now."

 

Their eyes met briefly. Turning aside, Lyanna took another sip of wine and felt the strange warmth flood through her veins. "I wonder whose it was. The dress, that is."

 

Rhaegar glanced over his shoulder to where she'd left the gown over the trunk. "Arthur has secrets, it would seem."

 

"You don't honestly believe..."

 

"Of course I don't. That won't stop me from asking him."

 

"Are there Kingsguard knights who have broken their vows?" she asked, looking out at the mountains even as she could feel his eyes on her.

 

"Dozens of them," said Rhaegar. "Some for better reasons than others."

 

"Like Prince Aemon the Dragonknight?" He had loved Queen Naerys so much that he'd sworn himself to the Kingsguard to protect her even when he could not have her for himself. "Although I suppose we don't know whether or not he broke his vows."

 

"Nobody knows for certain. But it was the right choice for the realm."

 

"You know," Lyanna observed, shooting him a sideways glance, "for a married man who knows more songs than I can think of, you aren't at all romantic."

 

"You should know as well as anyone that marriage has little to do with songs or with romance," replied Rhaegar. "Elia's mother was lady-in-waiting to my mother many years ago. We'd met once or twice as children when my mother visited Sunspear, but after my father refused the alliance with Casterly Rock and Casterly Rock, in turn, refused an alliance with Dorne, it seemed reasonable enough."

 

"Reasonable," echoed Lyanna, leaning on the balcony and peering out across the Prince's Pass. "Would she call it that, I wonder?"

 

"Of course she would," snapped Rhaegar. After a moment, he added, more softly, "She said as much herself when we were first betrothed. Elia's no fool."

 

"Does that make me one?" Lyanna asked. She didn't quite want to look at him, but glanced from the corner of her eye. He was looking down at the valley, dizzyingly far below, the sunset gilding his hair. "Am I a fool for leaving my betrothal because I didn't love Robert?"

 

"I thought you left him because you believed he would make you miserable."

 

"I did. I still believe it."

 

"Look at me, Lyanna." After a moment, she did, biting her lip against the tears that stupidly pricked at the backs of her eyes. Rhaegar reached out to brush the cropped hair away from her face. "There's no crime in that. I'd never have married Elia if I hadn't thought we would be happy together."

 

"My father didn't consider that."

 

"Nor did mine. My mother, however..." He turned back to the battlements, resting his chin on his hands. "She wasn't given a choice in her marriage, so she made certain that I had one."

 

All Lyanna knew of Queen Rhaella was what little she'd overheard at Harrenhal since the queen herself had not attended the tourney. They made her marry her own brother against her will. Yes, it was what the Targaryens had done since the Conquest, but that didn't make it seem any less strange to Lyanna. "What did the king say?"

 

"He disapproved, but he couldn't think of anyone better. And I told him I'd made my choice; he could take it or leave it. Of course, my mother had already signed the marriage contract with Dorne, as had I. The thing was done."

 

The sun had nearly disappeared behind the western mountains. After the cruel return of winter to the north, Lyanna would never have expected to miss the cold snap in the air so much, but she did. "My mother died when I was a little girl. I don't remember her well."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"It's all right." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I wonder if she'd have let me train with a master-at-arms. They told me she knew how to fight with a sword, but my father forbade me."

 

"Elia's brother has apparently engaged a master-at-arms for his eldest daughter and now she's threatened to find one for Rhaenys."

 

Lyanna tried to remember if she'd seen Princess Elia's brother at Harrenhal. She would have only recalled the princess dimly had it not been for one afternoon while they were rehearsing for the masque. The prince had been duelling with Lord Connington and she'd caught sight of the princess watching him, her chin settled delicately on one hand and a smile on her face that made Lyanna think of a satisfied cat. She suspected Princess Elia had smiled much in the same manner when writing to her, and Lyanna had to admit the expression suited her. "Is she very like her brother? The princess?"

 

"When it suits her." He was clearly recalling something, the smile on his face one that made Lyanna blush for reasons she didn't quite understand. "Which is often."

 

"You can't smile like that and not tell me why," said Lyanna, sounding strangely breathless. "It's not fair."

 

He looked at her, head tilted slightly to one side. "Do you play cyvasse?"

 

"Do I what?"

 

"Never mind."

 

There was a world of secrets in his expression, and Lyanna couldn't resist. "Is it a game southron ladies play?"

 

He considered for a moment before answering. "Everyone in the Dornish court plays it. My mother taught me. Elia..." he laughed, "played by a very different set of rules." Then, with a sideways glance at her, he added, "Almost until the day I left Dragonstone, I'd told myself she'd be with me."

 

She was close enough to him that the edges of his sleeves were brushing hers. "But she wrote to me months ago to tell me she wasn't well enough."

 

"You would be surprised," said Rhaegar softly, "what people will see when they want to."

 

Thinking of Robert, but only at first, she shook her head. "No, I wouldn't. How could I, when I'm doing it myself?"

 

Lyanna looked up and met his eyes--I could drown in those eyes if he would let me. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to have dissolved on her tongue. Instead she kissed him.

 

For such a noted seducer, Robert's kisses had been shockingly chaste. Domeric Bolton, on the other hand, had had his hand beneath her riding jerkin within five minutes, at least until she'd slapped it away and warned him not to take liberties if he wished to keep his manhood intact. Neither had been especially memorable. Here, standing high in the Dornish mountains, in a tower built long ago by a knight for the woman he loved and lost, she felt as though she were paused on the edge of the world. With a sudden lurch of her heart, she realised he was kissing her back, one hand at the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair.

 

"Before you ask me again," she whispered as they pulled apart, "I'm saying yes."

 

***

 

Ser Arthur returned the following evening and Lyanna found herself blushing as though the previous night was written on her skin. But he only handed Rhaegar two sealed letters and tossed an orange to Lyanna before announcing that he had been riding since dawn and would speak to them on the morrow.

 

She watched as Rhaegar read both letters, an array of expressions flitting across his face. Almost laughter, and then a sudden frown. "Is something wrong?" asked Lyanna.

 

He looked at her for a moment. "A disturbance," he finally said. "Nothing serious. I'll write to the king."

 

"Is it from the princess?"

 

"She tells me Jenny's lament sounds better when Serra Santagar sings it," Rhaegar said, his eyes still on the letters, both in one hand. "And that Rhaenys wants a kitten."

 

"What sort of disturbance?" Lyanna asked. "Has she heard anything from my father?"

 

"He's been sent for. Elia says she will tell me when he's left White Harbor and I'll go back to speak with him myself." He folded the letter and slipped it into a pocket in his tunic before placing one hand on Lyanna's shoulder. "It'll be fine, Lyanna."

 

"He'll be furious with me."

 

"Probably." She looked up at him. "But even if he is, you're not wrong."

 

Lyanna smiled. "Remind me of that when he's told me how awfully I've dishonoured Winterfell."

 

"Gladly."

 

She would later remember those weeks as the last taste of sweetness.

Chapter Text

Elia had arranged to meet the envoys from Sunspear in the Small Hall rather than in the great solar connected to her bedchamber where she had been receiving guests and petitioners since her arrival in King's Landing. The air was stale compared to the brisk winds in the courtyard outside--an unexpected and sunny respite from the cold winds and freezing rain that had characterised their visit so far. Perhaps I will spend some time in the godswood after the audience. King's Landing might not have Dorne's climate, but it was closer to Dorne than Dragonstone was, and Elia relished every chance she had to soak in the sunlight while she could.

 

Ashara detached herself from the small group of courtiers clustered near one of the great stained-glass windows as the guards brought Elia's chair to the dais. With one hand on Ashara's arm, Elia made her way to the great wooden throne edged and crowned with carved pieces of dragonbone. On it was a thick cushion of orange velvet embroidered with a golden sun. Elia shot Ashara a smile. "You think of everything, don't you?"

 

"You'll need to tread carefully," Ashara warned her under her breath. "Your mother's sent Alyse Ladybright and she can spot a lie at fifty paces."

 

Alyse was a close friend of her brother Doran and the Princess of Dorne was clearly grooming her to take a position on Doran's council. She remembered everything in numbers, or so Elia and Oberyn had been convinced as children, and she'd kept the purse-strings firmly in hand whenever they'd asked for pocket money. Elia sighed. "I'm surprised my lady mother managed to pry her away from Doran's accounts long enough to come here."

 

Serra and Lilias had spread a blanket in the far corner of the room and settled there with Aegon's nurse, a brown-haired, round-cheeked girl named Cara. Aegon himself was seated contentedly on Lilias' lap, chewing on a golden rattle that had been a birth-gift from Lord Tywin Lannister. A useful display for those with the wit to see it.

 

Lady Alyse's curtsey was more perfunctory than graceful. She was a broad, square-faced woman with dark brown hair not unlike Doran, who took after their father while Oberyn and Elia favoured their mother. "My lady Princess, it pleases me to see you here, and looking so well. I had been given to understand otherwise."

 

"I hope you weren't listening to rumours, Lady Alyse," replied Elia with as sweet a smile as she could manage. "But thank you for your concern. I trust my lady mother and my brothers are well?"

 

"Very well, Your Grace. Princess Arianne bade me thank you for the book, although Prince Doran suggested fewer pirates next time, for his own peace of mind." To her credit, Lady Alyse delivered this message with a perfectly straight face.

 

Beside her, Ashara stifled a giggle. For her sixth name-day Elia had sent her niece a book of adventure tales from the Free Cities, most of which her father had read to her as a little girl. Rhaegar had engaged a young painter from Myr to add the illustrations, at least one of which was of a notorious Tyroshi pirate. "Someone needs to teach her to beware of unsuitable men."

 

"They could start with Prince Oberyn," retorted Lady Alyse. "Pirates, it seems, are the newest rage in Dorne."

 

"Another Sand Snake, I assume?" Elia laughed. "Is her mother a pirate?"

 

"A smuggler from the Summer Islands. The babe was delivered to your brother in full view of the court by her first mate, a man with a hook for a left hand. Your lady mother was not pleased."

 

"Only by the timing, I'm sure." Her mother doted on Oberyn's daughters almost as much as she spoiled Arianne and her new brother Quentyn. "Has she any messages for me?"

 

"You know the message," said Lady Alyse, fixing her with unyielding dark eyes. "She wants to see you, Princess. With her own eyes."

 

"And I her," said Elia truthfully, "more than she knows." And her health was improving, or so it seemed; perhaps the change of scene and the warmth were doing her good after all. "Perhaps next year, Lady Alyse. We are due, I think, for a state visit to Dorne."

 

Aegon chose that moment to let out a shriek that silenced everyone in the hall. Elia shrugged and wiggled her fingers in her son's direction. "I believe the prince agrees, Lady Alyse." Aegon waved his rattle back at her, the jingling bells echoing through the vaulted chamber.

 

Even Lady Alyse was smiling. Aegon had that effect on people. Just like his father, the little imp. She would have had Rhaenys with her too, but her daughter had already vanished into the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast with Viserys. Elia could only hope they wouldn't make a surprise appearance as they had when she was meeting with the Volantene merchants' guildmaster the previous week to announce that they had found a secret room whose walls were painted with, as Viserys put it, lots of naked people. The guildmaster had roared with laughter while Queen Rhaella, who had joined Elia for the meeting, buried her face in her hands in abject embarrassment. In the end, the guild had accepted their new tithe to the crown, so she supposed it had been a success overall.

 

She and Lady Alyse spoke of state matters for a short while--additional men-at-arms for the merchant caravans moving through the Prince's Pass, lowered duties on Dornish wines, the news that the Golden Company, now camped near Braavos, had elected a new captain-general supposedly descended from Ser Terence Toyne of the Kingsguard. She learned that baby Sarella's mother captained a ship called the Feathered Kiss and that she had met Oberyn while stopping for repairs on the Salt Shore after having sunk an ironborn galleas laden with stolen goods from the Arbor.

 

"She did send your lord brother three casks of Arbor gold in addition to the baby."

 

"One of which, if he had any sense, went directly to my mother." From the corner of her eye, she could see the newly-arrived Jon Connington kneeling beside the blanket where Aegon was holding his own miniature court, complete with sceptred rattle.

 

Lord Connington, Myles Mooton, and Richard Lonmouth had all sailed from Dragonstone together on the selfsame ship that had brought Elia several weeks earlier, no doubt hoping to puzzle out Rhaegar's whereabouts. Instead of asking her outright, however, they'd simply joined the ranks of the courtiers already clustered round the king, keeping half an eye on Elia in case she revealed anything. I will never understand my lord of Griffin's Roost.

 

She realised soon that Lady Alyse too was watching her son. "He's a fine boy, Princess."

 

"He is." Whatever doubts she may have about Rhaegar in the silence of her own mind, she had none whatsoever about her children. "For all the trouble it took to bring him into the world, he's a sweet child."

 

"He has the look of his father. No doubt that pleases the prince."

 

"The prince is pleased with both of his children, Lady Alyse," Elia told her, a world of warning in her voice. "In fact, I would venture to say that Rhaenys is his favourite. For certain, she and Prince Viserys are inseparable."

 

Lady Alyse's eyes widened for a moment, but she inclined her head without changing expression. "I meant nothing by it, Your Grace."

 

"I cannot imagine you did, my lady."

 

Elia's eyes met Jon Connington's briefly before the stormlander looked away. Aegon had hold of one of his fingers and was pulling himself up proudly, his other hand waving at her, the rattle forgotten by his feet. With a murmured excuse to Lady Alyse, and taking her uncle's offered arm, Elia made her way--slowly, carefully--to where Aegon held out his hands to her.

 

"You've made friends today, little prince, hm?" she asked, lifting him into her arms. He was getting heavier. "You'll have half the kingdom eating out of your hand by the time your lord father returns."

 

"And when will he return, Princess?" asked Lord Connington, still kneeling at her feet. "You told us he was at Summerhall?"

 

"Yes. You know he's wanted to rebuild it for years. He's decided there's no better time than the present." With a laugh, Aegon grabbed one of Elia's ringlets and tugged hard. "No, sweetling, that's not for you."

 

"He's beautiful." Lord Connington rose to his feet, his eyes restlessly on Aegon's face.

 

"Just like his father," said Elia. When he met her eyes, startled, she gave him a brief smile. "A perfect little king." Raising her voice to address Lady Alyse and the Dornish party, she added, "Aegon, Conqueror of Hearts."

 

After the audience, she made good on her promise to herself to stop in the godswood, handing Aegon off to his nurse and two of her ladies to wander about and amuse him, while Elia stretched out on a patch of grass and closed her eyes.

 

When she awakened, the queen was sitting on a woven rug beside her, twisting flowers one by one into a garland. There were daisies and cornflowers and a few Elia could not name--she wondered idly where the queen had found them in winter. Were there greenhouses in the Red Keep? It wouldn't have surprised her. "I didn't want to wake you. How was Lady Alyse?"

 

"As she ever was. No doubt she will inspire all manner of rude questions from my mother," replied Elia, stretching her arms luxuriantly over her head. "How long was I sleeping?"

 

"Not very long. Viserys insisted on taking Aegon to see the heart tree. Cara and Ser Jaime are with them and Rhaenys..." She pointed at what Elia had first taken for a muddied cushion but could now see was her daughter curled into a ball and dozing contentedly on Queen Rhaella's skirts, her yellow tunic covered in dirt and grass stains. "Well, she saw you and decided you had the better idea."

 

Elia turned over and settled her chin on one hand. "My brother Doran wishes to send his daughter Arianne to Dragonstone as Rhaenys' companion."

 

"And my cousin Steffon's youngest boy is to join you too, I hear." The queen smiled. "Your mother is right to keep children about her as she does. I would send Viserys with you in a heartbeat if I could."

 

"You can. It was one of your family, good-mother, who started that tradition in Dorne," Elia reminded her. She combed her fingers through Rhaenys' dark curls, smoothing the tangles as best she could without waking her. "Renly is his name. Renly Baratheon."

 

"It's long past time," said the queen. "Viserys needs boys his own age. I still remember when Rhaegar first met Arthur Dayne, back when he was still Ser Gerold's squire. And then, after Arthur had got his knighthood, the late Lord Connington sent us Griff." She glanced over her shoulder in the vague direction of the heart tree. "I have one son lucky in his friends; I hope Viserys will prove as fortunate."

 

"Of course he will," Elia assured her. "He already has Rhaenys hanging on his every word, after all."

 

For several moments they both watched the princess sleep, watched her uncurl and fling her arms at odd angles. One of the guardsmen tossed Elia her shawl and the two of them draped it over Rhaenys.

 

"You know," the queen murmured after a moment, her fingers still expertly twisting flower stems as the crown grew more elaborate, "that the godswood is one of the few places in this castle where Lord Varys' little birds cannot hear us." Elia nodded and readied her answer. "Where is he, Elia? It's been nearly two moon's turns since I last heard anything."

 

Elia kept her eyes on Rhaenys. "He's in Dorne with Lyanna Stark."

 

Queen Rhaella sighed. "Oh, my dear."

 

"It isn't fair," she whispered, the words ground between her teeth. "If this were Dorne it wouldn't matter. He could have brought her to court; we could have shared her, raised our children together. But here--" Elia had to stop and take a breath. "Here they look at me and pity me for losing my husband to a slip of a northern girl. He wouldn't even have noticed her if it hadn't been for me."

 

The queen seemed lost in thoughts at first. From far away, they could hear a baby shriek with laughter. "You never knew the late Lady Lannister, did you?"

 

"My mother told me of her, but we never met. We were supposed to, of course, but she took sick when Lord Tyrion was born and we came to Casterly Rock too late."

 

"Poor Tywin. He came back to King's Landing within a week of the funeral. I don't think I've heard him even utter her name since." The queen's eyes met Elia's briefly before returning to the knotted flower stems in her lap. "I will not say that Aerys loved her. Love is too dignified a term. The last straw was on Tywin's wedding night, as Aerys and the others were carrying Joanna to the bridal bed. I was there too, with your mother and Lady Tully, and Aerys..." she shuddered. "The way he looked at her."

 

"My mother told me that story," Elia said. She'd heard it at Casterly Rock too, from Oberyn, who had it from one of the servants. "She said King Aerys made a drunken jape that he wished Queen Alysanne had not outlawed a king's right to a bride's maidenhead. And that Lord Tywin said nothing--only whistled a bar from 'The Rains of Castamere'."

 

"Nothing so dramatic. He just looked at the king until the laughter stopped." For a moment, Queen Rhaella gazed into space, clearly seeing the great chamber in the Tower of the Hand full of drunken wedding guests and a bed draped in Lannister red and gold. "It was I who took Aerys away, and your mother convinced Tywin to send Joanna to Casterly Rock as soon as could be managed. He wanted her with him, of course, but he couldn't take the risk. And it was never right again between Tywin and Aerys, no matter how much they tried to convince themselves otherwise."

 

"And Lady Joanna?"

 

"She ruled Casterly Rock in his absence after his father died. Oh, his brother Kevan signed everything, but it was Joanna who dictated it all with Tywin's blessing. She was always writing to your mother for advice, but she would send Tywin these letters every week--pages and pages, always by Lannister courier, and he would reply to each and every one, no matter how busy he was. That, you see, is the difference between love and duty." She twisted the golden wedding band on her finger. "To this day, I believe Viserys was conceived on the night Aerys learnt of Joanna's death. He wept in my arms. He hadn't done that since we were children."

 

"And yet Lord Tywin will not let his daughter inherit Casterly Rock after he dies," Elia observed. "Is she not Lady Joanna's child?"

 

"Joanna was, and always will be, the exception for Tywin. No other woman could equal her, not even her daughter." Queen Rhaella squinted up at the sky as a raven's cry cut across the quiet of the godswood. "We all have lies that we tell ourselves, good-daughter, to help us sleep at night."

 

Rhaegar would never betray me. Was that her lie? Elia looked down at her daughter's face---the long, dark lashes fluttering in dreams against her golden-brown skin, her mouth screwed up in displeasure, then smoothing once more into repose. "What is yours?"

 

The queen looked at her, her face unreadable. "That I can trust the king."

 

"Lord Stark will be here soon," Elia said after a moment's uncomfortable silence. "He trusts the king, it seems. So does the Hand."

 

"Lord Merryweather has done well, all things considered." The queen tied off the edges of the tiny flower crown in her lap and placed it on Rhaenys' sleeping head. "But I confess, Elia, my sleep would be less troubled if Tywin were still Hand of the King."

 

Whatever Tywin Lannister's faults, he knew how to control the king. It was hardly a coincidence that Lord Rossart had made his way back into the Red Keep within hours of the former Hand's departure, no matter how many times Rhaegar had argued with his father. Lord Merryweather just wrung his hands and muttered platitudes about the royal will. And Grand Maester Pycelle had inadvertently confessed to her during his time in Dragonstone that he was giving the queen additional milk of the poppy for her increasingly frequent headaches. Rhaegar had told her several months after they married that his mother drank a small dose every night to help her sleep. Ever since Duskendale. Without the flower crown to steady her hands, they shook in her lap. Elia looked away.

 

"Mine too," she admitted. "And I don't even like him."

 

"Oh, nobody likes Tywin, my dear," the queen told her with a brief smile. "All the same, I would give a great deal to see the lion of Lannister at the city gates right now."

 

A sharp breeze picked up, rattling the shrivelled leaves above and catching the corner of the shawl that covered Rhaenys. Elia looked up at the branches and the flashes of blue sky beyond. "I would settle for Lord Stark. The sooner he and his son are on their way back to Winterfell, the sooner the children and I can return to Dragonstone. All the better."

 

"Rhaegar spoke to me before I left Dragonstone earlier this year," said Queen Rhaella. From Elia's angle, the light catching her cheekbones just so, she looked startlingly like her eldest son. "He did not tell me it was Lyanna Stark he was pursuing, but I had my suspicions after what I'd heard from Harrenhal. He told me it was somewhat to do with that old prophecy that killed my grandsire." At Elia's startled glance, she gave a brief, humourless laugh. "Forgive me, my dear, but I would far rather Rhaegar were off in a love-nest than chasing imagined dragons. That prophecy only ever brought death to my family. I wish I knew who told him of it all those years ago to make him believe it was more than just another story. I would rip out his tongue."

 

The captain of Tywin Lannister's guard had made the foolish mistake of boasting in his cups that the Hand ruled the kingdom rather than King Aerys, and had lost his tongue for his presumption. He retained his position, however, and became Lord Tywin's silent, terrifying shadow--a daily reminder of Targaryen justice and Lannister pride. Elia kept her thoughts to herself and tried not to think about the clipped ease of her good-mother's words.

 

***

 

The ship bearing Lady Alyse and her retinue back to Sunspear had just passed out of the Rush into Blackwater Bay, where the waters were rough and choppy but not frozen. The diamond-paned windows in the presence chamber that had once belonged to King Jaehaerys the Conciliator all faced east, presenting a glorious view of the bay stretching outward to the Narrow Sea. Elia had settled in the window-seat Rhaegar had preferred during their brief stays in the Red Keep, its worn-down black velvet cushions supplemented by several more robust ones from the bedchamber next door.

 

The Dornish party had stayed for the better part of a week and, but for Rhaegar's absence and the northerners still waiting idly in the upper dungeons, it had been nearly as festive as those last few weeks in Dragonstone before Aegon was born. Whether Lady Alyse knew of Lord Brandon's untimely appearance in the capital was unclear, but Elia did not trust herself not to give too much away by asking.

 

Ashara emerged from the bedchamber and dropped a brief curtsey. "Have they left, my lady?"

 

"You can just see them there," said Elia, pointing. Ashara moved to her side and unfastened the window. A salt-scented gust of wind caught at her hair as she knelt on the window seat and stuck her head out. "Be careful!" Elia hissed.

 

"There are three large windows at the top of the Palestone Sword. I used to sit there, one foot on either side of the frame, and stare down until I got dizzy. Poor Arion is scared of heights so it was the perfect place to hide from him." Ashara waved one hand gracefully back and forth and Elia, to her delight, saw a signal flare arc upward from the ship's stern. "I would wager that was Serra's brother."

 

Among the contingent, causing riots amongst Elia's ladies, was Serra's younger brother, newly knighted and freshly blooded in a seacoast skirmish against marauding ironmen. "Was I imagining things or were you flirting with little Ser Aron?"

 

"Not at all," Ashara demurred. "He lacks his sister's talent and her tact. I'd prefer a man whose greatest skill isn't for bashing other men's skulls in. And before you mention Brandon Stark..."

 

"I said nothing."

 

"I know that look. It's the same look you give Rhaenys when she tells you she's not going to dirty her tunic."

 

"Why don't you fetch me some of that wine Ser Aron brought from Spottswood?" Elia managed between giggles. "It might jog your memory as to Brandon Stark's many--or not so many--skills."

 

Glaring at her behind laughter of her own, Ashara hurried from the chamber. Elia had given her other ladies the afternoon to themselves--Serra had been begging for leave to visit the lute-maker's shop on the Street of Sisters and they had all ordered new gowns that they were dying to see. When she heard the unmistakeable sound of armoured feet outside her door, she turned back from the window. Her uncle stepped in.

 

"The king is here, my lady princess."

           

"The king?" Elia echoed, frowning. She'd had a letter from Rhaegar the previous day and it had taken all her willpower to finish her afternoon's audience with the High Septon--who reported that the king was in good spirits and eager for Lord Stark to arrive so they could settle this business--before retreating to her chamber to read it. He'd mentioned writing to his father right after agreeing that Rhaenys was still too young for a kitten no matter what she wanted and before asking her to confirm a line from a Rhoynish poem on the death of Prince Garin. Some things about her husband would never change, it seemed. But that was not what concerned her now. "Will you help me to my chair, Uncle Lewyn, before he comes?"

 

"Of course, Princess." He held out his arm and Elia took it--only after she stood, for pride's sake--so he could lead her across the room. Her chair sat near the bedchamber door on a small dais. Since Elia had started using the room, one of Aegon's cradles had found its way near the closest window, and several of Rhaenys' playthings could be found scattered about. But there was nothing to be done for that now if the king was waiting outside.

 

She settled herself in the chair while her uncle returned to the door. First came a Kingsguard knight in white armour, dark-haired and bearded. Ser Oswell Whent, she recalled. He had joined the Kingsguard when Rhaegar was still a boy, but Elia did not know him especially well. "King Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of that Name since the Conquest, King of the Seven Kingdoms," he intoned in a voice as well-trained as any herald's.

 

"Your Grace," Elia said as the king swept into the room. He wore black velvet edged in red and gold and his eyes searched restlessly about. "You honour me."

 

When she tried to rise, he waved one hand at her. "No, my lady, I insist. Please." Elia met her uncle's eyes in silent questioning but he only held up his hands with a shrug. "Are your lady mother's envoys satisfied?"

 

"I cannot see why not," Elia replied. "Lord Merryweather put on quite the show for them."

 

"And the Grand Maester has had word from White Harbor that Lord Rickard Stark is on his way here. One might even wonder if he had already left Winterfell before our summons arrived."

 

"Perhaps Lord Brandon sent him a message before he came here," Elia suggested, hiding her relief. Rhaegar's letter would have reached Winterfell well in advance of the king's.

 

Elia was so caught up in contemplating which of the Kingsguard she could convince to intercept Lord Stark that she did not hear the king's response It was only when she realised the king was watching her in silence that she managed a weak smile. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I was lost in thoughts."

 

"I had a letter from my son today." The king looked down at his hands and Elia had to suppress a shudder at the clawlike fingernails. I don't like his hands, Rhaenys had complained to her grandmother just the other day, and Queen Rhaella had agreed, though it seemed even her disapproval could not change the king's mind. "I thought I told you not to trouble Rhaegar with this matter."

 

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I thought Rhaegar should know that Brandon Stark was imprisoned on his account."

 

For a few moments, the king was silent. Elia grasped the arms of her chair and pushed herself to her feet. "Your Grace?" she called out across the room to where the king stood in the shadows.

 

"He is very well-loved, isn't he?" he asked. There was something in his voice that set Elia's nerves on end. "How the smallfolk adore him; how they cheered him at Lannisport and Harrenhal."

 

"Of course they do," Elia said, trying to smile. "You have a fine son, Your Grace." She wondered where Ashara had gone, why none of the Kingsguard were in the room with them. "I am lucky indeed."

 

"And luckier still, when I am dead."

 

"The gods send you many years on the throne, Your Grace," Elia assured him, the lie falling in practised syllables like it had hundreds of times before. "I beg your forgiveness for disobeying you. It will not happen again."

 

"Oh, it will not,” echoed the king. “You will send no more messages, good-daughter."

 

Elia opened her mouth, then considered for a moment before venturing, "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

 

He did not answer at first. "Prince Lewyn," he called out, pitching his voice to the Kingsguard presumably still waiting outside Elia's door. Elia's uncle stepped in and made a careful bow. Beside him was Ser Oswell Whent, about half a handspan shorter and broader than Uncle Lewyn. "You will return with me to the throne room when I am finished here."

 

Elia's uncle frowned. "As you wish, Your Grace, but..."

 

"Then we are understood. Ser Oswell, you will guard the princess. Any messages she tries to send you will bring to me directly."

 

"Your Grace!" Elia protested. "I demand to know the meaning of this."

 

The king looked long and hard at her. "Treason."

 

She could hear her uncle's voice but not the words. He was arguing with the king, at least in fits and starts, until the king's voice sounded like the clash of steel on steel. "Enough!" He spread his hands wide and Elia suddenly saw the network of old and new scars crisscrossing along his wrists. The Iron Throne bleeds him dry. A pity it does not do so faster. "You are of the Kingsguard, are you not, Prince Lewyn?"

 

"I am, Your Grace." Her uncle did not look at her; nor could Elia blame him. What choice had she left him now? "I await your orders."

 

"Await them outside. You too, Ser Oswell, take up your post."

 

Elia's mind was whirling. That Lord Varys had warned the king of a conspiracy at Harrenhal, she knew, but Aegon's birth seemed to have mended fences between Rhaegar and his father, or so she had thought. Or is this some new malady?

 

When the door had closed behind the two white-clad shapes, Elia met the king's eyes. "You have no proof," she said, her voice low and furious. "I have done nothing wrong."

 

"Where is my son?"

 

"I told you. He's at Summerhall."

 

"And I tell you that you lie, Princess. You're all liars in Dorne, liars and traitors." The smile he gave her made her blood run cold. "You would have me dead and Rhaegar on the throne, just like Tywin. Varys' little birds hear a great deal."

 

"You have no proof," she repeated even as she reminded herself that he needed no proof. It was Rhaegar's scruples, not the king's, that she had come to rely on. He can't help you now, Elia. This is your mess; find your own way out. "Your Grace, you're mistaken. How could I plot against you? This is the first time I've left the island of Dragonstone in more than a year, and since I've been in King's Landing I've scarcely left the Red Keep. If Lord Varys names me a traitor, he lies."

 

"Then why do you and Rhaegar both plead mercy for Brandon Stark?"

 

She could tell the truth, to a degree. She remembered Ashara's face when she'd first told her of Lyanna Stark, and the queen's sad understanding. There are lies and there are lies. "Because Rhaegar has run off with his sister Lyanna," Elia finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

"I didn't hear you."

 

"Rhaegar is with Lyanna Stark. Her brother had the correct culprit and the wrong motive. She ran away with him by choice, abandoned her engagement and her family. Even Rhaegar isn't shameless enough to let her brother die for little more than ignorance, and I..." she let a hiccup enter her voice and blinked away imaginary tears that felt strangely real, "I would not see any others hurt by my husband's foolishness."

 

"You knew?"

 

"Of course I knew," she snapped. "Was it not clear to the world at Harrenhal?" It was the lesser of sins; Rhaegar wouldn't be pleased at the slight to his honour, but if it turned the king's wrath from the Starks, so much the better. "Lord Stark's southron alliance is in ruins, Your Grace. Surely that and his daughter's disgrace are sufficient punishment for letting her run wild as she has."

 

For one blessed moment, she saw uncertainty in his face. "Let them go, Your Grace. If your quarrel is with me, I will answer for it, but let Lord Brandon and his father go."

 

"What need has my son of Lyanna Stark?"

 

Were it any other man, she would speak of love and lust, but the king would never believe it of Rhaegar. "He wants another child. I cannot give him one."

 

"Ah, yes," confirmed the king, "for my grandsire's prophecy. He would bring back the dragons, Rhaegar would, and the glory of our house with them."

 

That Elia's children were insufficient, she noted, went without argument, and she had to bite her tongue against the sharp retort that threatened. It's working; don't distract him now. "Is it not what you want too, Your Grace?" asked Elia softly. "You both seek the same thing, surely."

 

"The prince that was promised, born amidst salt and smoke. Aye, I thought it was Rhaegar once; we all did. My grandsire died for it."

 

Elia knew that, of course. Rhaegar had only been convinced otherwise when Aegon was conceived beneath the red comet the previous year. Poor babe, to bear such a weight of expectation. She knew too that the queen hated prophecies of all stripes, having been forced into marriage to fulfil her grandsire's fatal dream of dragons. What King Aerys thought of all of it had never been made clear to her. Then I should have learned it long ago. I relied overmuch on Rhaegar and this is the price.

 

"You see, Your Grace, there is no plot. No treason." Elia watched him, keeping still as though he were a desert snake. "Brandon Stark and his men are innocent."

 

"But you are not, good-daughter." The king had turned away, his attention seemingly caught by one of the wall-hangings. A series of scenes depicting Daeron the Young Dragon's attempted conquest of Dorne ending with the death of the regent Lord Tyrell beneath a shower of desert scorpions. Standing beside the bed on which he met his prickly end was a young woman, her dark eyes full of secrets and triumph. Elia had always wondered who she was supposed to be, as the Dornish version of the story had Lord Tyrell cause his own death by pulling the cord beside his bed and releasing the scorpions from the canopy above. Leave it to a northern artist to add a wicked woman where none existed. "You've never been innocent. You're too much like your mother for that."

 

"What do you mean?" Elia was curious despite herself. Her mother rarely spoke of the royal court, though she had spent nearly ten years there, first at Summerhall and then briefly in the Red Keep after the fire. Too many eyes, Princess Artemisia told her with a shudder, but more importantly your grandsire died in Sunspear and I was his heir. And with two small children--Rhaegar was a year younger than Oberyn, and two years Elia's junior--the Princess of Dorne had turned her attention to her own lands, finally free of the threat of Maelys the Monstrous and his Blackfyre hordes. "What did my mother do?"

 

"Meddled. You Dornish women are always meddling where you don't belong. She was always watching, always between me and my Joanna."

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Elia said, cursing the quaver in her voice. Joanna Lannister--he must mean Joanna Lannister. "What happened?"

 

"Nothing happened," sneered the king. "That's the point. Thanks to your mother's interference."

 

"I cannot answer for my mother, Your Grace."

 

The king reached for her, the tips of his nails raising scratches on her neck as he tilted her chin upward. "But you will answer for Rhaegar, good-daughter. And for your own sins. Think on them while you pray for the souls of Brandon and Rickard Stark."

 

"Pray for the..." Elia's mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"

 

"They've forgotten what it means to awaken the dragon. I intend to remind them."

 

He was going to kill them. Oh, gods, this cannot be happening. Not when Rhaegar was hundreds of leagues away, not when only she knew the full truth that King Aerys the Second was madder than Aerion Brightflame and out for blood. "Please, Your Grace, you mustn't do this. They are the lords of the north. You can't just kill them--"

 

"Do you think to tell the king what he can and cannot do?" The king's eyes were bright with malice as he watched her, her face trapped between his fingers. "There is but one way to deal with traitors. Scorch the nest."

 

I cannot stop this on my own. I need Rhaegar. I need him here, now. Elia's breath seemed to rattle in her lungs as she shook her head. "This is not the answer, Your Grace. Call back Rhaegar. Speak to him yourself. Please don't do this."

 

"Rest assured, good-daughter, if Rhaegar shows his face in King's Landing an hour, nay, a minute, before I give him leave, he will pay for it with his life."

 

Tears choked Elia's throat. "He is your son. He is your heir."

 

The king smiled, showing sharp, yellowed teeth. "I have another son." With a low laugh, he let Elia go and she crumpled against the chair, tears trickling from her eyes. The king called for his Kingsguard and Elia met her uncle's eyes and gave him a tight shake of her head. He cannot help me now. The king will watch him more closely than ever. "The princess is to have no visitors. No messages go in or out. Is that understood?"

 

She watched Ser Oswell nod, though his eyes strayed to her and to her uncle in confusion. "As you will, Your Grace."

 

As the door opened, Elia saw three of her newly returned ladies clustered in the corridor beyond, whispering together. "Your Grace," Elia called out, uncaring of who saw her now. "What of my ladies?" With a mocking smile, she gestured down at the chair in which she sat--my salvation and my cage all at once. "Surely you don't mean to leave me on my own."

 

The king narrowed his eyes. "You will have servants, Princess. We are not savages. Your ladies-in-waiting will be treated according to their station." From the corridor, she could hear Serra exclaiming aloud and wondered again where Ashara might be.

 

"Leave me but one!" Elia pleaded, voice cracking. "I beg you."

 

The king smiled again, and Elia knew she had lost. "My servants. Not yours."

 

As he swept from the room and Ser Oswell closed the door behind him, Elia buried her face in her hands. She needed to think; she needed time. "The one thing I don't have," she whispered. "Damn him, damn him! And damn Rhaegar too!" And herself, for being such a fool. I thought of everything except for the danger right under my nose. She slammed her fists down on the arms of the chair and winced as pain shot through her arms.

 

Her heart was pounding, her hands shaking. Something in the king's smile had evoked another man in a forest clearing, spattered with gore from head to toe. The Smiling Knight could have killed me that day in the Kingswood, but he did not. He'd held the tip of his bloodied sword to her throat and laughed. Today is not the day you die, Princess. I have no quarrel with you or your royal intended. I merely wish you to bear a message for me. She'd held his gaze and demanded that he cease his butchery of her escort at once and she would carry whatever message he wished. To her surprise, he did. The king's response was to send Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy to kill the Smiling Knight and his outlaw leader, Simon Toyne.

 

A sound from the bedchamber behind her startled her back to the present--the scrape of stone against stone and creaking hinges--and she watched wide-eyed through the open door as one of the carved wooden panels beside the hearth swung open to reveal a small stone doorway. In it stood Ashara, her gown filthy with dust and a lantern in her hand. Behind her was the round, silk-robed shape of Lord Varys, the king's spymaster.

 

"I hope," Elia finally said, swallowing the accursed quaver in her voice, "that you plan to explain yourselves?" She straightened in the chair, though she could feel her hands shaking with relief. "I was under the impression that Maegor's Holdfast had only one entrance."

 

"Surely it makes sense that a king of Maegor's disposition would insist upon a secret exit from his own chamber," said Lord Varys. "I believe it was Aegon the Unworthy who moved his apartments to the other side of Maegor's Holdfast, and all of the subsequent kings followed him. Thus, Maegor's little secret has persisted for all these years."

 

"Until you found it again." Elia watched the Lysene eunuch suspiciously as he made a graceful bow before her. "How much did you hear?"

 

"More than enough." Ashara's hands were shaking as she threw her arms around Elia's neck. "What are we going to do?"

 

"Lord Varys?" Even as Ashara straightened, she did not let go of her hand. "Do you believe the king's story? Do you think that I and Prince Rhaegar plot against him?"

 

"I know only what my little birds tell me, Princess," said Lord Varys. She had never noticed before that he had no accent at all despite having come from Lys. He could be lying about that too; he lies just as easily as other men draw breath. "They've been singing songs of Dornish plots for months now and the king is no fool. The Starks, however, were an unpleasant surprise."

 

"Because they are innocent, my lord. There is no plot, let alone one involving the Starks."

 

"And yet there have been letters passing between Dragonstone and Winterfell these past months, Princess. More letters than might be expected." Lord Varys studied her, brows delicately raised over his fathomless, dark eyes. "How do you explain that?"

 

"You heard everything," Elia said, her voice flat. "It was my husband and Lyanna Stark. He is guilty of other things, but not treason."

 

"I can confirm that, Lord Varys," Ashara added. "He swore an oath on the night Prince Aegon was born, before the shrine of the Stranger in the sept at Dragonstone. I saw it with my own eyes."

 

"What are you talking about, Ashara?" demanded Elia. "What oath?"

 

Ashara looked at her, fear in every line of her beautiful face. "He swore that if you survived he would never take arms against his father."

 

Elia covered her mouth with one hand to stifle the scream that threatened within. Of course Rhaegar would be that foolish. Of course he would never have told her. I would have told him what an idiot he was. "Someone ought to tell his father that," she finally muttered. "I can't. The king won't believe anything I say."

 

"It is a sad, if familiar, tale," said Lord Varys. "I remember those stories from Harrenhal. He crowned Lady Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty, didn't he?"

 

"He did," Elia confirmed, raising her chin. "And now he's run off with her. I don't know where."

 

Ashara met her eyes briefly and squeezed Elia's hand in silent assent. "You see? It's as I told you, Lord Varys. Lord Brandon is wrongfully imprisoned and my lady dishonoured."

 

"As I said, a familiar tale. Now, in most of those tales, the faithless lord rarely swears oaths for his scorned lady, but that is no matter. What would you have of me, Princess Elia?"

 

She could not trust him. Do I have a choice? If there was one man in the Red Keep who could help her get a message to Rhaegar in defiance of the king, it was Lord Varys. Or he could tell the king everything. She had never seen the Tower of Joy in person, though Oberyn had from afar and Ashara had even stayed there while waiting for the royal party from Sunspear on their way to Elia's wedding. In her mind's eye Elia saw it afire, heard a young girl's screams and saw her husband sink to the ground beneath a hundred crushing blows. I cannot trust him. But I can use him all the same.

 

"You have the king's ear, but more importantly, you know your way around the Red Keep. The secret ways." The eunuch nodded silently. "I want you to get Brandon Stark out of the capital."

 

She was gratified to see Lord Varys' brows twitch upward in surprise. He looked young all of a sudden--perhaps even her own age. I wonder how old he is; where he truly came from. It occurred to her that he must keep his head shaved on purpose. A blank canvas.

 

"Do you truly intend for me to free an imprisoned traitor from the dungeons of Maegor the Cruel?" He gave a nervous giggle. "You must think me a worker of miracles, Princess."

 

"You are the king's spymaster. Your little birds are everywhere and nowhere all at once. Don't tell me you haven't made people disappear before."

 

"Not people likely to be missed," he corrected her dryly. "That's your mistake. But, supposing I could free Lord Brandon, what can you offer me in return?"

 

Your head still attached to your shoulders when my husband is king. She bit back the words Oberyn could have said aloud, be damned to who heard him. "Whatever our other differences of opinion, Prince Rhaegar and I are in agreement that Brandon Stark has committed no crime. You would earn our gratitude, Lord Varys, and our trust."

 

"Gratitude is all very sweet, Princess, but you ask me to risk my life. The king is not in the charitable vein, as you may have noticed."

 

"What do you want from me, Lord Varys? If it is in my power to grant, it is yours."

 

"Do I have your word, Princess?" His eyes met hers again. "One boon, anything I ask, so long as it is within your power."

 

Every story she knew, every song or maester's tale, cautioned against making wild, unfettered promises. But there were few songs about mad kings, and fewer still about those who survived such tyrants. And what good is an oath to a liar? "If you succeed," Elia countered. That at least bought her time. "Only if you succeed." She held out one hand. The eunuch's were powdery and soft and enveloped hers in a strange, scented cloud. "We will speak again when Brandon Stark is outside the walls of this city."

 

"It will take time, Princess, but I'll do what I can. And now, with your permission, I will take my leave." Lord Varys made his way back through the bedchamber door to the passageway still gaping open beside the hearth. "Remember what I told you, Lady Ashara," he told her companion. "Men have died in those passages because they lost their way."

 

She could feel the shiver that ran through Ashara's entire body. "I remember, my lord, and will heed you."

 

When the grinding of the massive stone came to a halt, Ashara sank against the chair with a breath only just removed from a sob. "I was on my way back from the kitchens when your uncle stopped me in the corridor to tell me what happened. I made for the godswood, thinking perhaps the king might forget about me and I could flirt with Ser Oswell to let me in to see you." Elia had to laugh, slipping her arm around Ashara's waist. "But, by chance, I happened to see Lord Varys disappear into a small passage built into the wall between the rookery tower and the entrance to the godswood. So I did what any sensible person would do. I followed him."

 

"Of course you did," Elia murmured. I do not deserve her.

 

"I admit I wasn't very subtle, so he caught me out quite soon," Ashara continued. "He gave me a lecture and told me it was rude to spy on spymasters. But he also showed me how to get into your chambers by that passage. He said exactly the same thing to me about Maegor the Cruel." Ashara hugged her close. "But, more importantly, you'll not be alone, my lady."

 

"The king will send his spies sooner or later. For all we know, Lord Varys may have told them to look for you. You can't be found here, Ash."

 

"And I won't be." Ashara grinned. "I'll learn my way through the passageways by day and creep into your bed at night. I'll be the most boring lover you'll ever have."

 

"And the most welcome." Elia closed her eyes for a moment, then forced herself to focus on the task at hand. "But for now I need to send word to Rhaegar without the king's knowledge or Grand Maester Pycelle's."

 

"If I can get to the rookery before Pycelle gives them their orders," Ashara said after a moment's thought, "I might have a chance to convince one of his apprentices. If not, I'll find someone in the city to send it. You'd be surprised what Arthur's name can get you in King's Landing these days."

 

She hurried to the bedchamber and retrieved the small travelling writing-desk that had been a name day gift for Elia from Doran the previous year. It slotted perfectly into the arms of her chair with legs that unfolded further so she could stand it up in her bed.

 

Elia wrote as quickly as she could, having composed the sentences in her head while Ashara joined the desk to the chair. She signed her name in an unsightly scrawl and rolled up the tiny piece of parchment. Then, reaching into a compartment concealed beneath the flat surface, she retrieved a small seal-ring that she pressed into a blob of soft wax swirling with red and black. In sharp relief were the quartered arms of the sun-and-spear and the three-headed dragon. While Ashara pressed the unseen lever to open the passageway, Elia sketched the tiny outline of a tower along the edge of the parchment, just below the seal and half-concealed by a fold.

 

"This goes to Starfall," she told Ashara when she handed the sealed letter to her. "Your brother's maester will see it safely dispatched."

 

"Arion knows where they are and I do not?" Ashara demanded, sounding more hurt than angry.

 

"Lord Arion is unlikely to face the king's questioning," snapped Elia, grasping Ashara's hands. "And all he knows is how to reach Ser Arthur, not where. Please, Ash, you must trust me." Ashara nodded grimly. Elia leant forward and kissed her. "Go, and quickly."

 

The Dornish ship had long since disappeared into the night. Elia found herself looking at the painting that hung above the fireplace. Three perfectly smooth dragonglass ovals framed in golden vines, side by side, gilded and painted with images of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Only the third had the recognizably violet eyes of the Targaryens, her hair long since faded to white. The Mother's smile was surprisingly wicked, but one would expect no less of Black Betha Blackwood, the beauty of the Riverlands who had captured the future Aegon the Unlikely, while the Maiden bloomed like the fair summer flowers that were caught in her bright red hair.

 

It used to hang in Summerhall and had been one of the few of the last King Aegon's treasures salvaged from the ruined palace after the fires had finally stopped burning. For a few moments, Elia looked at it, tears slowly filling her eyes. She stepped down from the dais, sank to her knees, and began to pray.

Chapter Text

Twelve paces and the first doorway to the right. Then another six before the obscene carving of Princess Rhaenyra copulating with her dragon. Ashara couldn't help but wonder if Aegon II had carved it during his time in King's Landing. From what she had read of him, he hated nothing more than his half-sister and watched in deepest satisfaction as his dragon roasted her alive in the courtyard at Dragonstone. The carving was mild in comparison. Four bricks above it was the switch. If she pressed on the brick just so, a doorway appeared in the wall and a tiny circular chamber with a ladder leading into Maegor's Holdfast and the chambers still holding Princess Elia under house arrest.

 

But that was not where she was going. Ashara continued along the passage as it began to slope downward somewhere beneath the Serpentine Steps. The lantern's shutter was opened just enough to allow a sliver of lamplight into the tight, discomfortable darkness. She stepped carefully around a loose paving-stone that Lord Varys had pointed out the previous week. In exchange, she'd confessed to him a discreetly embroidered version of a conversation she'd had with Princess Elia months before that involved more complaints about Lyanna Stark and fewer reminiscences about winters in Sunspear that weren't any of the eunuch's business.

 

The king had sent three of the royal servants to tend to the princess in her imprisonment, all of whom reported everything she said directly to him. Even Lord Varys, it seemed, he didn't entirely trust. In his madness, the king grows cleverer somehow. Ashara had been too late to convince Pycelle's apprentices and had instead given Elia's letter over to Arthur's favourite armourer near Visenya's Hill who had helped him more than once during his pursuit of the Kingswood Brotherhood. Master Harold was on his way south to the great fair at Ashford and promised to send the letter to Starfall from the first holdfast he saw. It was the best chance they had.

 

Aegon, not yet weaned, the king had been forced to leave with Elia in spite of his objections, and the queen brought Prince Viserys and the little princess every day for supper with her mother as though nothing had changed. Not even Princess Rhaenys was fooled; she clung longer and harder to her mother with each passing day, and the queen indulged her at every step. It was a small enough defiance, but Rhaella Targaryen had never been a strong woman, from what Ashara could see.

 

They had found an unexpected ally, however, in Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard, who had discovered Ashara in Elia's chambers three days into her imprisonment and said nothing to the king. He also brought her news every night from the rest of the Red Keep and contrived to have several trunks of Volantene romances brought up from the library on Prince Lewyn's recommendation. They were Elia's guilty pleasure of choice and had been since she and Ashara had discovered a secret cache of them in the library at Sunspear that had once belonged to Elia's mother. For every six that are dreadful, there is one that never leaves you. Elia had found just the one just the other day--a ridiculous melodrama involving at least three women who had disguised themselves as men, two of whom ran off together, and a harp-playing Valyrian pirate who Ashara suspected had played some role in her lady's initial interest in Rhaegar Targaryen--and the two of them had read passages aloud until they'd both collapsed against the pillows, crying with laughter just as they had when they were girls.

 

It was better than nothing. Ashara couldn't help but see the cruel irony that Princess Elia's health was improving just as the king had imprisoned her in Maegor's Holdfast. The books helped a little, and Ser Oswell's reports only confirmed that the king was keeping his plans carefully secret.

 

"He's given out that I'm ill again," Elia had told her, laughing bitterly. "Everyone believes him. Why wouldn't they?"

 

True to her word, Ashara had become the princess' eyes and ears. There was something strangely freeing about moving through the passageways, some of which bordered so closely on council chambers and bedchambers that she could hear snatches of conversation through the walls. Elia's other ladies had been moved to the Maidenvault but Ashara had stayed in a small closet adjoining the royal apartments and was thus overlooked long enough to disappear into the chaos of the Red Keep. Since then she'd also found herself some livery; if there was one thing she had learned from four years living with Targaryens, it was that they scarcely if ever noticed servants. In faded black homespun, her hair tied beneath a scarf, Ashara was invisible.

 

Lord Varys had evidently decided to let her roam free for the nonce; Ashara couldn't say why, nor did she quite have the nerve to ask him just in case he changed his mind.

 

Rhaegar's two former squires, knighted just the previous year, and who had accompanied Jon Connington to King's Landing soon before Elia's imprisonment, had been given quarters in the lower bailey near the gold-cloaks' barracks. From round the corner, Ashara watched Connington's familiar, red-haired figure follow Myles Mooton up the stairs. She waited until they'd disappeared through the door before entering through the servants' door below. There was a ladder that led up into the rafters where the spare uniforms were stored, and whose floors formed the ceiling of the guards' barracks.

 

She could hear the lord of Griffin's Roost from the far end of the attic and knelt carefully above what she guessed was Myles' and Richard's shared room.

 

"He told you nothing at all?"

 

"Griff, if he had, we would have told you the first time you asked," said Myles in the flat accent of the Riverlands. "He's gone off with Ser Arthur. It's nothing strange."

 

"But he's been gone too long, surely. The princess--" the title half-spat "--claims he's at Summerhall, but I'm unconvinced."

 

"Why would she lie?" asked Myles.

 

"Why wouldn't she?" added Richard Lonmouth, a fellow stormlander--indeed, his father and Lord Connington's were close friends and he'd always resented Elia's influence over Rhaegar. "He might be off with another woman. You know she'd hate that."

 

"Don't be an idiot," snapped Lord Connington. That, at least, was a confirmation of sorts; he was the worst liar Ashara had ever encountered.

 

"It's not the maddest idea I've heard," Myles remarked. "It was Brandon Stark's sister he crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal. What if Richard's right and the prince is with her?"

 

"I think I'll ride to Summerhall myself," said Lord Connington, either ignoring or not hearing Myles. "If he's there, my question is answered. If he's not, then I'll need to corner the Dornish bitch myself. She's lying. She thinks I can't tell, but I'm not as great a fool as she believes."

 

No, thought Ashara, a greater one by far. She pitied Jon Connington, as she had since discovering his mad, hopeless love for Prince Rhaegar. But he's impulsive and indiscreet, just like Brandon Stark. There were worse things, she supposed, than having him away from the capital for several weeks on a fool's errand to Summerhall.

 

"And if you interrupt him with Lyanna Stark, what then?" Richard asked. "You'll only embarrass yourself, Griff."

 

"Rhaegar's been gone for two moons' turns in the dead of winter, he has only Arthur with him, and he doesn't tell any of us? Maybe he told her." She could hear Lord Connington's footsteps back and forth on the creaking boards. "He must have told her something, else the Dornish party would have been breathing down all our necks last week."

 

"I told you," Myles informed him wearily, "Lyanna Fucking Stark."

 

"I think you mean fucking Lyanna Stark," Richard added, snickering. "She was pretty enough, but I miss the old Hand's daughter. Always easy on the eyes, that one, and practically throwing herself at the prince every chance she had. I never understood how he didn't notice."

 

"Because it's beneath him," growled Lord Connington. "I'm going to Summerhall, be damned to both of you." His footsteps started off toward the far end of the barracks.

 

"It's a waste of time, Griff," Richard called after him. "Bloody madman, that one."

 

"When was he ever anything else?" As Myles spoke, Ashara could hear the unmistakeable sound of a blade against a whetstone. "How long do you think the king plans to keep Brandon Stark imprisoned?"

 

"Seven hells, I don't know. If the prince is with his sister, mayhap he and the king have an understanding. But," Richard added after a moment, "it does seem strange. It's not like His Grace to disappear for this long with no word at all."

 

"Isn't it?" Myles laughed. "He did often enough before he married. Weeks at Summerhall in the baking sun. You remember that, don't you?"

 

"And Ser Arthur made us practice at the quintain every single morning, no matter the heat. Even Griff was there, when he wasn't carrying messages for his father." Richard sighed. "I suppose you're right. I just...I don't know."

 

"Something seems...wrong, somehow," Myles said. "I don't know what, but it's there. Mayhap I should go with Griff."

 

"Do what you like. I'm staying here. No one's given me orders."

 

"When did you last speak to him?"

 

"To His Grace?" Richard paused for a moment. "I can't rightly remember when, but he asked me about Lord Robert Baratheon."

 

"What about him?"

 

"What sort of man he was? I told him I scarcely knew him." The pause was longer this time and Ashara felt herself tense up. "But now I remember. Lord Robert was engaged to Lyanna Stark. He told me so at Harrenhal."

 

"I'm surprised you remember that after matching him drink for drink for an hour. I had to carry you back to our room, you sot."

 

"The man's the size of an aurochs. I should have known better," Richard admitted, laughing. "But I do remember that much. Lyanna Stark was his betrothed. The more he drank, the more he talked of her. You'd think she was the perfect woman."

 

"Did you mention that to His Grace?"

 

"No. He didn't ask."

 

The conversation turned then to other things less interesting to Ashara and she crept back across the attic to the ladder. Dodging a guard's attempt to grab her from behind, she rounded the corner behind the sunken court and shoved aside the ivy hiding the passageway entrance.

 

Well after sunset, Ashara slipped through the now-familiar panel into the princess' bedchamber. Elia was in the solar next door with the queen, so she settled on the bed to wait.

 

She must have fallen asleep, for she awakened to find Elia looking down at her quizzically. "I didn't want to disturb you," Ashara mumbled.

 

"I thought you might be hungry," said the princess. "The servants are beginning to wonder if I'm with child again."

 

"You're not, are you?" Ashara tried not to remember a night in another bedchamber hundreds of miles away in Dragonstone. She couldn't step into that room even now without smelling blood in the air. But I'd wish us there in a heartbeat if I could.

 

"No, but I'm content to let them think so." Ashara exhaled loudly enough that Elia gave her a puzzled glance. "I'm being careful, Ash, I promise. Not that there's any reason to fear these days," she added in an undertone.

 

Ashara retrieved a roasted capon, an apple, and some bread from the solar along with two glasses of red wine, one of which she handed to Elia. "I worry for you, my lady. That's all."

 

"Everybody worries for me. From what my good-mother tells me, the king would have the world believe I'm halfway into my grave again."

 

"Are you sure you don't want to try...?" Ashara glanced pointedly at the hidden panel beside the hearth as she began to eat.

 

Elia shook her head. "I can't risk it. If something were to happen, we'd be trapped. I doubt Lord Varys would indulge me as he seems willing to indulge you."

 

"I tell him just enough to make it worth his while," Ashara explained between bites of capon. "Speaking of gossip, Jon Connington plans to ride to Summerhall. He doesn't trust you and is looking for Prince Rhaegar."

 

"Of course he is. Leave it to Griff..." Something dawned on Elia's face. "Has he left yet, Ash?"

 

"I don't know. I can try to find him, certainly. Will you send him after the prince?"

 

"It might be our best chance. Whatever he feels about me, he would never harm Rhaegar." She frowned. "I wish you'd cornered him when you saw him, but there's nothing to be done for that."

 

"I didn't know if we could trust him."

 

"From now on, trust yourself. Anything you do, I will be your surety." Reaching down into the writing-desk beside the bed, she withdrew the ring bearing her seal.

 

"No, my lady, it's too dangerous." Ashara pressed the ring back into her hand. "If they catch me..."

 

"If they catch you, tell them you were under my orders. No matter what you're doing; no matter who it is. I don't care."

 

They both looked up, startled, as the familiar grinding sound began and the panel beside the hearth swung open to reveal one of the palace guards. Half-ready to scream, Ashara jumped to her feet, but Elia caught her arm and she recognised the round, expressionless face even beneath the false stubble.

 

"I've done my part," said the eunuch without preamble. "Brandon Stark will be out of the Red Keep by sunrise."

 

Princess Elia nodded. From the corner of her eye, Ashara could see her slip the ring beneath one of the pillows. "What is your plan?"

 

"The guard outside his cell is relieved in an hour's time. There's a room on the far side of the dungeon tower where he'll need to wait a few hours till I can lead him out of the castle without being seen."

 

"Go with him, Ashara," said the princess.

 

"My lady?"

 

"May we have a moment alone, Lord Varys?" The eunuch bowed and stepped into the next room. As soon as he was out of earshot, the princess grinned at Ashara. "I thought you might want the chance to say farewell to your wild man. If he must cool his heels through the night all the same, why not take the chance?"

 

"He's no less betrothed now than he was before."

 

"Do you care?"

 

Ashara shook her head. "Not especially."

 

"Good." The princess rose from the bed and made her way to the small chamber containing her clothes and jewels. "It took the combined efforts of Serra, the queen, and Ser Oswell, and no doubt it's taken long enough that you forgot altogether..." She threw something at Ashara, who found herself holding a gown of tissue-thin Quartheen silk dyed deep purple and shot with black and silver. "Now get dressed and seduce Brandon Stark. One of us should be indulging herself."

 

The silk had been a name-day gift from Elia and Ashara had managed to convince the most fashionable seamstress in King's Landing to put her at the top of her client list on account of the fineness of the fabric. The princess was right; in the madness of the last few weeks, she had completely forgotten. With looking-glass to hand, she brushed out her hair and twisted a few strands into a crown held in place with a silver comb. The dress fell in graceful folds that followed her every movement, the silk shimmering in the candlelight, and the colour made her eyes seem dark as midnight. The silver belt inlaid with amethysts had belonged to her mother and hooked in place with delicate chains at the small of her back.

 

The princess returned, having finished a murmured conversation with Lord Varys in the solar, and handed Ashara a small mug of brown liquid. "You remember this, don't you?"

 

"Prince Oberyn's concoction from the Summer Isles," said Ashara with a grimace. "It tastes vile."

 

"But it works."

 

Ashara drank it in one gulp before holding her hand out for her wineglass to drown out the taste. Her hands were shaking and the princess recaptured the glass to set it down on her dressing-table. Ashara hugged her close. "Thank you, my lady."

 

"Good luck." With a wicked smile, she looked Ashara up and down. "You won't need it, but take it anyway. And make sure Lord Varys keeps his word."

 

"I will. And keep your seal, my lady. I have your word and that is enough."

 

Lord Varys paused in the doorway. "Lady Ashara, we must hurry." Ashara held the lantern aloft and followed him into the passage. Behind her, she heard Princess Elia touch the lever that sent the panel back into its place.

 

"Do you know all the passageways in the Red Keep, Lord Varys?"

 

"Heavens, no," said the eunuch with a laugh. "A fraction of them, I'm sure. They stretch beneath the entire city and out to the harbour."

 

"Is that where you're taking Brandon?"

 

"There's a ship bound for Gulltown that waits for the morning tide. You'll have time to say your farewells," there was a world of meaning in that word, "and I'll come for him before dawn."

 

"And what are you implying, my lord?" she teased, though even she could hear the quaver beneath the words. "Farewell means many things."

 

She had to cover her nose with one of her dangling sleeves as they descended into the bowels of the castle where the black cells were. "Gods," she whispered, "this place."

 

Lord Varys' eyes were pools of blackness. Like the shadows just beyond the reach of his torch. "The king keeps the dungeons full these days."

 

"Is there no way to free all of Lord Brandon's men?"

 

"It was hard enough finding a captain willing to smuggle away one man imprisoned for treason. I could hardly ask him to take on three more." He laid one hand on her arm and added, more gently, "If there were a way to do it, my lady, I would. But I fear Lord Brandon's men will likely suffer for his escape." There were ancient tiles beneath their feet now, from the castle's foundations, surely. Varys turned suddenly, the torch casting wavering shadows over his face. "It is a great pity that Prince Rhaegar chose to disappear so completely with his paramour...that is the term in Dorne, is it not?"

 

"It is, Lord Varys," she confirmed, her face carefully blank, but said no more.

 

After a moment, the eunuch sighed. "Your brother is with him and the Lady Lyanna; of that, I have no doubt."

 

"One assumes," echoed Ashara. "I don't know where they are, my lord. My brother is of the Kingsguard and he keeps their secrets." She had her suspicions, and given the people involved, the Dornish Mountains seemed the likeliest place. Arthur had always loved that strange old tower that overlooked the Prince's Pass--a pretty enough lover's nest, but too far from everything for Ashara's comfort. If you wanted to hide from the world, however, there's hardly a better place. She would ask the princess the next time they were alone, but the more she considered it, the more she was convinced.

 

The corridors stank less now, and Ashara noticed a distinct improvement in their surroundings. "Where are we going, Lord Varys?"

 

"This is the heart of the Red Keep, what little is left from Aegon the Conqueror's day, near the seawall. You'll not be seen here, but take care not to leave the room." He lowered his voice. "As I've warned you before, men have died in these passages, my lady, because they could not find the way out."

 

Ashara shuddered. "I take your meaning, my lord."

 

They arrived at a wooden door, dark with age but beautifully carved. Lord Varys smiled. "It is said this is where Queen Naerys used to meet the Dragonknight in secret. Far from the royal apartments, where nobody would find them. No doubt the prisoners thought they were seeing some sort of vision when she crept past them."

 

"The gods have mercy on them," murmured Ashara. "And you'll come for Brandon before dawn?"

 

"You have five hours. When the time comes, I'll knock four times. Be ready; the captain won't wait. Not with such dubious cargo." With that, he opened the door and, after Ashara had stepped over the threshold, pulled it closed behind her.

 

The chamber was surprisingly clean and the candles newly lit--she supposed Varys had his own army of servants alongside his little birds. Nothing would have surprised her about him now. After all, she and the princess had decided to trust him; was that not shocking enough? She wondered how many ladies of the court he'd brought here to meet lovers. The man traded in secrets, after all. And he will claim his forfeit from me sooner or later. She supposed aiding and abetting treason was not the sort of thing one ought to do free of charge. The thought made her laugh nervously.

 

There was an ornately carved bed against one wall, clearly at least a hundred years old, she guessed, and possibly older still. Its hangings were of cloth-of-gold embroidered with Targaryen dragons and tied with golden cords. As she looked around the room, Ashara realised the walls were covered in paintings. Over and over, the same woman, with a heart-shaped face and silver-gilt hair. Queen Naerys, she finally recognised, having seen that face in tapestries and paintings elsewhere in the Red Keep. Either Lord Varys was telling the truth or someone had made up a truly elaborate fiction. She could hear the roar of waves and smell salt in the air, but the sole window was a tiny slit set high in one of the walls and only a sliver of moonlight on the far wall confirmed that it even existed.

 

She was gazing at one of the paintings--the queen weeping in a bower of roses, a silver-haired knight kneeling at her feet--when she heard the creak of the door opening. Her heart was in her throat as she turned.

 

Brandon was noticeably thinner and paler than when she'd last seen him, his dark hair falling untrimmed to his shoulders. To her surprise, he was wearing velvet, the embroidered direwolf half-obscured by a tear across the front of his tunic. But of course. He was on his way to his wedding when he turned and came here. She could not help but wonder what Catelyn Tully made of all this. "The beard suits you," she heard herself say.

 

For a moment, he just stared at her, satisfyingly open-mouthed. The gown was clearly a success; she would tell Elia when next she saw her. "Is this a jape? What are you doing here?"

 

"Who did you expect?" She almost asked him who had brought him here, but stopped herself. "Your father?"

 

"That eunuch, more likely." His lips curled in distaste. "Not that the Hand of the King was much better."

 

"Poor Lord Merryweather." Ashara sighed. "He has been a disappointment, yes. I never thought I would miss Tywin Lannister's gloomy face."

 

"Ashara Dayne. You haven't changed, though the world's gone mad since I last saw you." His smile was more of a grimace. "I ought to thank you for your letter."

 

"I wanted to tell you myself, but the king forbade it."

 

Brandon spat into the brazier and sparks flared bright orange. "That's for the king."

 

Ashara winced. "You might be more careful. The Red Keep has eyes in the walls, and ears too."

 

"I'm already imprisoned for treason. What does it matter if I speak treason now?"

 

"It matters, Brandon, more than you think." Ashara lowered her voice. "I'm here at my lady's behest. She's arranged safe passage for you out of the city. There's a ship bound for Gulltown that leaves on the morning tide."

 

"And what is Princess Elia's price?"

 

"Nothing." Ashara met his eyes, grey as stormclouds. "Go home to Winterfell, marry Lord Tully's daughter, and rule your lands in peace." And have red-haired children to run wild in Winterfell as your sister once did. "She intends to tell Lord Stark the same when he arrives."

 

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "And Lyanna?"

 

"I don't know where your sister is, but I swear to you she is alive and safe."

 

"And the scandal of the Seven Kingdoms," said Brandon darkly. "Our lord father will never forgive her for making him look a fool. Nor will Lord Robert."

 

"Then we must make them see reason," said Ashara. "It is why you must leave here tonight. You'll be safe in the Vale until you can go north--"

 

"What of my men?"

 

"We tried, but they were scarcely willing to take you. You are in danger, Brandon, grave danger."

 

"I'm the heir to Winterfell. My father rules all the North; he can't harm me when I've done nothing wrong."

 

"So my lady told him, and Lord Merryweather, and he heeds none of them." Ashara glanced over her shoulder reflexively at the door before speaking again. "The king is mad, Brandon. He's convinced that you're all allied against him and mean to put Prince Rhaegar on the Iron Throne."

 

"I'd sooner put a sword through his heart! He's made a whore of my sister!"

 

"Your sister made her choice," Ashara hissed. "It was this or Robert Baratheon. I've seen her letters, Brandon, with my own eyes. She thought it was the only way."

 

"I trusted her!" Brandon slammed one fist into the massive bedpost, hard enough that Ashara winced. "Was she lying all along, then? Ever since Harrenhal?"

 

"What would you have done, Brandon? If she'd told you the truth?"

 

He was breathing hard, his bruised and bloodied knuckles pressed to his mouth. "She did tell me. At least I think she tried once, when we were still in Winterfell." He swallowed. "I told her it was her duty to do as our father bade her; that I was doing the same..."

 

"Oh, Brandon, it's not the same at all," Ashara murmured. "Why can't you see that?"

 

"I scarcely know Catelyn Tully and I'm marrying her, aren't I?"

 

"But you're going home, Brandon. Your sister would have gone to Storm's End, thousands of leagues away. She would be alone, completely alone, with a man she neither liked nor wanted." At least that was how the princess had explained it, and she'd seen it echoed in Lyanna's own letters, which Elia had shown Ashara late one night when she'd crept into her chamber from the passageway. A bold girl to write to the Prince of Dragonstone to break her betrothal. Stranger still, she even seemed sincere. I might even come to like her, given time, Ashara had finally admitted, earning an increasingly rare smile from Elia.

 

"She chose a different path, Brandon. No more, no less. Is that so awful?"

 

"She's dishonoured herself and her family." Brandon was prowling back and forth across the small room, his hands twitching at his empty swordbelt. "She lied to me, to my face, the little..." He glowered at the ground. Then, after a moment, he added uncertainly, "But you're sure she's all right."

 

Ashara nodded. "Arthur's with them. I'm told he's a good swordsman."

 

It might have been a glimmer of a smile that she caught on his face. "Lyanna must love that. She's probably talked his ear off by now."

 

"I hope she has. The Kingsguard don't gossip enough, except for Prince Lewyn." She took a step toward him and stopped. "Brandon, she never meant for anything to happen to you. I'm certain of it."

 

"I believe you." Brandon shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together for a few moments before he could speak again. "Even before I read your letter, I'd begun to wonder. Nothing like a black cell to make a man ponder what brought him there." He looked back at her. "She'd taken her sword with her. From the inn. Lyanna left everything else behind. Her saddlebag and her sword, that was all. I remember thinking how strange it was that she'd been seen leaving the inn with a man, but nobody heard anything. And then your letter arrived and I realised what a fool I'd been. My own sister, and she ran off from right under my nose."

 

"My lady told me she did much the same thing at Harrenhal." Ashara shot him a sideways glance. "Your sister took a turn in the lists, it seems, with a borrowed shield and armour."

 

"Princess Elia recognised my sister in armour?" Brandon echoed, eyeing her dubiously. "Seems far-fetched to me."

 

"She has a sharp eye for things that interest her," Ashara retorted, giving him a pointed look. "Besides, Lady Lyanna fought in the masque. The masque you did not join."

 

"Southron nonsense." But his cheeks had gone red and he turned away from her. "Dornish women are all mad, I think."

 

She couldn't help but smile at that. "Your sister thought so too, at first."

 

"I'm beginning to wonder if I knew her at all." Brandon seemed to have noticed the paintings for the first time and stepped closer to the wall. "What sort of room is this?"

 

"When this is all over, I hope you'll let her explain herself. You may find that you understand more than you think." Ashara followed his eyes to the painted panel she'd been examining earlier, which she'd eventually identified as Prince Aemon offering to champion Queen Naerys against the slanders of Sir Morgil. "As for the room, Lord Varys told a pretty tale of Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. Seeing these, I'm half-inclined to believe him."

 

"As I said, southron nonsense." Brandon stepped past her, his eyes on the paintings. "Although they say the Dragonknight once fought the Lord of Winterfell and said he'd never met a finer swordsman."

 

"Which Stark was that?"

 

"I used to know his name but I can't remember now."

 

"Not another Brandon?" she teased. "I suppose you'd remember that."

 

For a few moments, they both looked at the next panel, a tourney scene where a black-armoured knight carrying a sea-blue shield held out a crown of white lilies to Queen Naerys as King Aegon looked on in fury. On the shield was an open violet eye and beneath it a single silvery tear.

 

"I never thought to see you again," Ashara confessed. "Considering the circumstances, I think I might have preferred otherwise."

 

"As I do," replied Brandon, his eyes on Queen Naerys' blushing face, "but not for the reason you might think."

 

"You've found yourself enjoying the Red Keep's hospitality?"

 

"No." Brandon finally looked at her again, uncertainty in his face making him look far younger. "Before we left Winterfell, Lyanna asked me if I ever wondered what might happen if I weren't betrothed to Catelyn. I told her I didn't, but it wasn't completely true."

 

"Wasn't it?" Ashara asked, cursing the quaver in her voice.

 

"Not until I saw you at Harrenhal."

 

"Pretty words for a northman," she retorted, taking a step back even as he caught her wrist in one hand to brush his lips against the quickening pulse there. "Brandon, that isn't why I'm here."

 

He was very close to her now, and all thoughts of Lord Varys and ships and the Vale seemed far less important. Ashara raised her hand to cradle his cheek, unable to stop herself. "Isn't it?" Brandon asked her softly. She could feel his fingers pressed against her hips through the delicate silk gown. Gods damn him, why else would I be here?

 

Be damned to Catelyn Tully. She'd have him for the rest of her days. And everyone knows there's sweetness in the forbidden. For a moment, Ashara found herself meeting Queen Naerys' painted eyes as she gazed down at the brother she could not have, before she turned her head and kissed Brandon.

 

Brandon's fingers plucked at the laces of her gown, flimsy silvery things barely there for show. "I dreamt of you in the dungeons. I was back in the Riverlands, at Harrenhal, and you came to me there."

 

"How wicked of me," replied Ashara, shivering against him. Reaching up, she helped him pull the velvet tunic over his head and toss it aside, the linen shirt tangled in its folds. "What did I do?"

 

"When I first saw you tonight, I thought I was dreaming again. A waking dream--a madman's dream." His grin was positively wolfish. "As for what you did, I'd rather show you."

 

Ashara smiled and kissed him again, letting him draw her toward the bed. A quick glance at the notched candle told her they had three hours till dawn and the moonlight slanted down from the tiny window across the counterpane. Oh, stand still, she thought, recalling a line from one of Princess Elia's Volantene romances, thou ever-moving spheres of heaven, that time may cease and the dawn may never come. At the thought, she couldn't suppress her laughter, muffled in his hair as his lips teased the filmy sleeves of her gown from her shoulders. Reaching behind, she unhooked the silver belt with its inlaid amethysts. Thus freed, the gown slipped to the floor and Ashara into Brandon Stark's arms.

 

She did not look at the candle again until two more hours had burnt away. She watched it, her head cradled on a pillow, as Brandon dozed beside her, one arm thrown lazily over her back.

 

Ashara disentangled herself from him, ignoring his murmured protests. "We haven't time, Brandon," she said, groping in the candlelight for her abandoned gown. "The ship leaves on the morning tide. Lord Varys said he would be here at dawn."

 

He didn't speak at first, the silence stretching long enough that Ashara wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then, sounding wearied, he finally said, "I'm not going anywhere, Ashara."

 

She paused, the belt half-fastened at her waist, one sleeve hanging unlaced over her arm. "What do you mean you aren't going anywhere? You need to leave King's Landing, Brandon."

 

"And my men stay here while I run away?" He pulled himself up, stuffing a pillow behind his back. She could see marks from her lips on his shoulders and blushed a little in remembrance. "No, Ashara."

 

"We tried, Brandon, but it was impossible. We'll do what we can, but you must be gone. Your men would agree."

 

"What sort of coward would I be if I left my men to rot in prison?"

 

"Not dead is what you will be," snapped Ashara. With shaking fingers, she laced her sleeves into place. "Haven't you heard a word I've told you? You've no reason to be here, Brandon. Your sister is safe--"

 

"And when my father arrives to find me gone? What then?"

 

"They're expecting him any day. Lord Varys should know when he's nearby and I'll intercept him so he can speak to my lady before the king even knows he's here."

 

"But you said the king was holding her prisoner," argued Brandon.

 

"My lady can do more from her bedchamber than a dozen men arguing in person," Ashara told him, frustration sharpening her words. "Trust me, Brandon. You must not be here when the king calls you to trial. He means to make an example of you..."

 

"An example of what?"

 

"Traitors, Brandon." At his half-formed protest, she went on, "I told you. He thinks the prince's dalliance with your sister is part of a plot against him."

 

"Is it?"

 

"Gods, no! I don't know what it is, but I can safely say it isn't that. Brandon, please." She knelt on the bed and reached for his hands. "Go with Lord Varys and get on that ship."

 

"I'll do no such thing." Brandon's voice was cold as northern ice. "I'll not leave my men to die in my place. Nor my father. If the king is so dangerous, what sort of son lets his father walk into that while he turns his tail and runs?"

 

"I'll find him, Brandon. I promise you--"

 

"No." He might have said more, but four knocks sounded on the carved oaken door.

 

Ashara could feel Brandon's eyes on her. "Lord Varys."

 

"Tell him," said Brandon, "I refuse his offer."

 

"You're a fool, Brandon Stark," Ashara said, tears choking her throat. "You're certain you want to do this?"

 

"More fool you if you ever thought otherwise."

 

Ashara fastened the remaining hooks on her gown as she crossed the room, careful not to look at Brandon. She opened the door just as Lord Varys raised his hand as though to knock again. He had changed out of his guard's uniform and back into his customary silk robes, his face without a trace of stubble.

 

"I thought I told you to be ready," he said, peering beyond her at the distinctly rumpled bedcovers and Brandon, who had not yet moved from the bed.

 

"He's not going," Ashara could barely hear her voice, but Varys had sharper ears than most. "He won't leave his men and he knows his father's on his way here."

 

"You couldn't convince him?" Varys' words held a thousand meanings that made Ashara want to slap him. "How disappointing."

 

"Northerners apparently have no regard for their lives," Ashara snapped, glaring at him, and then at Brandon.

 

"A pity," said Lord Varys. Stepping past Ashara, he raised his voice. "Then it's back to your cell, Lord Brandon, and just in time. Your lord father's ship has been sighted in Blackwater Bay. He should arrive by sunset. The king, I know, is looking forward to hearing your explanations."

 

"And what's to stop me from breaking your fucking neck right now and going wherever I please?" demanded Brandon.

 

"Because neither you nor the Lady Ashara knows the way out. You are very far from Winterfell, my lord, and the rules are different here." From the blackness of the corridor emerged two guards in Targaryen livery and fully armed. "These men will escort you back. I hope you enjoyed your reprieve, however brief."

 

After a few moments of tense silence, Brandon held out his hands for the manacles. The guards dragged him naked from the bed toward the door. "Take his clothing," ordered Lord Varys. "I'd rather not explain how he came to lose it."

 

Ashara was gazing intently at the painting of Queen Naerys facing Ser Morgil before the assembled court. "You never meant for him to escape, did you?"

 

"I hoped he might see reason, but men like Brandon Stark rarely do. I think you knew that, Lady Ashara."

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, cursing the tears snaking down her face as she dabbed at them with one of her hanging sleeves. "Is it true about Lord Stark?"

 

"It is," the eunuch confirmed. His eyes measured Ashara from her dishevelled hair to her mostly fastened gown. "I hope he was worth your while."

 

Ashara shot him a poisonous smile. "You wouldn't know, now, would you?"

 

Lord Varys smiled back. "Some people find pleasure in other things. You might consider it in the future."

 

She ignored him, remembering the princess' words from the evening before. "Lord Rickard's ship. Has it a name?"

 

"Jacaerys' Flight. An unfortunate precedent, given how Lord Velaryon died." He tilted his head as he looked at Ashara. "Do you mean to stop him?"

 

Ashara straightened, raising her chin. "I mean to try. If he's half as stubborn as that son of his..."

 

"Oh, more so, from what I hear. It's funny. They say the same thing about Dornishmen. Dornish women, they haven't specified, though I begin to see a pattern."

 

Ashara swept past him only to pause at the door. "Fourth doorway on the right, then a hundred paces, along the bridge that passes over the black cells, and left at the chamber with the dragon mosaic on the floor, and I'll be below the Tower of the Hand."

 

"You're a quick learner." He sounded impressed despite himself. "Pity I didn't find you sooner."

 

"I'm no little bird of yours, Lord Varys. Nor is my lady." After a moment, she dropped a brief and reluctant curtsey. "But I thank you for your efforts."

 

"There's another passage that leads from that chamber," said Lord Varys after she'd taken two steps into the dark. His voice echoed strangely in the passageway. "Two to the left if you're facing the one that leads here. Follow it all the way to the end; don't stop or turn or go through any of the doorways you pass. It will take you out of the Red Keep without being seen and bring you to the banks of the Blackwater. As I said, his ship is due to arrive by sunset."

 

"Why are you helping me?" Ashara asked without turning. "How do I know this isn't a trap?"

 

"The lords of this realm will not stand idly by while the king executes the Starks of Winterfell. I act in the king's own interests even if he does not know it." She heard his footsteps along the stones, even in those ridiculous silk slippers he wore, and turned to find him holding her lantern and a dark cloak. "If the passage brought you to Madame Chataya's establishment, my lady, you might pass unnoticed as you are, but I fear it will do you more harm than good near the harbour."

 

Ashara resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him while cursing herself for not thinking ahead. "You're kind to think of my virtue, Lord Varys."

 

"Someone should," he sniped. Rolling her eyes, Ashara threw the cloak over her shoulders and set off down the passageway.

 

Though she glanced at every doorway in the passage Lord Varys had indicated, marking their shapes and any oddities about them as she passed, she followed his instructions and kept to the path. Again, the passage began to slope downward, at one point narrowing into a steep set of stairs as it crawled down Aegon's High Hill toward the river.

 

Just as Lord Varys promised and in spite of Ashara's doubts, she emerged onto the riverbank just as the sun appeared on the horizon above Blackwater Bay. She wondered if it was her imagination or if she could see the tiny outline of a ship moving closer. She could see her breath in puffy clouds and she drew the cloak more closely around her before extinguishing the lantern altogether.

 

As she made her way past the docks, she saw a grey-hulled ship with a carved mermaid for its prow, its newly raised flag bearing the burning tower of House Grafton. A ship bound for Gulltown that waits on the morning tide. Ashara paused to watch as her anchor rose from the waves and she started drifting away from the docks.

 

There were inns aplenty near the River Gate and the harbour, each more disreputable than the next. Ashara kept her head bowed and her eyes lowered as she crept past the crowds of sailors stumbling forth after a riotous night. There was one inn that Arthur had told her about whose owner he had once saved from a drunken sellsword. The Mermaid was its name, and she found it on River Row, a stone's throw from Fishmonger's Square.

 

Several patrons were snoring on tables and one or two whores chatted near the staircase, turning to stare as Ashara stepped through the door. "I'm looking for Ben Waters, the innkeep."

 

"Who asks for him?" asked one of the whores, his hair dyed Tyroshi blue and chopped short. He looked to be about Ashara's age. "You're a fancy-looking one, aren't you?"

 

Ashara swept the hood back from her face. "Ashara Dayne, the Sword of the Morning's sister."

 

The blue-haired prostitute studied her for a moment and burst out laughing. His blonde companion, however, shook her head with a sigh. "I've seen her before, Alyn; she is who she says she is."

 

"How do you know?"

 

"You remember Garth, my standing appointment every fortnight? He's a gold cloak and snuck me into the Keep once, last year, when the Prince and Princess were here. We fucked on the steps of the Throne Room while all the lords and ladies were off at a banquet. I recommend it if you're able." She looked Ashara up and down, a knowing smile on her face. "Saw this one with the Prince and Princess themselves, and a Kingsguard knight who looked just like her."

 

Ashara managed a tight smile. "Thank you, mistress."

 

The whore shrugged. "I'll fetch Master Waters."

 

The room she was given was clean, but had little else to recommend it. Ashara splashed tepid water from the basin on her face and tried to restore some order to her hair without a looking-glass. The gown was hopelessly wrinkled and dusty, its hem stained brown with some substance from her underground journey that she didn't wish to contemplate. She looked no better than Alyn and his companion downstairs, let alone like a daughter of Starfall. I must hope that Lord Rickard is willing to overlook that.

 

She heard the voices from below, speaking in the increasingly familiar northern accent and one standing out above the rest, deeper and rougher than Brandon's voice. Ashara rose to her feet and pulled the cloak back over her shoulders. If she could not look respectable, she'd at least do her best not to flaunt where she'd been the night before.

 

The door swung open to reveal a younger man than she might have expected, perhaps closer to forty than fifty, his thick beard liberally streaked with grey. He wore a wolfskin cloak and his skin was windburned from the icy air. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Who are you?"

 

"Ashara Dayne, my lord," she said, cursing the trembling in her voice. "I've come to warn you. You're in grave danger, you and your son Lord Brandon."

 

"Dayne. I know that name, though I cannot think why."

 

"My brother Arthur is of the Kingsguard, my lord," explained Ashara. "I pray you forgive the secrecy, but I promise it was necessary."

 

Lord Rickard narrowed his eyes at her and crossed his arms in front of his chest, half-obscuring the direwolf sewn on his tunic. She couldn't help but notice that it was a fiercer one than Brandon's the day before. "No, I remember hearing of you last year from that tourney they held at Harrenhal. A Dornish slut distracting my son from his duties."

 

"My lord?" Ashara had to fight various other words she'd have preferred to call him. "Who I am doesn't matter--"

 

"I am here to collect my son and return home. Bad enough that I must leave Winterfell in the midst of a sudden winter. Bad enough that my son disgraces himself before all the lords of the Riverlands, that--" He stopped, and Ashara held her breath, wondering if perhaps Lord Stark had a weakness.

 

"Your daughter is alive and well, my lord," Ashara said after a moment. Her eyes met his, but there was nothing of his son's laughter there; only weariness and a sudden, strange relief.

 

Just as quickly Lord Rickard turned away and Ashara could have sworn she heard trembling in his voice. "I have no daughter."

 

Before Ashara could speak further, he swept from the room and down the stairs, shouting curt orders to his guards to make for the Red Keep. Ashara wanted to sink to the floor, suddenly aware that she hadn't slept at all the previous night, but forced herself forward to the landing.

 

Lord Rickard looked up at her for a moment. "Leave one of the spare horses for the lady. I suggest you leave these matters to those better suited, Lady Ashara."

 

With that, he stormed from the inn. Ashara gritted her teeth and made her way down the stairs, conscious of the stares she was garnering. The northerners--she counted at least a dozen, twenty at most--had already started back toward Fishmonger's Square, leaving a groom with the grey horse that was evidently to be hers.

 

By the time she reached the lower courtyard and sent the horse to be stabled, the small Stark contingent had already dispersed, likely to the dungeons given the king's inclinations. Ashara started toward the throne room only to find the outer doors had been barred. Ser Jon Darry stood guard beside them and held out one white-armoured hand to block her as she came near.

 

"Beg pardon, my lady, but the king has ordered the doors barred to all save the accused."

 

Ashara crossed her arms in front of her chest and tried to look stern. "A funny sort of trial with no witnesses."

 

"The Lord of Winterfell has asked for trial by combat to free his son." He kept his eyes straight ahead, barely acknowledging her presence.

 

"Will he fight one of your number? One of the Kingsguard?"

 

"I don't presume to know, my lady. If I'm ordered to fight, so I will."

 

They did say the Starks kept to the old ways, and trial by combat was one of the oldest. Ashara retreated down the steps. "I'll be on my way then, ser."

 

The throne room had more than one entrance, but there were only so many members of the Kingsguard to watch them all. Ashara ducked through a doorway behind the granary and found herself in one of the servants' corridors that connected the kitchen to the throne room. A tiny, cramped spiral stair led up to the gallery overlooking the great hall, but just as Ashara reached for the door, it opened to reveal Prince Lewyn.

 

"You're not supposed to be here," he told her, pulling the door closed behind him and stepping into the stairwell. Ashara stood her ground. "Whatever happened to you?"

 

"Don't ask. I'm more concerned about what's happening in there. Trial by combat?"

 

"Lord Rickard is a fighter to be reckoned with, but more importantly, he's managed to hold onto his family's Valyrian steel sword," said Prince Lewyn, shooing her down the stairs in spite of Ashara's best attempts. "Even the best of us might find it a challenge with castle-forged steel. You see, this is what happens when Arthur isn't here."

 

"He'll be sorry to have missed it, I'm sure." Whatever else she might have said was forgotten, as shouting erupted inside the throne room. Prince Lewyn bounded up the stairs and Ashara followed, slipping through the door into the gallery before he could stop her. Instead, he clapped one hand over her mouth and pulled her down behind the railing to hide them both from view.

 

"What is the meaning of this? Unhand me!" It was Lord Stark's voice, though the carvings on the screen kept her from seeing him down below. "Your Grace, I demand to know--"

 

"I think you've demanded more than enough, my lord," said the king. Ashara could imagine the smile on his face and a pit seemed to open up in her stomach. "What are House Stark's words again, hm? Winter is coming. Do you know ours?"

 

"Fire and blood," Lord Stark spat. "What of them, Your Grace? Name your champion and let us end this."

 

"What champion does a dragon need when he has fire? Guards, string him up!"

 

Oh, gods, what madness is this? Ashara tried to turn her head but Prince Lewyn held her fast. "If I thought I could trust you to leave here, sweetling, I would let you."

 

Ashara shook her head, tears welling in her eyes as the unmistakeable rattle of chains echoed from below. "Lord Rossart," the king called. Ashara went very still and Prince Lewyn swore under his breath. "Do your work. If you would save your son, my lord, let your precious winter come and save you from the flames."

 

Wildfire. He's going to burn Lord Stark alive. Prince Lewyn's grip had yet to falter, though Ashara had long since given up on trying to scream. What good will it do when the only ears to hear it are mad? She could smell something from below, smoke mixed with a strange oily undertone that must be wildfire. She recalled it in passing from fireworks displays over the city. Not anymore.

 

Ashara did not know how long they sat there in awful silence as the pyromancers kindled their blaze below, or how long Lord Rickard watched the flames come closer and closer, knowing a slow, agonising death came with them. Gods have mercy on him; nobody deserves this.

 

She didn't realise the doors had opened again until she heard the new voice shout, "Father, no!"

 

Ashara's eyes snapped open and she tried to twist away from Prince Lewyn to no avail. Somewhere in the hall below, Brandon Stark was fighting his captors; she could hear the rattle of chains, the unmistakeable sound of metal against flesh. She shook her head. No, no, this can't be happening.

 

"You can save him, Lord Brandon," the king called out, between what Ashara suddenly realised was laughter, hoarse and rusty like the vultures in the Dornish mountains. "There's even a sword for you, right there. They speak most highly of northern warriors, but even winter snows melt beneath a dragon's flames."

 

True to his word, Prince Lewyn held her fast, even as she struggled against him. Lord Rickard must have begun to burn, for she heard a second voice start to scream aloud in agony. A new smell was wafting up to the gallery, rich and redolent of roasting meat, reminding Ashara to her utter horror that she hadn't eaten in hours. So that is what human flesh smells like. She recalled stories of wildlings who ate their captives and such tales had always been told of the ironborn reavers who plagued the western shores. Brandon was struggling down below; she could hear him, hear the king laughing, laughing, always laughing---

 

Oh, Arthur, damn you, you should be here to stop this. She imagined raising Dawn over the mad, triumphant king, cleaving the perfect, white blade through his skull. But Dawn is with Arthur. And more, Arthur was of the Kingsguard. Prince Lewyn was praying under his breath in the common tongue, in Rhoynish and Braavosi too, and what might have been Valyrian. But he made no move to stop the king. Nor did the two white-clad shapes at the foot of the Iron Throne who stood like silent shrines to the Warrior as the lords of Winterfell died before their eyes. Will no one stop this? Gods above, how can you let this happen? But the gods too were silent.

 

Brandon's voice gave out in a sharp, gurgling cry as though someone had taken pity and cut his throat. Ashara suspected darker things and silently thanked Prince Lewyn that she had not seen it. She could remember Brandon's lips on hers just hours before--oh, you fool, why did you not escape when you had the chance? She'd told him as much. Why do they never listen?

 

She had given up trying to struggle by now, her tears soaking into Prince Lewyn's white cloak. "You shouldn't have been here, sweetling; this wasn't your horror to witness."

 

"Wasn't it?" she whispered. "I was with him, ser, with Brandon Stark. Your niece sought to help him escape, and you let him die."

 

"I am of the Kingsguard," Prince Lewyn said, each word drawn from him like poison from a wound. "I serve without question."

 

Ashara twisted away from him and he let her go. "Arthur would never have let him do this."

 

"Arthur would have followed orders. It is our charge. We cannot disobey." There were tears in his eyes. "Tell Elia I'm so sorry."

 

"Tell her yourself," Ashara hissed. Below them in the great hall, Lord Rickard's screams were swallowed in a great gout of green flame. Her gorge rising, Ashara fled down the stairs and into the air before stumbling to her knees in the courtyard and retching uncontrollably.

 

"Lady Ashara?" It was Richard Lonmouth who knelt beside her, frowning. "What's happened to you?"

 

"Richard!" Wild-eyed, Ashara grabbed him by the collar. "Griff. Where is he? Is he here?"

 

"Connington? He's gone. Rode through the King's Gate just after sunrise, making for Summerhall. Myles Mooton went with him."

 

"Seven fucking hells!" Ashara screamed, burying her face in her hands. A moment later, she felt Richard's arm beneath her elbow. "Let go of me."

 

"Not until you tell me what's happened. Look at you; you're in a state."

 

"You truly don't know?" she asked, disbelief in her voice as she looked at him. "You didn't hear it?"

 

"Hear what?"

 

She would have thought the screams might echo through all the Red Keep, but evidently they hadn't even penetrated the throne room's walls. "Lord Stark is dead. So is his son Lord Brandon. Executed by the king's orders." Murdered by the king's orders. But she couldn't say that, not here.

 

Richard blanched and made a sign against evil. "For what?"

 

"Treason, and that's all to be said about it."

 

Ashara looked up to find Ser Willem Darry, the Red Keep's master-at-arms looming over them. "You'd best return to the princess, Lady Ashara. You, Lonmouth, with me."

 

Ashara saw nothing as she crossed the courtyard. There was a passage accessible through a wall near the sunken court and she stepped through it, narrowly avoiding a troop of gold cloaks entering the barracks next door.

 

Before she knew it, she had reached the now-familiar circular chamber with its mosaic of the Targaryen dragon. I followed Lord Varys down these halls just last night. Brandon was alive just last night. Choking back another sob, she ran down the passage that led to Maegor's Holdfast. She'd stopped at least three times in the passageways to stumble to her knees and retch, and her knees were shaking by the time she finished counting the two hundred and forty seven steps that brought her to Princess Elia's bedchamber.

 

The princess took one look at her face and held out her arms to Ashara. "Ser Oswell told me everything. He had it from my uncle," she murmured as Ashara fell, weeping, onto the bed, her head in Elia's lap.

 

"They died screaming. Both of them. He had Lord Rossart and his creatures burn Lord Rickard alive, and Brandon...I don't even know." Ashara clung to her tightly, wondering how her eyes had yet to run dry. "He was laughing as they died. You can't imagine the sound."

 

"Oh, I can," said the princess grimly. "I've heard it before. But the last time it was a group of mummers and it ended in a quick burial. This time, Ash..."

 

Ashara looked up. Princess Elia was looking through the window across the city of King's Landing, a maze of shadows and torches far below Aegon's High Hill.

 

"This time it will be war."

Chapter Text

Cat's chambers were hung with black, her windows shuttered against the afternoon sunlight. Lysa couldn't help but feel self-conscious in her blue gown when her sister was in deepest mourning.

 

For one thing was certain--Brandon Stark was dead, and his father Lord Stark with him.

 

May the gods have mercy on them, she added automatically. She had wanted to hate Lord Brandon for what he'd done to Petyr, but no one deserved to die just for trying to find his missing sister. His sister who wasn't abducted, the small secret voice reminded her, even though Lysa wasn't supposed to remember that.

 

I should never have opened that letter. She could still see the words, Lyanna Stark's signature below them, begging her brother's forgiveness for running away. It wasn't my letter to open. But it hadn't been Cat's either, and Lord Brandon never arrived. Now he never will. And she couldn't help but wonder if she ought to have done something more. I could have found his squire, the one who brought Lord Brandon's message to Father. The thought was like a weight on her heart, much as she tried to ignore it.

 

Not that it mattered now. Whatever Lyanna Stark had or had not done, it was King Aerys who had executed Brandon and his father a fortnight ago and who was now demanding the heads of Brandon's brother, Lyanna's betrothed Lord Baratheon, and their guardian Lord Arryn of the Vale. At least that was what the messenger in Targaryen livery had informed Lord Hoster the previous evening, interrupting a visit from Lord Emmon Frey and his somewhat frightening wife Lady Genna Lannister.

 

"All three of them?" Lord Hoster said into the stunned silence. "What have they done to deserve that?"

 

"Treason, my lord." The messenger looked nervous to Lysa, glancing down at the rushes or to the side, anywhere but at her father. He looked to be not much older than Edmure. "Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon are traitors to the crown, and Lord Arryn has refused to remand them to the king's justice."

 

"I ask again--what have they done?" Lysa's father crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave the messenger a look that would have cowed all three of his children to perfect obedience. "They are in the Vale and have been all this past year. What in the seven hells is going on in the capital?"

 

"A worthy question, my lord," echoed Lady Genna. She did not rise, but instead leant her chin on her hand and fixed the messenger with cool green eyes. "Is there no word from the Prince of Dragonstone? What does he think of all of this?"

 

"I couldn't say, my lady," the messenger admitted, red-cheeked. "I haven't seen him, if that helps."

 

"Not very much," she sniffed. "I don't suppose it helps that I've met neither the new Lord Stark nor Lord Baratheon and have no especial care for Lord Arryn."

 

"Genna!" hissed her husband to no avail. Lysa had to choke back a giggle in spite of herself, and Edmure was snickering into his sleeve. "What my lady wife means to say--"

 

"Anything I wish to say, I will say for myself," Lady Genna informed him with a glare. "What does the Hand of the King expect us to do?"

 

"My lord the Hand would have your aid in bringing them to justice. Lord Arryn might think better of his actions if the lords of Tully and Lannister--" At a clearing of Lord Emmon's throat, the messenger quickly added, "and Frey, of course, were to advise him accordingly."

 

"Hand, indeed!" Lord Emmon snorted. "Lord Tywin would have had their heads on pikes above Traitor's Walk by now."

 

"Lord Tywin," Lady Genna said coldly, "would never have allowed Brandon and Rickard Stark to be executed in the first place. The Hand of the King has lost control of his king and is asking us for help. Am I correct, young man?"

 

Lord Hoster chose that moment to rescue the poor messenger. "We have troubled the man enough for now, I think, my lady. Stand down, ser, and take some refreshment. We have heard your message and will need time to consider what to do."

 

"I suppose I ought to write to my brother," said Lady Genna as the relieved messenger was shown out of the hall. "Although I daresay a herald is making his way to Casterly Rock as we speak."

 

"Lord Tywin's counsel would be most welcome," said Lysa's father, sighing. "Gods have mercy. The gallant fool. If only he'd come here instead."

 

"Lord Brandon was young and wild, my lord," Lady Genna assured him, patting him on the arm. "My nephew is much the same. If his sister were to go missing, I wouldn't stand in Jaime's way for all the golden dragons in the world."

 

"Your nephew is in the Kingsguard, Lady Genna. Would he be able to shed some light on this madness?" asked Lysa's uncle Brynden from further down the table.

 

"I fear the Kingsguard oaths demand full discretion and Jaime, for all his wildness, is an honourable young man. He'd be offended if I asked and he'd certainly never tell me."

 

Perhaps marrying him wouldn't have been so bad, Lysa had thought to herself. Not that there were any wedding plans at Riverrun now that Cat's had gone so disastrously sour, and even if there had been, Ser Jaime had joined the Kingsguard. The Kingsguard now guarding a mad king. Lord Tywin's words the previous year seemed especially ominous now.

 

With Cat in mourning, all the servants had turned to Lysa for their orders and she'd scarcely had time to speak to her sister, so caught up was she in making sure the castle continued to run smoothly. Her father had troubles enough, or so Septa Finetta had insisted; the last thing he needed was for his house to fall to chaos. It was also why Lysa had been seated beside their father at dinner the previous night in Cat's customary place.

 

Watching Cat kneel before the small altar she'd set up to the Mother on her dressing table, Lysa didn't dare interrupt her, much as she longed to. As quietly as she could, she stepped backwards into the corridor and pulled the door shut. Turning, she started toward the stairwell when someone called her name.

 

"Lady Lysa!" It was Lady Genna's voice, almost as deep as a man's. Lysa stopped and turned, dropping a curtsey on reflex. "I was hoping to find you. Tell me, how is your sister?" Lysa studied her with narrowed eyes and Lady Genna smiled. "I mean her no harm, Lady Lysa. It's such a dreadful thing."

 

"I don't understand any of it, my lady," Lysa said. "Nor does Cat. Lord Brandon hadn't done anything wrong. He was only looking for his sister."

 

"Aye, and there's the question. What drives a king to kill one of his greatest lords along with his son and heir?" She almost sounded like a maester reading lessons, and Lysa was curious despite herself.

 

"When he was here last spring," she said, "after Lord Whent's tourney, your brother Lord Tywin told my lord father that the king was mad." Lysa met Lady Genna's striking green eyes. "Is it true?"

 

Lady Genna sighed. "I'll not lie to you, child. It certainly seems so. And the Prince of Dragonstone, who is next in line, has disappeared."

 

"You don't think the king murdered him too?" Although they were not permitted formal lessons, Lord Hoster had allowed Edmure and Petyr to have their lessons in the same room where Lysa and Catelyn did their embroidery, and she remembered story after story of Targaryens murdering one another. "He wouldn't kill his own son?"

 

Lady Genna frowned at her. "I should hope not, and you'd do better, Lady Lysa, to keep such thoughts to yourself."

 

Lysa felt tears stinging her eyes. But if the king is mad, what would stop him? A moment later, she felt Lady Genna's soft hand on her shoulder. "I meant no harm. But you're a woman grown, and words have a way of coming back to haunt you if you're not careful."

 

Lysa nodded. Cat had told her as much; so had Septa Finetta. But there were so many secrets that Lysa was keeping for herself that she could hardly pay mind to keeping them for other people.

 

"Did you ever meet Lyanna Stark?" asked Lady Genna, with what Lysa realised was the same carefully hesitant tone she used when asking her father for something and hoping he might say yes without noticing. "Your sister was betrothed to her brother, after all."

 

"She was supposed to be here at Riverrun for the wedding, but she disappeared from somewhere near the Gods Eye. That's what they told us."

 

"Disappeared, hm? I'd heard that she was abducted near Harrenhal, so that much seems correct." Lady Genna linked her arm through Lysa's and they started toward the staircase together. "So you don't know her at all."

 

Lysa shook her head. "I'd never met her before, but Lord Brandon talked about her. Cat said she was a wild girl who fought with a sword and rode horses all day."

 

"So my niece complained at length after she returned from Harrenhal." Lady Genna smiled. She was not beautiful like her niece, Lysa observed, but there was something about her that held the eye. "Cersei was angry, you see, that Lady Lyanna was chosen Queen of Love and Beauty over her."

 

"Lady Cersei is very beautiful," said Lysa dutifully. It was true, of course. Neither she nor Cat could argue that point. But surely it ought to have been his wife that the prince crowned. That was the custom, after all. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be helpful to you, Lady Genna. I don't know anything about Lyanna Stark."

 

"A wild girl who fought with a sword? That's not nothing, Lady Lysa. I think you know more than your father realises." They paused by one of the windows overlooking the godswood and Lyanna looked out across the fretwork of leafless trees. "It does seem strange that such a girl was abducted near one of the greatest castles in the realm and nobody was the wiser."

 

"You want me to say something else." Lysa met her eyes again with a sudden surge of courage. "What do you want me to say?"

 

Lady Genna didn't answer at first. Then, with a smile that reminded Lysa of no one more than Petyr Baelish, she replied, "That it wasn't an abduction. That Lyanna Stark knew what she was doing all along."

 

"Why does that matter?" demanded Lysa. "She's still gone missing. Her father and brother are still dead on the king's orders, no matter what she planned."

 

"The truth always matters, child. Even when everyone tells you otherwise."

 

Lysa considered this for a moment, recalling her father's command not to speak of what she'd found. But Father never listened to me anyway. And if he'd let Uncle Brynden go after Brandon Stark, he might still be alive. "There was a letter. It arrived that evening for Lord Brandon, but he never reached Riverrun. The messenger who brought it from the Crossroads Inn thought I was my sister and gave it to me to give to him. I don't suppose I ought to have opened it, but I did." Lysa could see the words before her eyes again, the round, childish handwriting so like her own. Even though we couldn't be more different. "It was from Lady Lyanna. She asked his forgiveness for running away."

 

She could feel Lady Genna's eyes on her, suddenly urgent. "Did she say why? Or who she was meeting?"

 

She wants me to say it was the Prince of Dragonstone. Instead, Lysa told the truth. "Nothing about that. Only that she couldn't marry Lord Baratheon and that she was sorry." Lysa felt a lump in her throat. "She couldn't have known, could she? She couldn't have known what would happen."

 

"Of course not," said Lady Genna, though she sounded distracted. "If even the King's Hand was caught unawares, I cannot imagine anybody knew, let alone Lyanna Stark."

 

"Is there going to be a war, my lady?" Her father and uncle had fought long ago in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was where Lord Hoster had met Petyr's father and where Lysa's uncle had been knighted on the field, though Uncle Brynden didn't like to talk about it.

 

Lady Genna frowned. "That will depend."

 

"On what?"

 

"On the new Lord Stark." This was Lord Brandon's younger brother who had been fostered at the Eyrie. Cat had not met him, nor had Lysa, though he'd attended the tourney at Harrenhal. She recalled a snatch of gossip about him and one of Princess Elia's ladies-in-waiting...or had it been Lord Brandon? Lysa couldn't remember; nor could she recall his name. Cat would know. Cat always knew these things. "And on Lord Baratheon," continued Lady Genna. "According to my lord brother, he is not one to take insult lightly, and Prince Rhaegar seems to have stolen his betrothed."

 

"But why would the prince do that? He's already married." Lysa had never met Princess Elia before. Lady Cersei had claimed she was plainer than a kitchen wench and her brother Prince Oberyn wild as an ironborn pirate, but Lysa knew better than to take anything Cersei Lannister said without suspicion. What if Lyanna Stark just ran away? Nobody seemed to have considered that idea.

 

"Who knows? Men take strange notions into their heads sometimes, and princes more so than any of them. I wouldn't have thought it of Prince Rhaegar, not from how Tywin described him. Bookish and quiet were his words." She gave Lysa a sideways glance. "You're a bit like that yourself, aren't you, Lady Lysa?"

 

Lysa stood still, not trusting herself to speak as Lady Genna studied her for a moment. "They'd talked of marrying you to Jaime before this Kingsguard nonsense. I remember that. Tywin had hoped for your sister."

 

"So does everyone, my lady," said Lysa quietly. She also recalled the tourney at Lannisport several years earlier where all the talk had been of Prince Rhaegar marrying Lady Cersei, who was only a little older than Lysa but carried herself like a queen all the same. But the king had quarrelled with Lord Tywin and Prince Rhaegar married the princess of Dorne instead. We are all second best. Even Princess Elia, if her husband has truly run off with Lyanna Stark.

 

She realised that Lady Genna was studying her, her lips pursed in curiosity. "Did you know that I was married a bare few weeks after my seventh name day?"

 

Lysa blinked and shook her head. Lady Genna was her father's age or perhaps a bit younger, but despite being married to Lord Emmon, had never taken his name and had displayed casual disregard for the rumours that circulated about her four sons, none of whom resembled her lord husband.

 

"Lord Emmon Frey." Her lips curled in disdain. "Even then he was a lordly fool and age, I fear, has done little to improve him. But even weak men have their uses. You'll have as little choice in your marriage as I did, Lady Lysa, and so will your sister; your choice lies in what you do about it."

 

"You didn't fight it?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

 

Lady Genna smiled then, and it transformed her face. "Tywin tried, the gods bless him. Ten years old, barely this tall--" she held out her hand at the height of Lysa's shoulder, "--but there wasn't a man in that room who didn't question the wisdom of my father's choice after Tywin did."

 

Lysa didn't know what to say to that, though she turned the conversation over in her head until she thought she might get dizzy. The next morning, it was left to her to bid the red-and-black-liveried messenger farewell after he'd finished speaking with her father. His face was drawn and his mouth pressed to a fine line.

 

Without thinking, Lysa said, "You're very brave to go back there."

 

The messenger's smile caught her by surprise. "You're kind to say so, my lady, but I'm in no danger."

 

But the king is mad, she wanted to say, even as Lady Genna's warning stopped her.  Hoofbeats sounded on the drawbridge, and Lysa turned to see a troop of horsemen bearing banners of purple with a silver eagle in the centre. Excusing herself under her breath, Lysa hurried back up the stairs to send someone for her father when her uncle appeared in the doorway.

 

"Lysa, will you see that rooms are prepared for Lord Mallister and his men?"

 

"I will, but--" When he looked at her, Lysa was suddenly lost for words. Remembering Lady Genna, she forced herself to speak. "Will you tell me what's happening, Uncle Brynden?"

 

"If I knew, child, I would," he sighed.

 

"It seems like the whole world's going mad." Is that what happens when a king goes mad? Does he take all the realm with him? "Cat won't speak to anyone, not even me. When she does, I need to tell her something, don't I?"

 

She didn't expect her uncle to pull her into a bear hug, but Lysa clung to him as she never could to her father. It was only at the sound of armoured feet on the stairs that she looked up at the newly arrived knight.

 

"Lord Brynden, I must speak with the Lord of Riverrun. It is a matter of..." He stopped, his eyes on Lysa.

 

"Go on, Lord Mallister," said Uncle Brynden. "My niece will see a great deal worse in the days to come, if what we hear is true."

 

Lord Mallister looked unconvinced, but seemed to forget about Lysa the instant he turned back to her uncle. "You've heard about the Starks, then? My brother Jeffory was with them. I'm told they've put his head on a spike on the walls of Maegor's Holdfast."

 

"Gods have mercy," murmured Lysa's uncle. "Come inside. I'll find my brother. Lysa, remember what I said."

 

She stepped back to let Lord Mallister and his men pass. Bringing up the rear was Patrek, his son and a friend of Edmure's. He shot Lysa a small smile and held out his arm to her. Before he could speak, she said, in her best impression of Cat's lady-of-the-house voice, "If you're looking for Edmure, he'll be in the practice yard."

 

"Well, aren't we high and mighty today?" he teased, though his smile faltered when he saw her expression. "I'm sorry, Lady Lysa. And tell Lady Catelyn too."

 

"I will, Lord Patrek. And my condolences too, for your uncle." She eyed him sideways before asking just curiously enough, "What happened? Do you know?"

 

It was as though one of the river locks had opened. "The message arrived from King's Landing...three days ago? Four?" He shook his head. "We scarcely stopped to sleep on the way here. Father's in a tearing rage and he can't even decide at whom. My uncle's dead and the Hand of the King writes that he was a traitor, but we all know that's impossible. No Mallister would ever betray his king."

 

Not even if the king was mad? Lysa couldn't help but wonder. "They're saying the same thing about the Starks. Not just Lord Brandon and his father, but even his brother, who's been in the Eyrie all this time. They can't all be traitors, can they?"

 

"It was only because my lord father forbade me that I didn't ride with them too. Uncle Jeffory was going to dub me knight when he came back," he murmured, sounding younger than Edmure though he was already seventeen. Lysa squeezed his arm as comfortingly as she could, and he gave her a brief smile. "You didn't come to the tourney at Harrenhal."

 

"No, I was ill," she answered easily, without thinking. It was true, after all, if only part of the truth. Try as she might, she couldn't help herself. "The king was there, wasn't he?"

 

"We all saw him there. I think he might be..." She waited for him to say it. It's only treason if you say it out loud. "I think he might be mad."

 

For several seconds, they both stared at one another. "I should go. I must speak to the steward," said Lysa, bobbing a curtsey. "I bid you good day, Lord Patrek. And I won't say anything about...you know."

 

"Thank you," he murmured, cheeks flushed. Patrek Mallister wasn't betrothed, so far as Lysa knew; she added that question to the list she'd compiled in her head to ask Cat once she emerged from her chambers.

 

As the days passed, more lords and their retinues came and went. A steady stream of messengers marched through Lord Hoster's solar wearing colours familiar and unfamiliar. Lysa felt as though her entire world had shrunk to menus and laundry lists, though she took careful note of which lords were visiting her father. Most were his bannermen, but some came from further afield.

 

One of these arrived on a rainy day that found Lysa seated in a curtained alcove in the great solar, the better to see her embroidery. The horsemen that rounded the River Road bore a banner Lysa had only seen once or twice before and did not recall at first--a moon and some sort of bird on a sky-blue field. It drooped in the rain, hanging limp as the horsemen cantered across the drawbridge.

 

More men-at-arms means more mouths to feed. Sighing inwardly, Lysa tried to remember where Master Wayn, the steward, was at this hour, but she had no sooner stood up when the door to the solar was flung open to admit her father and Uncle Brynden.

 

"...sending an envoy bold as brass when the king is demanding his head," Lord Hoster was muttering. "Did you recognise him?"

 

"It's not Lord Jon, that much I can say. Far too young."

 

"And his heir died with Brandon Stark, gods rest them all. How many fathers have lost their sons already? The gods forfend."

 

"We were young and foolish once, Hoster. It's been long enough that they don't remember what a war looks like," said Lord Brynden. "But I suppose we should hear him out."

 

"As you say, brother, but I fear I will regret the hearing." The doors opened and closed again, leaving Lysa alone with her thoughts. I should speak to Master Wayn and see to the guests. But her father and Uncle Brynden would no doubt retire here after hearing out the newest visitor and the sun was low in the sky already. Hiding here, they wouldn't find me. She tucked herself further behind the curtains and waited.

 

It was not long before they returned, her father with a letter half-crushed in one hand. "Gods have mercy on us all, what am I to do with this?"

 

"Take a breath, calm yourself, and read over the letter again when you've settled down," her uncle suggested.

 

"Oh, I understand it well enough, Brynden. Treason. Rebellion. Duskendale all over again."

 

"Worse than Duskendale," her uncle corrected him. "Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon mean to call their banners and join with Lord Arryn against the king. You have that from Denys Arryn's own mouth."

 

"But I can understand it this time. Lord Darklyn was a fool and his greed got the better of him, but now there are men being murdered, Brynden, for no reason at all."

 

"It's easy for Lord Arryn of the Vale to defy the king. He's got the Bloody Gate and the mountains to protect him and Lord Stark has the swamplands of the Neck. We haven't that luxury." Lord Brynden looked up at the tapestry on the wall behind him, a map of the entire continent from the Wall all the way to Dorne. "If there is a war, Hoster, we can rest assured it will be on our doorstep. Our lands will burn; our smallfolk will die."

 

"What other choice do we have? The king is mad. We cannot deny that any longer."

 

"What of the girl? Lord Rickard's daughter?"

 

"You know as much as I do, Brynden." Lysa's father sank into the cushioned chair beside the hearth. "But with the Prince of Dragonstone missing too, Lord Arryn's story makes the most sense of all." he sighed. "Gods forgive me. I might have misjudged Brandon Stark."

 

"You were hasty, yes," said Lord Brynden dryly. "I think I could have reasoned with him, had I been given the chance--"

 

"Mayhap," allowed Lord Hoster, holding up one hand to silence his brother. "But now he is dead, and some portion of his death weighs on my conscience."

 

His death, thought Lysa, but not my son's. Perhaps her father regretted that too, but he had never done so in her hearing.

 

Her uncle was speaking, low and quick. "Don't let that cloud your judgement, Hoster. Your bannermen want vengeance for their sons. I understand that. But is this the answer?" As Lysa watched, Lord Brynden knelt beside the chair. "We need to draw this out. Already there's been fighting in Gulltown, and the gods alone know what will happen when Lord Baratheon calls his banners in the south--"

 

"The Tyrells are loyal to the crown and they can field more men than Robert Baratheon. They've profited too much to do otherwise. The Lannisters, on the other hand...whatever Lord Tywin is planning, he keeps it to himself."

 

"You should do the same," her uncle advised. "Stay out of this."

 

"I don't know if I can, Brynden." At a gesture of her father's, Lord Brynden crossed the room to where a table sat against the wall with a flagon of wine and several glasses. Lysa had seen to it herself earlier that evening--the wine was a sweet red vintage from just due south of Highgarden, a gift from Lord Tyrell and his mother. "Brandon Stark was betrothed to my daughter. The king's eye will surely turn to us next."

 

"And will you prove him right? Don't be a fool, Hoster."

 

Lysa was leaning forward to hear better when her embroidery frame slipped from her lap and clattered to the floor. Both men jumped to their feet, hands at their daggers. "Who's there?" demanded Lord Hoster. "Show yourself at once!"

 

"It's just me, Father," Lysa said, her voice breathless with fear. "I was sewing and I must have dozed off...I didn't realise you were here until I heard voices and woke up." Retrieving the fallen frame, she crept out of the alcove, eyes lowered and head bent. "I'm so sorry."

 

Lord Hoster sighed. "How much did you hear?"

 

"Not much," Lysa lied. She hadn't realised until the previous year how easy it was to lie to her father. Perhaps it helps that he never listens, be it truth or lies that I tell him. "Something about the Stormlands and Lord Tywin, but he's nowhere near there."

 

Her uncle was eyeing her with suspicion but Lysa avoided his gaze. Uncle Brynden had always paid more mind to his brother's children than Lord Hoster himself, who was ever concerned with Riverrun first and all other things second. Lysa sank into a curtsey--not as graceful as Cat's, but it would serve--and turned to leave.

 

"How is your sister?" asked Lord Hoster, and Lysa came to a halt near the door. "How is she, Lysa?"

 

Lysa shrugged. "She mourns Lord Brandon, Father. She shuts herself away from all of us. I haven't spoken to her in days."

 

"Will you speak to her now? Tell her she must resume her duties." He straightened in his chair, blue eyes meeting hers. "The world goes on, daughter, even in these dark days. Cat must learn that too."

 

"Yes, Father."

 

Before she went to Cat's bedchamber, Lysa crept down the stairs to Master Wayn's closet and, on the pretence of seeing to their guest's refreshment, found out which chamber housed Lord Denys Arryn. When he opened the door, Lysa immediately sank into a curtsey.

 

"I'm Lady Lysa, my lord. My lord father wished to make sure that everything was to your satisfaction."

 

"It is, thank you," he replied. "My deepest sympathies, my lady, for your loss."

 

Lysa blinked up at him innocently. "You have me confused with my sister the Lady Catelyn, my lord, but I will let her know." After a pause, she added, "It would help if I had some idea of what was happening."

 

Lord Denys glanced over her head as though concerned that someone might overhear. "Lord Baratheon has set sail for Storm's End. I only left the Eyrie after we'd seen him off at the harbour. My uncle Lord Arryn defeated Lord Grafton, and his heir Lord Marq was slain in the fighting near Gulltown. All of the Vale stands with us now against the tyrant in King's Landing."

 

It was Lysa's turn to glance over her shoulder. She barely concealed a yelp when Lord Denys took her arm and drew her into the room, closing the door behind him. "You are right to fear, my lady. It is a dangerous road."

 

"It's treason," Lysa protested.

 

"Is it truly when the king is mad?" asked Lord Denys. "You know that much, Lady Lysa. He's murdered Lord Brandon and his father, and Lord Arryn's heir. Your father's bannermen want revenge for their slain sons. Surely you must understand, you and your sister--"

 

Lysa stepped away from him. "It isn't my place. My father must do what's best for Riverrun and for our family."

 

"Whether he wants it or not, there will be war," said Lord Denys quietly. "He'd do better to be on the right side."

 

"That would be easier, my lord, if we knew which side that was," replied Lysa, raising her chin defiantly. "My uncle tells me that if there is a war, it will be fought here in the Riverlands. Is that true?"

 

His eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropping open for a moment. "I suppose it would be, yes."

 

"So perhaps you might understand," she continued, "if my father must think long and hard before making such a decision."

 

"As you say, my lady," said Lord Denys, lowering his eyes.

 

Lysa was about to bid him farewell when she remembered what she'd neglected to ask him. "What of Lord Brandon's brother?"

 

"I know not, my lady. I bade Lord Stark farewell near the Mountains of the Moon and I know my lord meant for him to take ship from the Fingers, but the winter seas are treacherous, and the gods only know..." He made a sign against evil. "Pray for him, my lady. For all of us."

 

Lysa could think of nothing to say to that and instead dropped into another quick curtsey. "I will, Lord Denys." Then, with a smile, she murmured, "Thank you for answering my questions, my lord. You're very kind." Without waiting for his response, she pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor.

 

When Cat did not answer Lysa's knock at the door, she pushed it open all the same and found her sister seated near the hearth, a book in her lap. As Lysa drew near, she was able to identify it as a book of tales from the north that Uncle Brynden had given her when she was first betrothed to Brandon Stark.

 

"Did you know," Cat asked her, her voice perfectly calm, "that the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch fell in love with a White Walker?"

 

Lysa nodded. "I'd heard that story before when Lord Brandon was here. The Queen of Winter, they called her, and he was Night's King."

 

Cat frowned down at the pages. "I hadn't known it. But I don't suppose it matters now, does it?"

 

Lysa didn't speak; instead, she ran to her sister's side and threw her arms around her neck. Cat hugged her back, pressing her face into Lysa's shoulder. Balanced delicately on the arm of the chair, Lysa extricated the book and set it on the table behind her. "Father needs you."

 

"Of course he does," said Cat with a faint smile. "I'm ready, Lysa. I only wish I could understand why."

 

"It's like Lord Tywin said last year, Cat. The king is mad. And it's not just Lord Brandon and his father." She explained everything she'd heard in the past few days from Lord Patrek and the others who had come to Riverrun. Cat listened without interrupting, her cheeks growing steadily paler. "And now Lord Arryn has written to Father asking him to rebel against the king," Lysa finished, breathless.

 

"What does Father say?"

 

"He doesn't know what to do. Uncle Brynden thinks we should wait to see what happens. There might be a war, Cat." As she spoke the words, she realised that she didn't entirely know what they meant.

 

"Then I suppose we need to make certain that we're ready for it," said Cat after a few moments, her voice shaking a little. "Did you hear anything about Brandon's brother? Did he escape from the Eyrie too?"

 

"Lord Denys said he'd gone north to call his banners too, but they hadn't heard anything since he left." Lysa shivered. "He might be dead too, and I don't even remember his name."

 

"Don't say that, Lysa," scolded Cat. "His name is Eddard, and Brandon told me he was stubborn."

 

"What else did he tell you? About his brother...or about his sister?" Lady Genna had been so curious about Lyanna Stark, no doubt on account of what had happened at Harrenhal, and that had made Lysa curious in turn.

 

"Lyanna?" Cat looked at her as though she had only just recalled that Lyanna Stark existed. "Have they found her yet, Lysa?"

 

Lysa shook her head. "Lord Arryn says Prince Rhaegar's abducted her." The truth trembled on her tongue. The truth always matters, Lady Genna had told her, but what good would it do for Cat to know that her betrothed had died for no reason? It will only make her hate Lyanna Stark. "I wonder if she knows what's happened."

 

Cat shuddered. "The poor girl. She must be so frightened."

 

I have known for some time now that I cannot marry Robert, and have made my choice. Those weren't the words of a frightened girl. Lysa wondered for a moment what might have happened if she'd said as much to her father when she first discovered she was with child. I will marry Petyr Baelish. I have made my choice. He would have locked her away for the rest of her days. I am not as brave as Lyanna Stark.

 

But Lyanna Stark had started a war, whether or not she'd meant it. Lysa rose to her feet and held out her hands to Cat. "We should speak to Father."

 

"Yes. And--" Cat grasped her hands tightly. "Thank you, Lysa. I needed...I needed the chance to think. The time alone."

 

Lysa smiled. "I know you did. And, as you can see," she added with a shrug, "the castle didn't burn down without you."

 

Cat's laughter emerged as a surprised squeak. "I never thought it would."

 

They lingered for a few more moments, gazing into the fire in silence. Then Cat stood and smoothed her skirts. Lysa let her pass and followed, strangely content to retreat to her sister's shadow after these strange weeks as the focus of all eyes.

 

She wasn't fool enough, however, to believe anything had changed. Even if Lyanna Stark had chosen to run away, Prince Rhaegar might have abducted her all the same. She's still only my age, for all that she's a wild girl who fights with a sword, and he's a man grown and a prince of the realm besides. Who could stop him? The prince's father was mad, after all; maybe he was no better.

 

Try as she might, the thoughts chased her like shadows, even as she scurried after Cat. Her eyes had been opened and there was no closing them now.

Chapter Text

She had not slept a full night since the king burnt Rickard Stark alive, strangled his son, and placed their heads on pikes on the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast. It was not by coincidence, Elia knew, that the grinning skulls were within sight of her bedchamber window, Lord Rickard's charred and black and Lord Brandon's only now picked clean. Think on your sins as you pray for their souls.

 

Instead, she thought on revenge, and despaired. Oberyn's words to her on the banks of the Blackwater rang in her ears--No matter where or when, I will come for you--but every time she reached for parchment to write to him, she remembered the last time she'd watched Jaime Lannister in the practice yard. And he is but one of seven sworn to protect the king. To call for Oberyn would be to kill him with the stroke of a pen. I will not pull Dorne into this madness. Mother would never forgive me.

 

Her uncle Lewyn had not spoken to her since that night. Ashara still turned cold at the very mention of his name, her mouth thinning and her eyes hardening. He stood by and watched. They all stood and watched while two innocent men were murdered before their very eyes. Elia had waited at first, praying he'd come to explain himself--as though anything could make her understand how an oath to a madman meant more than the lives of two men who had done no wrong.

 

And the Starks were only the first. One by one, the unknowing fathers arrived in the Red Keep, and the king gave them to the pyromancers. Elbert Arryn, the heir to the Vale, burned with his father the day after his uncle sent his letter of defiance to Lord Merryweather and Robert Baratheon fought his way out of Gulltown. Lord Jeffory Mallister was the oldest of Brandon Stark's companions and his father long dead, so he burned alone, calling down curses upon the faithless dragon kings as the flames leapt around him. Lord Royce was the last to arrive and the last to die alongside his son Kyle, only twenty years old.

 

Though the massive walls and thick-paned glass muffled the screams, Elia watched every evening from Maegor's Holdfast as flashes of green and gold flickered like lightning from the tall windows of the Throne Room. As she watched, she repeated their names. I must remember them because the king surely won't. I must remember when their families come for justice.

 

It seemed there had been disappearances for years in Flea Bottom--whores, beggars, thieves, the sorts of people the gold cloaks never looked for. Elia had held her tongue after Rhaegar swore to her that the mummers' fiery demise soon after their marriage had been an awful accident, nothing more. How many other lies did he tell? How many more died at his father's command while we closed our eyes to it?

 

Lord Merryweather and the queen had somehow convinced him to spare Brandon's squire, though the young man remained in his cell under Varys' supervision. When Elia thanked her, Queen Rhaella avoided her gaze, shrugging aside the words in a manner eerily like the king's. "Even Aerys can be convinced."

 

It was growing harder to see past the poppy haze. Even the children had begun to notice, creeping past Ser Oswell into Elia's chambers while the queen closed her shutters against the world and slept well into the afternoons. What happened behind her chamber doors on nights when the king visited, Elia did not dare to contemplate.

 

Aegon and his nurse had accompanied Rhaenys and Viserys to the godswood--the king had, after all, said nothing about his grandson being imprisoned, so Elia had taken every chance to send him out of Maegor’s Holdfast. I won't have him trapped without the sun even if that is my fate. Every time she did so, she wondered if there was any way to smuggle them out of the Red Keep, and every time, she balked at entrusting her children to anyone capable of that kind of subterfuge.

 

Of Rhaegar, there was no sign. Either her message weeks before had gone astray or he had made his choice. I only wish I knew, whatever the answer was. If Rhaegar had truly abandoned them, there was no reason to stay her hand. She would tell her mother and Oberyn the truth and Dorne would declare war on House Targaryen once and for all.

 

But there is no turning back from that. We would truly be hostages. Already there had been a battle in Gulltown and she'd heard rumours--nothing confirmed--of fighting in the Stormlands and the Reach. The realm was already bleeding for the king's actions, and Rhaegar was nowhere to be found.

 

A knock sounded on the door of the audience chamber. "Enter," she called out, and the door opened to admit Ser Oswell Whent. She had grown to know him better over the past weeks than she had in all her years of marriage to Rhaegar. That he was fond of her husband and had been since Rhaegar's childhood was clear, and Elia had begun to hope that she might win him over.

 

"I bring news, my lady princess," he said, bowing quickly. "There's been a battle near Summerhall. Robert Baratheon defeated three of the storm lords loyal to the king."

 

 "Summerhall?" echoed Elia, feeling suddenly sick. "Where is he now? Lord Baratheon?"

 

"Moving northward, I'd imagine. Lord Merryweather has called upon the levies of the Reach and the Crownlands, but it takes time to muster an army and Lord Baratheon has a head start."

 

The Tower of Joy was due southwest of Summerhall and a treacherous journey through the mountains along paths long abandoned to goatherds and brigands. If anyone was going to find Rhaegar, they would need to know what they were looking for or be tremendously lucky. Neither of these seemed to apply to Lord Baratheon or his soldiers, though he would no doubt curse the irony when he discovered how close he had been to his stolen lady.

 

"What does Lord Merryweather make of all this?"

 

"Talk in the barracks is that his hair's gone white and he doesn't sleep. He's even stopped eating."

 

"The poor man," Elia murmured. "That was his favourite hobby. This news cannot please the king." After a moment, she ventured, "Tell me, Ser Oswell, has the king forbidden my uncle from visiting me or does Prince Lewyn keep away on purpose?"

 

The Kingsguard knight glanced over his shoulder at the door before answering. "You know," he began, his eyes on the ground and his cheeks growing red, "that your uncle has a...woman in the city."

 

"Seven save us," sighed Elia. "Yes, I knew about Uncle Lewyn's paramour and her daughter." As soon as she said it, she froze. "Who else knows?"

"The king knows. He made that much quite clear." Elia pressed her lips together to keep from crying out. The Kingsguard knight reached for her hand. "My lady, Prince Lewyn cannot help you, but--if you will have me--I will."

 

"What of your oath?" she whispered.

 

Ser Oswell bowed his head. "That is between me and the Warrior. He'll forgive me or damn me as it pleases him, but I cannot serve a madman and a murderer."

 

"So you say." Elia glanced over Ser Oswell's shoulder at the door to the corridor. It was closed, as was the bedchamber door. She refused to suffer the servants' presence when they weren't needed and Ser Oswell had, up to this point, aided her in this. But can I trust him? She'd trusted Varys, for all the good that had done. She couldn't blame him altogether, not after all that Ashara had told her, but the eunuch had done little since then to stave off the king's rages. "You would serve me, then."

 

"You and Prince Rhaegar."

 

"And if I were to ask you to turn your sword upon King Aerys, to break your oath to the Kingsguard as fully and as completely as you could," Elia asked, barely hearing her own words through the roaring in her ears, "would you do it?"

 

"I would try, my lady, but," he admitted with a smile that caught Elia by surprise in its ruefulness, "I fear my best days are behind me. I would surely fall to one of my brothers."

 

"An honest answer, if disappointing," she allowed. "And what of your Sworn Brothers? The Kingsguard have taken sides before." The Dance of the Dragons, she recalled, had divided the Kingsguard as deeply as it had the Targaryen family.

 

"The White Bull will fall on his sword before he betrays the king. The same for Barristan Selmy and Jon Darry. Ser Arthur is the prince's man, and your uncle would have done better to keep his vows more closely."

 

Or his paramour further away. Her uncle had only been named to the Kingsguard on her mother's insistence. Ser Gwayne Gaunt had fallen beneath Symon Hollard's blade while protecting the king in Duskendale, and Princess Artemisia had negotiated into the marriage contract that her younger brother Lewyn, then the greatest swordsman in Dorne, would become one of King Aerys' chosen Seven. He was sent here to protect me and he cannot even protect his own. "And Jaime Lannister?"

 

Ser Oswell shook his head. "I couldn't say, my lady. I haven't spoken to him alone since the king ordered me to guard you."

 

Elia took a breath to steady herself. "I recall that the king made the Lord Commander taste all his food in Harrenhal."

 

"He still does, my lady. Every meal. Every glass of wine. It would be impossible. It would be death to try it."

 

"Would you say that to me, ser, if the Red Viper weren't my brother?"

 

Ser Oswell grinned. "I take precautions, my lady. It's kept me alive thus far. I suggest you do the same."

 

"I'll consider it. I hope you understand that for some of us the less honourable road is the only road. I could not defend myself with a blade against even the worst swordsman." She smiled and shrugged. "Would you deny me what few weapons I have?"

 

"I...hadn't thought of it that way."

 

"Few do, but that is no matter." Elia placed her other hand over his and he looked into her eyes. "I accept your fealty, Ser Oswell of the Kingsguard. Your charge will be to find my lord husband and bring him back to King's Landing. If he should prove...difficult," she swallowed against the word, "you will make for Sunspear with all haste and inform my lady mother of everything that has happened here since Rhaegar's departure."

 

She pointed at the table on the far side of the room, still scattered with papers that Rhaegar had been consulting when last they stayed in the Red Keep. One was a map of the Dornish Marches from the reign of King Aerys I. Without a word, Ser Oswell retrieved it and watched as Elia pointed to the tiny sketch of a tower high above the Prince's Pass. He nodded and returned the map to the table. Elia's heart was pounding. He could betray us all now.

 

Ser Oswell only knelt before her chair. "When do you want me to leave, my lady?"

 

"We'll need to get you out of the Red Keep without the king or Lord Varys seeing you. Leave that to me." Ashara could take him through the passageways to the riverfront and he could join the regular bustle near the Mud Gate to leave the city. And what happens when the king discovers one of his Kingsguard gone? She would deal with that later. "Can you be ready by nightfall tomorrow?"

 

"Can and will, my lady."

 

After he returned to his post, Elia crossed the room to the table, looking down at the papers Rhaegar had scattered there during the last visit they'd made to King's Landing, barely touched, as though he could step through the door that instant. And what if he never returns? She tried not to think of that--of what that might mean for her and for her children. 

 

As had become her pattern, Ashara arrived as the bells of Baelor's Sept tolled the hour of the wolf. The queen knew she was there, as did Viserys, who had managed to keep her presence secret. So many secrets for a child his age--too many. The king had taken to demanding his younger son's presence in council meetings, though Viserys returned, quiet and wide-eyed, and clung to his mother every time.

 

"Brandon Stark's younger brother has called his banners at Winterfell," said Ashara after she'd finished the remains of Elia's supper. They were seated on Elia's bed, the curtains drawn except for a small corner through which Elia could see the secret panel beside the hearth. "I overheard the messenger speaking to Lord Merryweather. You'd scarcely recognise him now, the poor man."

 

"So I hear," Elia replied. "Lord Stark marches south, then."

 

"And Lord Baratheon marches north. And your husband is still missing."

 

Elia closed her eyes as bitter laughter bubbled to her lips. With effort, she swallowed it. "I had a foolish notion, Ashara. I thought that if Rhaegar could..." she waved one hand, bangles jingling on her wrist, "if he had the three heads for his perfect, prophetic Targaryen dragon before he became king, perhaps that might be the end of it. He could leave all that nonsense behind and we could rule the kingdom as we'd always meant to." Or perhaps not we. I had taken that for granted.

 

"It's not that foolish," Ashara murmured after a moment. "Princes have more scope for indiscretion than kings. Just look at your brother."

 

"I thought..." The laughter transformed into threatening tears before she knew, and she raised her hands to her face. "I thought myself so clever, so far-sighted. Gods, what a fool am I."

 

"An honest fool," said her handmaid, wrapping her arms tight around Elia's shoulders. "There's something in that. More than I can say for your royal husband."

 

Elia pressed her forehead to Ashara's. "I don't know what's worse--that the king might have found him or that he stays away of his own will." For the latter, I could never forgive him, not in a hundred thousand lifetimes. There was one still, small voice that reminded her that Rhaegar had disappeared on purpose, seeking a place where no one could find him without his knowledge. But surely by now he must know. How could he not know when the world is falling to pieces around us, when even his own Summerhall has become a graveyard twice over? "I've waited long enough."

 

"What will you do?"

 

"Ser Oswell has sworn himself to me. I know he's loyal to Rhaegar and my options are few if any, so I'm sending him to the tower. Whatever he finds there, I will have my answer, and he will go on to Sunspear. The king and Lord Varys may have given it out to the court that I'm ill, but they must have some other story for my mother."

 

"Elsewise Lady Mariam would have already arrived," Ashara agreed. "You'll tell them the truth."

 

Elia nodded. "If I tell them the truth, Oberyn will come." Rhaegar may have abandoned me but Oberyn wouldn't. The last letter she'd had from her brother had come from Braavos, but he'd spoken of travelling east to Qohor and then south along the Rhoyne to Volantis. Mother will find him and he will come. "Wild horses couldn't keep him away."

 

Ashara gave a snort of laughter. "I might kiss your brother if he did turn up to rescue us. I hope you don't mind."

 

"Do what you want with him. Just don't forget to invite Ellaria." Ashara choked on a giggle, and Elia continued, straight-faced, "It's only courteous, you know."

 

"I'll remember that."

 

"But not unless we have no other choice," said Elia after a moment's consideration. "If I call for Oberyn, I give him leave to do what he deems necessary, and the gods alone know what that would be." Kingslaying may be the least of it. "To say it will burn bridges is to understate the point."

 

"Does that even matter when the king is mad?" Ashara asked.

 

"I don't know what matters anymore," she whispered. "I would give so much to have Oberyn with me now, but all I can imagine is the Kingsguard cutting him down, and I couldn't bear it, not him too..." She shook her head. "More importantly, I can't let Dorne be drawn into this war. Not unless we have no other choice. I owe that to my lady mother."

 

"You can't go on like this. You'll go mad--as mad as him." Ashara spat the last word with a mutinous glare in the general direction of the throne room. "Can't we at least try to escape, Elia? If we could only get you to the harbour..."

 

"You've told me about those passageways, Ash. It would be impossible. We both know that." Elia looked at her lady-in-waiting, noting the roundness in her cheeks in spite of the fact that she'd been sick nearly every morning for the past week. As though either of us needed yet another trial. "Perhaps you ought to go. I should send you with Ser Oswell."

 

"I'm not leaving you."

 

"You may need to." Reaching out, she tilted Ashara's chin up so the lamplight slanted through the gap in the curtain across her face. "You can't hide it for much longer, you know."

 

Ashara smiled faintly. "I can endure a bit of gossip and disapproval."

 

"Ash, if the king finds out--"

 

"If he finds out what? There's nothing to find out," Ashara said with a sigh. Disentangling herself from Elia, she fell back against the pillows. Elia joined her, tucking a cushion beneath her arm. "My child's father is whoever I say he is. And, lest you forget, the king no longer remembers that I exist."

 

"Lord Varys does," Elia reminded her. "You see him all the time. It's a miracle he hasn't noticed your condition or its timing."

 

"He probably has, and is saving it to surprise me at the worst possible moment."

 

"All the more reason for you to leave the capital." Elia raised herself on her elbow, looking down at Ashara's face. "At least until the child is born. Will you consider it, Ash?"

 

"I have, and I'm not going anywhere until you and the children are safely on your way to Dragonstone or Sunspear or anywhere else."

 

Tears pricked at Elia's eyes. "I don't deserve you."

 

"Of course you do," Ashara countered, her smile flashing briefly before fading. "What will you do when the king discovers Ser Oswell gone?"

 

"I hadn't thought that far."

 

"He'll know it was you."

 

"Then we'll need to make sure Ser Oswell is far enough along the road that they can't catch up to him." Elia sat up and hugged her knees. "Can you do that, Ash? Can you get him out of the capital?"

 

"Out of the Red Keep, certainly," Ashara told her, slipping her arms around Elia from behind. "After that it's up to him."

 

By the time Elia awakened the next morning, Ashara was long gone, somewhere in the passageways moving through the Red Keep, invisible for now. She won't be for much longer. When the child starts to show, she can't stay here. There will be too many questions. Baseborn or otherwise, any child of Brandon Stark's would complicate matters.

 

Ser Jaime brought Viserys and Rhaenys to her chambers and stayed for most of the day--the queen, he explained without meeting her eyes, was indisposed.

 

"How much milk of the poppy is she drinking these days, Ser Jaime?" asked Elia when the children were out of earshot. "More than she did when she came to Dragonstone, surely."

 

"After His Grace visits her," Ser Jaime said slowly, as though wringing the words out one by one, "she finishes whatever she has left, no matter how much."

 

"Gods above." Elia closed her eyes for a moment. "She'll kill herself if she isn't more careful."

 

"Or if she is." Ser Jaime's eyes met hers briefly before he looked away.

 

"Don't let her, Ser Jaime," whispered Elia. "I need her. She still has some sway with the king even now."

 

"She pays for it, my lady," said Ser Jaime, his eyes on the door. "Dearly." He refused to say more and Elia didn't have the heart to press him, though she added another item to the growing list of crimes of Aerys Targaryen, Second of his Name.

 

That night, Ser Oswell, his white armour exchanged for riding leathers and unremarkable mail, paused beside the passageway door in Elia's bedchamber to bid her farewell. On impulse, she rose on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "Safe journey, ser."

 

"I'll bring the prince back, my lady. I swear it. Just trust me--and him."

 

"I'll wait for your message, Ser Oswell," Elia told him. "But you know your charge all the same."

 

He grinned. "The closest I've ever been to Dorne is a vat of Dornish wine. I never thought I'd make it that far."

 

"And mayhap you won't need to, just yet." If Rhaegar lived. If Rhaegar still cared for anything beyond chasing dreams of dragons. If, if, if. My life is a string of them and they are all beyond my control. She shook away the thoughts and stepped back as the passageway door opened to reveal Ashara in her maid's livery.

 

"Ser Oswell, it's time."

 

"Tell him--" Elia caught her breath, "tell him this is his last chance. If he lingers too long, he may find he has no family left but his father."

 

"I'll tell him, my lady."

 

After they left, Elia closed the bedchamber door behind her. One more door scarcely mattered, but she could pretend it did.

 

As she caught sight of the table, she frowned. She hadn't touched anything other than the map, which she'd then tucked back beneath a pile of anatomical sketches of dragons from Asshai. There was now a small black-bound book in the centre of the table, half-smashing several scrolls that Elia quickly rescued by picking it up.

 

The Targaryen dragon was embossed and painted on the cover, and the first leaf revealed it to be a history of the Dance of the Dragons, the great civil war that had torn the family apart some two hundred years earlier. Although Elia knew the stories, it was an account she'd never read before, and she settled on the window seat with a candle beside her. I hardly have anything better to do.

 

When she finally finished the book, dawn was creeping over the horizon and her mind was full of doubts. Someone left this for me to find. Varys, perhaps? She couldn't think why. If he means to discourage me, he's too late.

 

As the hours passed, she waited for someone to notice Ser Oswell's absence, to comment on it to her, but the servants, as always, remained silent. They were under orders not to speak to her except if necessary, and she'd given up soon after the king first put her under house arrest.

 

The king's orders arrived just before supper. She was to attend him in court in the Queen's Ballroom; there would be no excuses. With a sigh, Elia abandoned her meal--if the king intended to humiliate her in public, at least she would dress for the occasion.

 

When her escort arrived, she was surprised to find the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard himself. Elia rose to her feet briefly to greet him. "As ordered, Lord Commander," she said, her smile sharp as the blade he carried over his shoulder.

 

Ser Gerold frowned, but said nothing. Four of the guardsmen took hold of Elia's chair and she settled back down. They carried her down the main stairs of Maegor's Holdfast, its banisters curved like a dragon's spine, to the Queen's Ballroom where King Aerys had apparently decided to hold court this time.

 

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jon Darry were standing outside the doors. Though Ser Barristan at least looked surprised to see her, neither said a word under the Lord Commander's watchful eye. Inside the darkened, cavernous room were more people than Elia had seen in attendance since before the king had begun setting his lords afire. I wonder how he convinced them to come. The courtiers clung together in quiet, suspicious groups, aware that all the torches and braziers in the room were filled with the pyromancers' substance, its flames a telltale green that filled the room with a strange, unearthly haze. Perhaps convinced is not the word.

 

Elia wore black velvet lined with red and orange silk, the gown's dagged sleeves falling like flames almost to the floor. At her throat was a necklace Rhaegar had given her as a wedding gift--a golden dragon with diamond eyes that had once belonged to Queen Alysanne--and in her hair the diadem she had worn on her wedding day and on the day she'd first asked him for Brandon Stark's life. Let him take that as he will. The king looked surprised and the courtiers frankly shocked as she rose from the chair and curtseyed before his throne without her uncle's help, though he had moved to her side as soon as she arrived. The queen, she noticed, was absent, and it was Lord Varys who stood just behind the throne on the dais.

 

"Your health improves, Princess," the king observed, glancing toward Lord Varys, who gave a near-imperceptible nod. "A pity my son isn't here."

 

"A pity indeed," echoed Elia with a sickly-sweet smile for the court's benefit even as his fingers closed around her wrist and she fought not to jerk away. "May I ask why you've honoured me with an audience, Your Grace?"

 

"One of my seven was guarding your doors," the king told her, low-voiced. "What happened to him?"

 

"If you mean Ser Oswell," said Elia, glancing out toward the crowd of courtiers, all of whom were studiously looking elsewhere, "I assume he left on your orders. He is one of your seven, as you say."

 

"Lord Varys tells me he has left the Red Keep, but he cannot seem to figure out how." Even with the king's eyes on her, Elia couldn't help but look at the spymaster, his face seeming carved of stone in its utter lack of expression. And she realised--The king doesn't know about the passage in Maegor's Holdfast. Not yet.

 

"I don't know what you mean," she protested half-heartedly. The king snarled something unintelligible and dropped her hand, which Elia promptly wiped on her velvet skirts with an expression of disgust. Without missing a beat, Lord Varys took her other arm and led her past the throne to an antechamber half-concealed by a curtain. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

 

"The king would speak with you further," said the eunuch. "You've been misbehaving again, Princess."

 

"What else does he expect?" demanded Elia as Lord Varys closed the door behind them. "He's imprisoned me without cause."

 

"And you've proven to him time and again that he made the right decision," Lord Varys pointed out with the suggestion of a dry smile. "You must admit, Princess, that you've hardly behaved like a loyal subject."

 

"If I'm not to be treated like one--"

 

She stopped short as the king swept into the room, the door swinging shut behind him against the roar of the banquet.

 

Rather to her surprise, it was no longer Ser Oswell who occupied the king's attention. "What do you know about Robert Baratheon, Princess?"

 

With a quick glance at Varys, Elia recited as though to her former tutor, "Lord of Storm's End. He has two younger brothers and at least three baseborn children. He was engaged to Lyanna Stark. Until recently," she added with a shrug. "Rhaegar said he was a cousin."

 

"He's a thorn in my side and I wish him removed. Lord Merryweather has so far proved unequipped to that task."

 

"Some Hands were made for peacetime and others for war," Lord Varys observed. "Lord Merryweather has given you a well-stocked treasury should you need to go to war, but he is no general."

 

"But that's not why I've asked for you, good-daughter." Elia forced herself to look at the king as he spoke, the smile curling half-unseen behind his beard. "I have called the royal banners in the Crownlands and the Reach. I would that they be called in Dorne as well."

 

"In Dorne?" echoed Elia in disbelief. "This war has nothing to do with Dorne."

 

"How can that be when my son started it and you are his wife?"

 

"Rhaegar didn't--"

 

"That is the story in the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North, my lady," said Lord Varys, pity in his voice. "Prince Rhaegar abducted the Lady Lyanna by force, stole her from her betrothed like a brigand in the night."

 

"And what of her father and brother?" demanded Elia. "Did Rhaegar kill them too? Why, he must be made of fire and air!"

 

Lord Varys shot her a look of warning. "Your lady mother can field twenty thousand men, it's said."

 

Elia could have laughed aloud. Daeron I's exaggeration of the Dornish numbers in his account of the wars of conquests was a mistake the Martells had yet to correct; no right-thinking prince would disabuse his or her enemies of the notion that Dorne had a massive army hidden south of the red mountains. Mother could drain her bannermen dry for fifteen thousand, if even that. "My mother won't risk Dornish lives without reason."

 

"Then you will give her reasons for it," said the king.

 

Elia crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him. "She could field ten thousand at the most with any speed. But you have yet to convince me."

 

"Did you know that your chambers once housed Queen Helaena Targaryen?" The king spoke so softly at first that Elia didn't realise he was addressing her until she felt his gaze on her, cruel and calculating. "She was frail, like you; frightened of everything including her own shadow, or so the histories tell us."

 

Elia swallowed and kept still, suddenly aware of exactly where the book in her chambers had come from and on whose orders. "What of her, Your Grace?"

 

"She had three children by Aegon the Second, who she treasured above all things, who she believed would be safe within these walls." He stopped, his eyes drawn, as they always were, to the nearest candle flame. "But every night she would take her children to visit her good-mother in the Tower of the Hand. And one night," the king said, his eyes meeting Elia's, "she wasn't alone."

 

Elia lowered her eyes quickly. "I know the story, Your Grace." The soldier and the rat-catcher in the bowels of the Red Keep, she remembered, as her heart began to pound. Blood and Cheese were their names, the killers in the dark.

 

"Then tell me, good-daughter." She could hear the smile in the king's voice. "What happened?"

 

"There were two assassins, paid off by Prince Daemon Targaryen and his lady wife the Princess Rhaenyra, after the death of their son," said Elia, cursing the quaver in her voice, "Blood and Cheese. They called themselves debt collectors. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. They told her to choose one of her sons and doom him to death. She chose the younger. They killed the elder."

 

"Exactly."

 

"Is that a threat, Your Grace?"

 

"Take it as you will, good-daughter. I promise you that Lord Rossart is very good at his trade." He passed his hand over the candle flame, back and forth, a habit Rhaegar had picked up for particularly aggravating Council meetings. Unlike Rhaegar's, the king's hands were unsteady, covered in burns and scars from where the Iron Throne had snapped at him. "He and his substance are the closest thing to dragonfire in this benighted realm. So, think of your children, my lady, and consider that I give you one more choice than Queen Helaena had."

 

"If I write to my mother as you demand," Elia finally said, her mind whirling. It will be Rhaenys he chooses; there's no doubt of that. "If I bring Dorne into your war."

 

"Yours too, my lady, and my son's." The king studied her for a moment. "Queen Helaena would have killed for that choice. She threw herself from the window of your very bedchamber less than a year later, racked by guilt."

 

"Why are you doing this?" Elia whispered, tears threatening to choke her. "Rhaegar never plotted against you. None of them did. What in all the seven hells do you want?"

 

Abandoning the candle, the king crossed to her side quick enough that Elia flinched. He caught her arm, his fingernails raising welts on her skin, and looked into her eyes for a moment. "I want ten thousand Dornish soldiers marching through the Prince's Pass to aid their king in putting down a rebellion. And if I do not get them, I suggest you think on Queen Helaena and how you might answer the question put to her."

 

It took Elia three tries to write the letter. In the first, her hand shook so much that she could scarcely make out the words. In the second, she had pressed the tip of the pen so hard into the paper that it snapped, leaving a great splash of black ink. Finally, forcing herself to obedience, she wrote out the royal demands, signed her name, and handed it to the king, who read it over in silence and presented it to Lord Varys.

 

"Stilted," the eunuch pronounced, "but it will do. I'll have it sent to Sunspear immediately."

 

As Elia made her way to the chamber door, the king held out one arm to block her way. "What now, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice low and flat.

 

"The lords and ladies of the Crownlands need an example to follow. I will have your fealty, good-daughter, in view of all."

 

And so, gritting her teeth to keep from spitting in his face, she knelt before King Aerys and declared Dorne's loyalty to the crown. She could hear the whispers behind her, imagine the pity in their eyes--the poor deluded creature, so plain, so foolish, so perfectly loyal; what did she expect, sickly thing; of course he'd run off with someone younger, someone more beautiful--and raised her chin as she marched past them to the door. About three-quarters of the way down the Queen's Ballroom, her knees faltered. Without missing a beat, her uncle caught her arm.

 

"I know he's found her," said Elia under her breath. "You needn't explain yourself to me."

 

"Forgive me, sweetling," he murmured, his voice rough with tears. "He gave me no choice."

 

"You won't let him hurt Aegon and Rhaenys. Promise me that, uncle, oaths be damned. Brandon and Rickard Stark may have meant nothing to you, but these are my children. You will protect them."

 

"I will protect them, Elia. To whatever end."

 

She sank into the chair and gave him a quick hug. "Then I forgive you, uncle. If he lets you write to my mother, find some way to tell her the truth."

 

Be damned to Rhaegar too. I need to find a way out of this accursed place.

 

***

 

When Jon Connington was spotted charging through the King's Gate at a speed that could only be termed reckless, Elia knew by the time he'd reached Aegon's High Hill. What she didn't expect was that, less than an hour later, he would burst into her chambers--now guarded by two brutes of Varys' choice who barely spoke three words of the Common Tongue together--without so much as an invitation.

 

"You lied to me." Connington was breathing heavily, his cheeks nearly as red as his hair. "More than that, you nearly sent me into a bloody battlefield!"

 

"You give me too much credit, my lord," snapped Elia. "I could hardly have predicted there'd be a battle at all, let alone near Summerhall--"

 

"Where is he, dammit? Why haven't you sent for him?"

 

"Seven hells," Elia muttered. "Do I need to spell it out for you? The king has decided that Rhaegar and I are traitors to the crown. It's half a miracle he hasn't accused you, too. Do you think I linger here for my health?"

 

The expression on his face made her hand itch to slap him. Instead, she took a breath and forced herself to speak slowly, her voice low enough to avoid any listening ears from the passage near the hearth. "I am a prisoner here, Lord Connington, in these chambers. And, no, I cannot send for Rhaegar without giving away where he is, and I'd rather not contemplate what the king would do with that knowledge. Or have you not heard what happened to the lords of Winterfell and their bannermen?"

 

"Traitors to the..." The colour drained from Connington's face at impressive speed. "But that's impossible."

 

"Is it?" Elia fixed him with a withering glare and Connington quickly lowered his eyes. "You were at Harrenhal, my lord. You knew well enough what was planned."

 

"But nothing happened at Harrenhal." Only a crown of blue roses given to a daughter of Winterfell that had somehow started a war. "The Queen of Thorns' masque was cancelled, the Whents somehow didn't run out of wine, and Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of..."

 

Elia watched as he trailed off, beginning to pace. It was a nervous habit of his that he'd had since he was a boy, or so Rhaegar had told her once. After a moment, he looked back at her. "Are you telling me he's with Lyanna Stark?"

 

She sighed. "In the smallest possible words, it seems."

 

He let out a bark of laughter. "So Brandon Stark..."

 

"Was misinformed and wrongfully murdered. His father, too. We knew that already, of course, but there you are. And we are all bound to the king, aren't we? A king who murders his own people on a whim, just to see them burn."

 

Connington did not respond, and Elia realised he was staring into space as though miles away. "He's asked me to be the Hand."

 

"What?" Elia could only stare at him at first. "The Hand of the King?" Jon Connington was a petty lord in the Stormlands and younger than Rhaegar. Lord Merryweather had at least spent several years on the Council as Master of Coin before the king offered him the Handship in Tywin Lannister's wake and gave his former post to a jumped-up merchant from Saltpans named Qarlton Chelsted, now made Lord Chelsted. Why do I look for sense in a madman's decisions? Damn Rhaegar for leaving me here, damn him to any and all of the seven hells.

 

Connington looked back at her, his cheeks drained of colour. "One of the Kingsguard intercepted me on my way in and took me to the throne room. The king told me Lord Merryweather was plotting against him and that he needed a Hand he could trust; that Rhaegar had always trusted me completely..."

 

"Did you accept?" demanded Elia. She wondered if she could send Ashara to intercept Lord Merryweather and warn him. Or he may join the traitors' gallery outside my window. "What did you tell him?"

 

"That I needed to think. He's given me till sunset. I don't think he'll take no for an answer."

 

Elia shook her head. "No, my lord, I don't think he will."

 

"Where is Rhaegar?"

 

"If you're to be Hand of the King, you know I can't tell you that. He'll find a way to get it out of you. But if you can distract the king--keep him focused on Lord Robert and his rebels--I'll send for Rhaegar." She sent up silent thanks that Ser Oswell had departed several days before. "I don't know why he hasn't returned yet. He should have had my letter weeks ago."

 

The unspoken answer hung in the air between them. Elia wouldn't have credited Jon Connington with that much tact. A familiar tale. So familiar it borders on farce.

 

"There must be some other explanation," said Lord Connington. He'd waited just long enough that Elia decided she still disliked him. "Rhaegar wouldn't just abandon all of us."

 

"Who's to say?" Elia asked with a bitter laugh. "We may both have been deceived in him, Griff." The nickname slipped out before she could stop herself. Rhaegar had only ever called him that. "After all, what are we mere mortals next to Valyrian prophecies and dreams of dragons?"

 

"Is that what this is all about?"

 

Elia cursed under her breath. It was Rhaegar's absence--his thrice-damned silence--that was making her so careless. Perhaps being trapped in Maegor's Holdfast is driving me mad. "You can't tell the king, Griff. You must not tell him."

 

"Do you honestly think I'd betray Rhaegar's trust?"

 

"The king is burning men alive before the Iron Throne. Brandon and Rickard Stark now reside just below my window, there." She gestured toward the window and the grisly trophies beyond. "Their companions are on Traitor's Walk, and don't think the king won't send you to join them should you displease him. If my darling husband has abandoned us both, what good will it do to protect him and lose your own skin?"

 

Connington's lips twisted in a sneer. "You were never worthy of him." With that, he turned on his heel and stormed from her chamber.

 

Elia held in her laughter until the door slammed shut. "Oh, Griff," she murmured, sinking into the chair. "I knew I could trust you."

 

"The new Hand of the King leaves much to be desired," remarked Ashara from the bedchamber doorway.

 

"If he's half as stubborn with the king as he is with me, so much the better. But I fear the king will break him as he's broken Lord Merryweather."

 

"Lord Merryweather is exiled to the Free Cities. Lord Varys intervened on his behalf, as did the queen. I can only imagine Ser Jaime must have told her--she arrived just in time to keep the king from sending for Lord Rossart."

 

She pays for it, princess, Ser Jaime had said before. The queen had begun to refuse visitors altogether for days on end, as though she couldn't bear to be seen. Oh gods, what is he doing to her? Elia swallowed against the sudden churning in her stomach. "I wonder where Ser Oswell is," she said as Ashara drew near.

 

"Well down the Roseroad, I should think. Although he'll need to be careful near Summerhall," she added with a twist of her mouth. "More than just ghosts there now, I suppose."

 

They both sat in silence for a few moments before Ashara reached out to clasp Elia's hand. "You've done what you can."

 

"And it hasn't made a single bit of difference, has it?" Elia murmured. "He always wins."

 

"He may not this time," Ashara remarked. The words sounded uncannily loud in the empty audience chamber. "Robert's winning so far."

 

"He's just one man."

 

"Eddard Stark is another. Jon Arryn a third. If the river lords join them too..."

 

"And all for Lyanna Stark, they would have us believe. I suppose it's the easier tale to tell." Elia tried to remember the girl's face from Harrenhal but all she could recall was the suggestion of grey eyes and long dark hair. "For the young men, at least. I don't believe for a moment that Lord Tully would go to war for Brandon Stark's sister. Or Tywin Lannister--could you imagine?"

 

"Not for Lyanna Stark. But to dethrone a mad king? To bring down a tyrant?" Ashara shrugged. "There's glory in that."

 

"There isn't glory in any of it, Ash. No matter what they say."

 

There was a Braavosi galley sailing east into Blackwater Bay. "All you need to do is write to him," said Ashara as they watched it disappear into the twilight. "I know your brother. He won't need anything more."

 

"Ser Oswell asked me to trust Rhaegar." Elia rested her forehead against the window. "So far, it hasn't done me much good, but I'll grant him one chance. Oberyn would disapprove, but there are things he can't understand."

 

She looked down at her wedding ring, the dragon twisting gracefully around a sun. "I intend to be queen, Ash. Unlike Oberyn, I know what that means. And if Rhaegar has forgotten, on his head be it. The dragons died long ago, but the sun will rise again."

Chapter Text

Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale arrived at the gates of Riverrun on a bright, frosty day at the head of about seventy horsemen bearing the moon-and-falcon sigil Lysa had come to recognise. The rest, he explained to Lysa's father, were gathering near the Trident, waiting for the Stark forces to finish their long, treacherous march south through the Neck. Waiting too for Robert Baratheon and his army to make their way north across the Crownlands before the king's bannermen could intercept them.

 

Lord Arryn was even older than Lysa's father, broad-shouldered and slightly stooping, his hair white and shaggy, but his voice and manner reminded her far more of her uncle Brynden, at least at first. Uncle Brynden was always aware of everyone around him, while Lord Arryn's eyes passed unseeing over both her and Catelyn when they were introduced. She supposed he was distracted, but they all were and it was no excuse for rudeness.

 

Last year's false spring seemed a faraway memory now, as weeks swept by with nothing but grey skies and icy rain. The courtyard at Riverrun was a permanent sea of mud, churned daily as lords and bannermen arrived to confer with Lord Hoster. There would be more now that Lord Arryn was here, and Uncle Brynden had ordered small wooden bridges built around the edges of the courtyard to make some vague gesture toward keeping the great hall clean.

 

War, Lysa had discovered, was far less interesting than the songs made it out to be.

 

For ladies, at least, it felt like planning for a long winter with less time and fewer supplies. That winter looked to linger into the new year made it worse, as the men trapped indoors began to grow restless. Lysa had caught the lords Goodbrook and Mooton deep in conversation just the other day and pretended she hadn't heard them arguing over whose levies would better serve the crown. Lord Mooton's son was in King's Landing serving Prince Rhaegar, and the lord of Maidenpool had been outspoken in his defence of the prince, even if he'd agreed equally loudly that King Aerys had no right to murder the lords of Winterfell.

 

"It is not for us to question the king," Lord Goodbrook was saying. "More importantly, I have storehouses to fill and a winter that shows no sign of ending. My men want to be with their families."

 

"You can't go home, my lord. The king has called his banners already, so it's one or the other. A mad king or a rebel's cause." Lord Mooton sighed. "Myles writes to me, asking me to stay out of it, but how can I when my liege lord and my king both demand service at once?"

 

"No word from the prince at all? Your son knows nothing?"

 

"Nothing. The gods willing, he's still alive, wherever he is."

 

"You don't think..."

 

"I didn't believe at first that the king had started murdering men in cold blood, but I think we can both agree that happened," Lord Mooton replied. Lysa recalled his son now--two or three years older than Cat, she'd last seen him at the tourney Lord Tywin held in Lannisport, when he'd still been a squire. Myles Mooton, heir to the rich port city of Maidenpool and one of so many young men considered and discarded for Cat's potential husband. "If he's turned against Prince Rhaegar too, who knows what he's capable of?"

 

"Gods forbid."

 

"We're not dealing with gods," Lord Mooton snapped. "Only Targaryens. Only one of them, really. If we can find the prince, he'll reinstate Tywin Lannister as Hand and we can be done with this mess."

 

"If we can find him. If he's still alive. And if he's not..."

 

"That isn't worth worrying about until we know for certain." Only then had Lord Mooton glanced up and noticed Lysa standing there. On cue, she dropped a brief curtsey, smiled, and suggested they come to dinner.

 

During the meal, she couldn't help but glance at the two lords, who were seated with Ser Robin Ryger, one of her father's knights, and deep in conversation. They even made it most of the way through the meal before what was now beginning to seem like the customary interruption with news from the south.

 

"Lord Arryn!" the messenger cried out, dropping to one knee before the lord of the Vale. "I bring grave news. Lord Baratheon's army met the forces of Horn Hill and Highgarden near Ashford, and I fear the lords of the Reach were victorious."

 

"Does Robert live?" demanded Lord Arryn.

 

The messenger nodded. "He lives, my lord, as does your nephew Lord Denys. They still mean to join you at the Trident and are fleeing north as we speak."

 

"With the men of Highgarden in pursuit, no doubt."

 

"No, my lord," said the messenger. "Lord Tyrell turned east to lay siege to Storm's End, and Lord Tarly's forces took the brunt of the damage during the battle. Lord Robert has no pursuers, as yet."

 

"But the king has called his banners in the Crownlands," Lysa's uncle said to her father as Lysa studied her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "They'll be running into a trap, like as not."

 

"Not if you help them," said Lord Arryn, turning to his two hosts. "The king may call his banners but that doesn't mean his bannermen need answer."

 

"And if you succeed in this treasonous business, what then?" Lord Hoster asked. "Supposing Aerys Targaryen falls, who will replace him?"

 

"Nobody." Lord Arryn paused just long enough for Lysa's father's mouth to drop open in shock. "The first Aegon took this land for his own because he had dragons at his command. The last dragon died more than a hundred years ago, nearly a century and a half, even--and without dragons, what makes a Targaryen any different from you or me?"

 

Lysa listened in fascination. There had been all manner of petty kings in the Riverlands before Aegon the Conqueror, but the Arryns had singlehandedly ruled the Vale far longer than that. At least until Queen Visenya brought Vhagar to a halt in the very courtyard of the Eyrie--a castle that Lysa had always imagined was made of snow and ice--and, faced with both a dragon and Visenya's wicked blade Dark Sister held to her son's throat, Lady Sharra Arryn yielded the Vale.

 

She heard sudden laughter and realised it was her uncle's. "A fine sentiment, Lord Arryn, but you've never lived in the Riverlands."

 

"The only reason we have order in these lands is the Iron Throne," Lord Hoster added. "If it falls, we fall with it."

 

"Then we put a new king on the Iron Throne," Lord Arryn said, in the calm tones of someone who had already predicted this line of argument. "It so happens that Robert Baratheon is next, after Aerys' sons, in the line of succession. Robert's grandmother on his father's side was youngest sister to King Aegon V."

 

"A happy coincidence," said Uncle Brynden dryly, even as Lysa wondered if it was truly that easy to replace one king with another.

 

"A verified fact, my lords. If you want a king on the Iron Throne, I am prepared to give you one who is neither mad nor a murderer."

 

At his words, the entire room fell silent for a moment. Lysa half-expected someone to run for the door, to ride for King's Landing crying treason, but nobody spoke.

 

"Robert Baratheon is a boy," said Lord Hoster finally, with little force.

 

"A man," countered Lord Arryn, "valiant and newly blooded, whose soldiers will follow him to the darkest of the seven hells. Can Aerys say as much?"

 

"Prince Rhaegar could," remarked Lysa's uncle.

 

Jon Arryn spat on the rushes. "That's for him. A thief, a villain, and worse things I could call him. Robert wants his head, and he will have it."

 

"For Lady Lyanna, my lord?" The words emerged from Lysa's mouth before she could stop herself. All the eyes in the room were suddenly upon her and she felt her cheeks grow hot. "I just...that is the story."

 

"It's not a story for a maid's ears."

 

Stung, Lysa retorted, "How, my lord, when it so directly concerns a maid?"

 

"Lysa!" her father hissed. "I beg pardon for my daughter, Lord Arryn."

 

"Not at all, Lord Tully." Jon Arryn was studying Lysa curiously. "To answer your question, Lady..." he glanced at her uncle, "Lysa, yes. It is the Lady Lyanna I mean."

 

"Have you found her?" It was Lord Arryn, she recalled, who had first written to her father of the lady's abduction. She wondered where he'd heard the story, even as she could almost feel both Lord Goodbrook and Lord Mooton watching her, no doubt wondering how much of their conversation she'd truly overheard.

 

"The prince has hidden her well, I fear. There's been no sign of either of them."

 

"There you are, Lysa," snapped her father. "Now that's enough."

 

Lysa sank back into her seat, cheeks flushed, and said no more for the rest of the meal.

 

Even as the winter dragged on, Lysa had continued to visit the godswood, if only for its silence and solitude. It was the one place in Riverrun where she could be left in peace, as the castle itself grew full to bursting. Cat was ever at their father's side, her black gowns a stern reminder of the source of all this activity, and she found more comfort in the sept than Lysa did these days.

 

Messengers streamed north and south along country paths known only to couriers and smallfolk between Lord Robert's army and Lord Arryn waiting at Riverrun. Ravens would have been faster, but she'd overheard Maester Kym explaining to Edmure that it was more important to keep the whereabouts of Lord Baratheon's army unknown. Every holdfast between Riverrun and the Reach will have guards watching for messenger birds. Thus we trade swiftness for security. These are decisions a lord must make in times of war.

 

Edmure had redoubled his efforts in the tiltyard, and Uncle Brynden was spending at least an hour a day with him, but to Lysa he still seemed half a boy, and she knew their father had no intention of letting him see battle. Uncle Brynden had been arguing with him too about who would lead Riverrun's armies if they were to fight--always if, even though it seemed to Lysa that they'd already made their decision.

 

One afternoon less than two moon's turns before the year's end, in spite of the frost blanketing the ground and the ice encasing every tree's branches, Lysa picked her way along the path to the heart tree to discover a man standing beside it.

 

Lord Arryn was examining the heart tree, his hand outstretched until the tips of his fingers brushed the weirwood's pale trunk. "The falcon kings of old tried to plant weirwoods in the Eyrie, but they always died. The septons claim there's a parable in that, but my gardener tells me that it was thin soil, no more, no less."

 

"You don't have a godswood?" There were certainly enough holdfasts in the Riverlands and Crownlands whose lords had transformed their godswoods into gardens with the coming of the Seven, but Lysa couldn't imagine being without one. There had even been an underground godswood in Casterly Rock that she'd found deeply frightening when they visited, awakening late in the night with horrible dreams of roots strangling her in her sleep. Shaking away the memory, she quickly added, "I'm told the Eyrie is a fair castle indeed, my lord."

 

Lord Arryn's lips twitched, and Lysa had the feeling he was laughing at her a little. "The fairest in the realm, to my mind. I challenge you to find a more glorious sight than the summer sunrise with all the Vale of Arryn at your feet. Or in autumn, when the valley glows red and gold. Even the first snowfall has its own strange beauty when you see it from the clouds." For a moment, it seemed as though he was looking out at the valley he described before he shook his head. "And, of course, after that first snowfall, we scramble down the mountain like rats lest we find ourselves trapped for a season. It's a castle that shouldn't rightly exist, but a marvel all the same."

 

Lysa shivered, not just because of the chill in the air, and drew the blue woollen cloak lined with grey marten fur closer around her shoulders. "I can scarcely imagine it."

 

"Whatever you imagine, Lady Lysa," said Lord Arryn, meeting her eyes, "I promise you the reality is lovelier."

 

"I'll hold you to your word, my lord," replied Lysa, imagining that it was something Cat might say. Then, suddenly embarrassed, she seized on the next thought to occur to her. "And both Lord E---Lord Stark," she corrected herself, "and Lord Baratheon grew up there?"

 

Lord Arryn smiled briefly, revealing several missing teeth. "Fine young men, the both of them. I'd intended to bring them here when Lord Brandon was visiting last year, but the snows lasted especially long in the Mountains of the Moon and the roads were impassable."

 

"That is a shame."

 

"Did you know Lord Brandon well, my lady?"

 

Lysa shrugged. "I only met him when he came here during the False Spring. Cat tried to write to him before but she said he didn't like to write letters."

 

"Not at all like Ned, then," said Lord Arryn. "He used to write letters to Winterfell at least once a month..." The smile faded then, and a line appeared between his brows.

 

"He was writing to his sister, wasn't he?" Lysa asked, unable to stop herself. "To Lady Lyanna?"

 

"You're very curious about her," observed Lord Arryn. Unlike her father, however, he didn't sound disapproving. "The poor child," he added, making a sign against evil. "It's a monstrous thing, but the Prince of Dragonstone will pay for his crimes, as his father will."

 

Lysa was of an age with Lyanna Stark, Catelyn barely two years older. And he's older than Father. To him, we're all children. "But what if she ran away, Lord Arryn? What if she wasn't abducted?"

 

"What do you mean?" The lord of the Vale narrowed his eyes at Lysa. "Why do you ask this, my lady?"

 

"Would it change anything?" Lysa insisted, the truth on the tip of her tongue. "Answer me truly, my lord."

 

Every now and then petitions would appear before Lord Tully's court on behalf of young men and women who ran off together against their parents' wishes. When Uncle Brynden presided in their father's stead, Lysa and Cat had once or twice persuaded him to be lenient to the couple. It was a common enough occurrence for girls to flee an unwanted betrothal, but rarer that the girl got away with it as Lyanna Stark so far seemed to have done. But, surely, whatever happens, it shouldn't start a war.

 

He at least seemed to consider the question, standing silent for a moment before exhaling in a loud sigh. "There was a time when it might have done, my lady, but I fear that time has passed us by. The Targaryens saw to that when they started murdering their lords in cold blood."

 

But that was the king. Lysa hadn't recalled a word about the prince or Lyanna Stark in any of the messages from King's Landing. "But wouldn't it mean that the prince--"

 

"Hear me, Lady Lysa." Lord Arryn held up his hand. "I remember when King Aerys was a young man full of promise. The madness took him slowly, but it took him all the same, and the prince may turn out to be just like his father, given time. You know how the Targaryens marry." His mouth twisted in disgust. "They think it keeps their Valyrian blood pure. Mayhap it does, but it also distils the madness, for certain. One need only look at the histories of the realm to see it. So tell me, Lady Lysa, if you were in my place--in your lord father's place--could you take that risk?"

 

A faraway risk seemed to Lysa an acceptable price to avoid certain war, but she had the feeling that wasn't the answer Lord Arryn would wish to hear. So she bowed her head. "I wouldn't presume, my lord. But I would wish to do what was best for the people, and my father must consider the Riverlands first."

 

For a few moments, he was silent. Lysa realised he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Lord Tully is lucky in his children." Turning away, he murmured, "Forgive me, my lady. I fear I am not so blessed."

 

Lord Arryn had no children of his own, she recalled, and his heir was his nephew Denys, who had come bearing his message months before. He'd had another nephew who the king had murdered with Brandon Stark. May he rest in peace, she added guiltily, for she could not remember his name. As though called by her thoughts, Lord Arryn continued, "My nephew Denys mentioned you after his last visit here. He said you were wise beyond your years."

 

Lysa sank into a curtsey. "He was too kind, my lord."

 

"No, he was right." Lord Arryn raised her gloved hand to his lips. "You are kind to talk with an old man."

 

"And you are kind to listen to a girl," replied Lysa. "But I should go to my father."

 

Lysa was at the edge of the garden when he called after her. "We will find Lady Lyanna, and get her safely home."

 

She wanted to ask if he meant Winterfell or Storm's End, but held her tongue. "She was to have been our sister-by-marriage," said Lysa instead. "Cat has all of her ladies remember her in our prayers."

 

"Lady Catelyn would have made a wonderful lady of Winterfell."

 

Lysa didn't know what to say to that. She curtsied and all but ran from the godswood to the stairs. Septa Finetta caught her arm as she stepped into the corridor. "You're to preside at dinner tonight, my lady."

 

"Not Cat?"

 

"There are too many guests. It's not seemly."

 

Lysa frowned. There hadn't been any new arrivals that day, and their father hadn't seen the need to keep Catelyn out of Lord Arryn's sight thus far. "I'll be right there."

 

Ignoring the septa's calls--and taking advantage of her slower steps--Lysa hurried down the corridor toward her father's study and put her eye to the keyhole. Lysa's father was seated at his table, speaking to a man who looked like a common sellsword, at least until he pulled back the brown leather hood he wore to reveal unmistakeably Lannister golden hair.

 

Lord Tywin had one sister and several brothers, although until recently Lysa hadn't felt the need to remember how many. He's the one who matters, she'd argued once when Cat chided her. Ever since speaking to Lady Genna, however, she'd thought better of that. The man standing in front of her father couldn't have been older than thirty. Gerion Lannister was Lord Tywin's youngest brother and Lysa suspected he must have looked a great deal like his nephew Ser Jaime when he was younger. She remembered too that he'd had a reputation in Lannisport, or so one of Lady Cersei's companions had been eager to tell them as they watched him ride in the tourney there.

 

"My lady!" hissed Septa Finetta from behind her. Reluctantly, Lysa stepped away from the door and allowed herself to be led back to her bedchamber to dress for dinner.

 

Lord Gerion proved a lively guest, far more so than the two grey-clad sons of Lord Frey of the Crossing who had arrived just before the first course was served. Lord Frey himself rarely left the Twins these days, which was all for the best as far as Lord Tully was concerned. Petyr and Edmure had once stolen a letter where Lord Frey described his ten most eligible daughters in detail and read them out loud in their best impression of the old, dried-up Lord of the Crossing, sending Cat and Lysa into fits of laughter. They later realised that Lord Frey sent one every year, so insistent was he that one of his daughters would become Lady of Riverrun.

 

"Not in a thousand years," Cat had said, laughing. "The Freys are nothing more than jumped-up toll collectors." Lysa had laughed with her, but Cat hadn't noticed Petyr's face fall for a moment before he schooled it back to a smile. It hadn't stopped him from asking for Cat's hand in marriage and becoming the laughingstock of the castle--except for Lysa, who had never laughed at Petyr, even when the others did.

 

Glancing at Lord Arryn now, seated on her father's left, Lysa wondered if he knew Petyr. He would know the family; after all, the Arryns had ruled over the Fingers since they'd first seized control of the Vale hundreds of years before the Conquest. But Petyr had been fostered at Riverrun since before his seventh name day and had only just returned to his family before the war began. If Lord Arryn has called his banners, Petyr may be with them. She remembered him after his duel with Brandon Stark, broken in body and spirit, and sent up a silent prayer to the Warrior to keep him away from battle. No matter what he thinks, he doesn't belong there. Her uncle had once said the same about Edmure, thinking nobody was about, and Lysa had never told either him or her brother what she'd overheard.

 

It was strange. She hadn't thought of Petyr in ages now--there had been so much to do, so many new and worse things to concern her. I suppose they are a woman's troubles, and not a girl's. Ever since her sister’s cancelled wedding--ever since the Mad King had ceased to be a rumour and become a waking nightmare. The stories from King's Landing were getting worse--prisoners burned alive in the square before Baelor's Sept, the Stark and Arryn guards, innocent of anything beyond following orders, given over to the worst of the king's gaolers and torturers. And behind it, always, Lyanna Stark stolen in the night and her father and brother murdered to hide Prince Rhaegar's sins.

 

She did notice that Lord Arryn hadn't mentioned Lyanna Stark at all during dinner. He'd spoken only of the murder of Lord Stark and his son at the king's hands. "The Targaryens may have been powerful enough to control the realm once, but surely they've proven time and time again that they can't be trusted," he concluded, taking a sip of wine. "Lord Tywin should know this better than any man here."

 

Lord Gerion looked up. "Prince Rhaegar isn't mad."

 

"Nor was Aerys always so," countered Lord Arryn. "Another thing your brother could confirm."

 

"Tywin knows a great many things, Lord Arryn." He'd had at least five glasses of wine, Lysa estimated, and his cheeks were red with merriment. Cat's ladies, who were serving Lysa for the evening, had been whispering and giggling all night no matter how many times she shushed them. If I'm not careful one of them may end up in his bed by morning. "His quarrel," Lord Gerion was saying, "is with the king and the king alone."

 

"Does he know the prince's whereabouts?" asked Uncle Brynden, frowning.

 

"If he does, he hasn't told me. But I can't think so. If Tywin knew where Prince Rhaegar was, I assure you the prince would be back in King's Landing dealing with his father. My brother doesn't suffer fools, whatever name they might bear."

 

"But is he willing to suffer another madman?" demanded Lord Arryn. "I remember the king when he was Prince Rhaegar's age. I'll wager all the wealth of the Vale that Lord Tywin does too. If he was mad then, nobody knew of it, and now look at him." He shook his head and made a brief sign against evil. "I saw him at Harrenhal and it nearly made me sick. They say he won't cut his hair, that his nails grow like claws, that he can see only by wildfire's light. It's not natural, my lords."

 

"And now we hear that he's exiled his Hand and named a new one," Lord Hoster spoke up. "A stripling from the Stormlands, his castle a stone's throw from Storm's End. Connington is his name."

 

"Jon Connington?" Lord Gerion repeated, brows raised. "Interesting choice."

 

"What do you know of him?"

 

"Hot-headed. Stubborn. He'd follow Rhaegar Targaryen to the Shadow Lands themselves for all the good it will do him." Lord Gerion's smile seemed to speak volumes in a language Lysa couldn't understand. "Too young, Tywin said. Too bold, too eager for glory."

 

"If he's the prince's man, then surely that means the king isn't acting alone," Lord Arryn remarked. For a moment, his eyes lingered on Lysa and she blushed. When she looked up, however, he'd forgotten her completely, intent only on her father. "It confirms what I'd suspected from the start, Lord Hoster--that the king's murder of Lord Stark and his son was to keep them from interrupting his son's ravishment of Lady Lyanna."

 

"Ravishment?" echoed Lord Gerion incredulously. "You said you were there at Harrenhal, Lord Arryn, when the prince named her Queen of Love and Beauty. Surely that's enough to turn a maid's head. It would have my niece's if he'd chosen her, and I don't doubt your daughters' too, Lord Hoster." In the shocked silence that followed, he turned the full force of his smile on Lysa, who kept her eyes firmly on her half-full glass of wine. "I only mean to say, my lords, that there are men who would rather believe that a lady was taken from them than accept that she might have chosen to leave of her own free will."

 

Lord Arryn didn't speak at first, and Lysa could see one of his hands clenched tightly into a fist. When he did, the words were slow and measured, as though he was fighting to speak them. "Do you refer to my ward, sir?"

 

"You speak of him as a child, Lord Arryn, but I thought you would have us believe Robert Baratheon a man and a king uncrowned." Lord Gerion held out his glass to a passing servant, who refilled it after a nod from Lysa's father. "Kings have been dethroned now and again, but it is no simple task to make one, or so Tywin tells me."

 

"I'm no kingmaker, Lord Gerion. Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark were under my protection when the king demanded their heads and I ride with them now in common cause against the tyranny of Aerys and his kind. What we do, we do for the good of all." He rose from his seat and bowed in Lysa's direction. "I bid you good evening, my lords and ladies. Lord Gerion, if your lord brother intends to join us, he had best make haste, and if he intends to ride against us, the more's the pity for us both."

 

"Is that why Lord Tywin sent you? To needle Lord Arryn?" asked Lysa's father after the door closed behind Lord Arryn. "Jon Arryn is one of the few men in this land who speaks the truth as he feels it."

 

"Then he's a fool," said Lord Gerion. "On the other hand, he offers an alternative to King Aerys, and nobody else has done so. Tywin won't wait for Prince Rhaegar forever, so Lord Arryn may yet have my brother's support for his great undertaking. But not now, my lords."

 

To the disappointment of all of Cat's ladies, the Lannister party left the next day to return to Casterly Rock. Lysa could see the relief in Lord Arryn's face when the last red-and-gold-liveried guardsman passed beneath the gate. "I beg your pardon, my lords, for losing my temper."

 

"Gerion Lannister would try the patience of the Mother herself," remarked Lord Hoster. "For certain he vexes Lord Tywin to no end." It seemed for a moment that he was glaring at Uncle Brynden as he said that, but Lysa might have imagined it, and she had more important concerns than whether her father and her uncle were once again quarrelling.

 

***

 

Lord Arryn had begun to plan his departure, having received word of Eddard Stark's arrival at Seagard at the head of his northern army. Patrek Mallister was no doubt riding with them to avenge his uncle. Edmure, in his turn, was sulking because their father had told him in no uncertain terms that he would not be riding to war.

 

"He doesn't understand," Catelyn explained later. "It's because he's Father's only heir."

 

"All he's ever wanted is to be a knight."

 

"And he'll be a knight, in time. You wouldn't think he'd be so eager to kill," added Catelyn, her words clipped and sharp. But instead of saying more as they paused by one of the windows overlooking the courtyard, Catelyn fell silent.

 

"Cat, what is it?"

 

"Horseman. He's not wearing livery but he's all but fallen off his horse." The last words were muttered over her shoulder as she started toward the stairs, Lysa scrambling after her.

 

He had come, they soon found out, from Stoney Sept, a town Lysa had only visited once with her father and Catelyn on progress through the Riverlands. She vaguely remembered the sept for which the town was named, but little else. What mattered now was that Robert Baratheon was hiding there, having convinced the knight who held the central holdfast to keep him secure from King Aerys.

 

"He was hit by a crossbow bolt when they were crossing the Blackwater. Stoney Sept is the nearest town, and they gave him shelter," Lord Arryn explained later that night when Edmure asked, breathless with worry. He had begged Lord Arryn to tell him more of Robert Baratheon, the great knight who challenged a king for his lady. Lysa could have told him more of the lady but Edmure didn't care.

 

"Will he come here next, my lord?" asked Edmure, his eyes wide.

 

"He'll need some time to recover, I fear," said Lord Arryn. Only after he spoke did he glance over his shoulder toward the door of the great solar, which Lysa suddenly realised was still open a crack. Without missing a beat, Catelyn rose and closed it. Turning back to Edmure, Lord Arryn continued, "And time is what we don't have. The longer he stays in one place, the more likely it is the king's men will find him. If they haven't already."

 

"Stoney Sept is at least a fortnight's ride from here--longer still if you intend to travel with an army," observed Uncle Brynden.

 

"Horsemen only. We'll take what we can carry. Speed is what I need most. And luck," he added with a grimace. "I'll send a message to Ned tonight and we'll depart as soon as the arrangements can be made. The day after tomorrow if we can."

 

For a few moments, nobody spoke. Lord Hoster looked at Catelyn, then at Lord Arryn, before nodding. "Riverrun stands with you, Lord Arryn. I myself will lead our host south to Stoney Sept."

 

Jon Arryn clasped Lysa's father's hand tightly. "You've made the right choice, my lord. Let us be done with the dragonkings and their tyranny once and for all."

 

"A king who murders his lords on a whim is no king of mine," Lord Hoster agreed, even as Uncle Brynden watched him with a scowl of disapproval.

 

"It should be me," were the first words he said after Lord Arryn left for the rookery. "You are the lord of Riverrun. Your place is here. If I should lead our host, nobody would mistake it."

 

"No, Brynden," said Lysa's father, "it's too late for that. If we are to give ourselves over to this cause, we must be seen to do so wholeheartedly. Riverrun is yours in my absence, as are my children."

 

Whatever other objections their uncle had, he addressed to Lord Hoster in private, as all three of Lord Hoster's children were immediately sent to bed. When they arrived in the great hall the next morning, it was chaotic enough that Lysa and Catelyn didn't recognise Maester Kym until they'd nearly run into him near the dais where Lord Hoster and Uncle Brynden were seated with Lord Arryn, looking over a map of the Riverlands.

 

Riverrun's maester was pale as a ghost, one hand twisting the interlinked chains weighing down his neck. "My lord, I beg your pardon, but I must tell you..."

 

"What is it, maester?"

 

"Someone paid off one of my apprentices, my lord, to send a raven to King's Landing last night." He winced as he spoke, and as Uncle Brynden cursed under his breath. "The boy has been put under guard. I swear, my lord, I had no idea--"

 

"Never mind that. Who paid him?" demanded Uncle Brynden. "Has he said?"

 

"He said it was a man in a cloak, but he caught sight of the livery--gold with a wavy bend azure. And, to be sure, when I sent a servant to find him, Lord Goodbrook and his host were gone. I do beg your pardon, my lord, for not coming to you sooner, but the boy only confessed to me this morning for fear he'd committed treason."

 

"Let him spend the night contemplating his crimes and free him tomorrow," said Lord Hoster with a sigh. "Lord Goodbrook's treason, however, cannot be so simply answered."

 

Lysa crept close to her uncle and caught his sleeve. "Uncle Brynden," she whispered, "there's something you should know." As quickly as she could, she explained what she'd overheard between Lord Goodbrook and Lord Mooton on the day that Jon Arryn first arrived at Riverrun. "I suppose I should have told Father all those weeks ago, but I didn't think..."

 

Uncle Brynden squeezed her hand. "You've done well, sweetling. I'll take care of it." Leaning close to her father, he began to explain softly enough that Lysa couldn't hear him. Lord Hoster's cheeks grew red and Lysa could see his fingers tightening around the goblet he was holding.

 

"All this while," he muttered. "I should have guessed. Well, damn them both. Send for Lord Mooton."

 

"Hoster, I don't think--"

 

"Send for him, Brynden," snapped Lord Hoster. "That's an order."

 

Shaking his head, Uncle Brynden left the table. As he passed Lysa, he took her arm to lead her away. "Your father is thinking with his anger and not his mind. He'll lose House Mooton too if he isn't careful."

 

Later that evening it became clear that he was right--the now-familiar red salmon on white was nowhere to be seen when the lords gathered for dinner. Two lords gone over to the king. The conversation was hushed that evening, the laughter strained, and Lysa tossed and turned the whole night, unable to sleep.

 

At sunrise, however, she, Catelyn, and Edmure stood beside their uncle on the stairs leading to the great hall as their father and Lord Arryn prepared to ride out. Lord Hoster, clad in full plate armour, a cloak of soft blue and red wool streaming from his shoulders and embroidered with the silver trout of House Tully. He looked like one of the river kings of old from the stories Maester Kym told Edmure.

 

He paused before Edmure and, after a moment, smiled down at him. "Riverrun is yours, Edmure, until I return."

 

Edmure's eyes widened. "But Father, I'm not--"

 

Lord Hoster placed one hand on his son's shoulder. "Your uncle will remain in charge of the garrison here. If, the gods forbid, we should not prevail, you'll have him to advise you."

 

Lysa listened, her stomach churning. Soldiers rode to war every day, but she could hardly imagine her father doing so. He's going to war against the king. It was madness, as Uncle Brynden had said over and over again. And yet, Lord Arryn's suggestions sounded less mad than the king's demands.

 

Lord Hoster exchanged a few more words with Edmure, too softly for Lysa to hear. Then he turned to Lysa and Catelyn standing arm-in-arm. "If we are victorious, Little Cat," he said, "you will be married on my return."

 

"To whom, my lord?" asked Catelyn faintly. Lysa felt her sister's grip tighten on her arm. "To Brandon's brother?"

 

Lord Hoster smiled. "You will be Lady of Winterfell yet. Eddard Stark has agreed to honour the alliance between our houses."

 

Letting go of Lysa, Cat sank into a brief curtsey. "The honour is mine, my lord. But what of Lysa? Lord Ed--Lord Stark has a younger brother himself, does he not?"

 

Lord Hoster looked at Lysa for a few moments. "Perhaps. We shall see."

 

Lysa curtsied and only after her father turned away did she breathe again. Cat's fingers were squeezing hers painfully. "Come," she whispered, drawing Cat toward the door, "to the godswood."

 

Cat waited until they were in the shadow of the great weirwood tree before sinking to the ground, Lysa clinging to her. Strange as it felt, the air seemed just a little bit warmer, and the frost melting earlier in the morning. "I knew that he'd written to Father, but not what."

 

"Lord Arryn must have known too," Lysa added. They'd been standing right in this clearing beside the weirwood when he started asking her about the Starks. "He was telling me about Lord Brandon's brother."

 

"Eddard, Lysa. He's to be your brother by marriage. You should know his name."

 

"Do you mind, Cat?" Lysa asked, taking Cat's hand in hers. "If I were you, I should."

 

Catelyn looked down at her black brocade skirts. "I scarcely knew Brandon and I was ready to marry him. I don't suppose it makes a difference, does it? I will do my duty."

 

Lysa hugged her close, not knowing what to say to that.

 

***

 

The castle was unsettlingly quiet with fully half the men gone, either south with Lord Hoster and Lord Arryn, or east to meet the rest of the rebel armies near the Trident. Uncle Brynden and Edmure had sulked for the first day or two, but soon began to busy themselves by spending the mornings in the tiltyard and the afternoons studying the movements of the royal and rebel armies on the map now spread out on the floor of Lord Hoster's solar. Lysa found herself watching them more often than not, each House reduced to coloured wooden pieces moving back and forth across the Riverlands.

 

One afternoon a fortnight after their father's departure, Lysa found Cat seated in the triangular solar, an unopened letter in her hands. Cat held it out, her face carefully blank. Her name was inked on the outside in cramped handwriting that seemed familiar to Lysa, though she couldn't place where she'd seen it before.

 

"It arrived by hired messenger this morning," said Cat. "It's from the Fingers."

 

Lysa's heart thudded. "But we don't know anyone..."

 

"Petyr Baelish, Lysa. I helped him learn his letters, remember?" She traced the script idly as Lysa sat on the window-seat beside her. "He was so much better with sums and I could barely read his writing. I see that hasn't changed."

 

"Aren't you going to open it?" asked Lysa, trying to squash the inevitable question.

 

Cat looked down at the letter and, very slowly, shook her head. Before Lysa could open her mouth to protest, she rose and crossed the room to the hearth. Reaching out, she set a corner of the sealed letter alight.

 

"But, Cat--" Lysa muffled her cry in her hand.

 

"What good would it do, Lysa?" When her sister turned back, the expression on her face made her seem years older, like a woman grown and full of cares. "I know what it says. He would know by now that Brandon is dead. That his rival is gone."

 

Lysa found she couldn't speak for the lump that had formed in her throat. There had been no letters for her at all, let alone one from the Fingers. She'd wondered all this while if Father and Maester Kym had been hiding them, but surely this proved they hadn't. Catelyn's reputation was far more important than Lysa's had ever been.

 

Her sister gazed down into the hearth as the corners of the letter curled inward and burned. "Whatever he thought was between us wasn't real, Lysa. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen."

 

It was real for him, Lysa almost told her. It was real for me too--for everyone except you. But she couldn't tell Cat that, not without revealing everything. She would be so ashamed of me, so disappointed. "Sometimes even the pretence is better than nothing. And you hardly knew Brandon Stark--you said that yourself. You can't blame him for trying."

 

Catelyn didn't answer at first, and Lysa prepared for a lecture. Cat in one of her cross moods was more like their father than she ever wanted to admit, but it had been some months since she'd directed her frustration at Lysa. Instead, she sighed. "Some pretences are dangerous, Lysa. Petyr should have known his place. And Brandon should have known better than to challenge the king on his own. He should have come here and Father would have helped him."

 

There was nothing left of Petyr's letter now but ashes. Looking at it, Lysa felt sick.

 

"I'll ask Father about you when he returns. Eddard Stark does have another brother, and I want you with me, Lysa." Lysa looked down when Catelyn took her hand. "Unless Lord Gerion caught your eye?"

 

Lysa blushed and shook her head. "I'd always be afraid he was laughing at me behind my back."

 

"You're right. You couldn't trust him. I admit," Cat mused, looking down at their hands, "I wondered whether I could trust Brandon. When he fought Petyr, nearly killed him, he didn't need to wound him so sore. He should have trusted me, Lysa." There were tears in her eyes, glinting red and gold in the firelight. "He should have let Petyr go free. He was only a boy."

 

Lysa didn't answer. If our son had lived, he would be almost a year old. She'd been saying prayers for him in the godswood, unable to meet the Maiden's eyes in the sept, and hoping the Mother could hear her all the same.

 

"I'll never see him again, in any case," said Catelyn. "Why would he ever come to Winterfell?"

 

For you, Lysa might have told her, but she didn't. Instead she put her arms around Cat and they sat in silence until the fire died.

Chapter Text

Lyanna had come to dread nightfall.

 

She hadn't spoken of her dreams to anyone, but they circled her mind like the vultures she could sometimes see in the distance. There was one in particular, and she had dreamt it four or five times now--each time sharper and more urgent than the last.

 

A pack of wolves ran wild in the northern woods, snow muffling their movements even as their cries of joy rang through the air. She could almost taste the snow and something ached deep within her heart for the cold tang of winter. Will I ever see the snow again? When the pack met in the clearing they were five, four young wolves in varying shades of grey and a single black wolf with the grizzled muzzle of age and seniority.

 

Lyanna did not see who else was in the clearing, only heard the laughter--high, frantic, exultant--and suddenly two of the wolves were burning, howling, screaming their agony to the skies. All she could see was a dark shadow with eyes of pale lilac flame melting into the night as her pack was consumed in fire. Lyanna tried to call for help, but her jaws had been sewn shut with strings of silver.

 

As she'd done every time she had the dream, Lyanna awakened with a start, her sheets and nightshift drenched in sweat. Stumbling from the bed, she knelt over the chamberpot and brought up the contents of her empty stomach. The last time, Wylla had smiled knowingly as she helped Lyanna back to bed. The signs are plain as day, my lady.

 

It would only be another week or two before she left the tower for good to return to Starfall--her own child was due to be born in four moon's turns. I promise I'll send the sweetest of the handmaids to attend you. You could use one, I know. Lyanna had nearly burst into tears and promptly hated herself for it. When did I become a woman who wept for her troubles? And wasn't this what she'd wanted? As soon as her child was born, she could leave the tower before she truly began to think of it as a prison.

 

She told the prince on that same day and she could almost see the change in his face as he looked at her. He'd refused to spar with her the very next morning, in spite of Lyanna's protests and even Ser Arthur had commented that surely it was far too early for any sort of danger.

 

"He's oversensitive," Ser Arthur told her later, after earning Rhaegar's disapproval by drilling Lyanna in forms if not in actual combat. "I don't suppose one can blame him, given what's happened to the princess, but..."

 

"I am not Elia Martell," snapped Lyanna. "My mother bore four children and it was the fever took her, nothing else. Will he chain me to the walls next?"

 

"Don't provoke him," warned Ser Arthur. "I'll try to make him see reason. You keep quiet."

 

"He'll never keep me from riding. My mother rode until the day Brandon was born, and every time she had a child after him. You can tell him that too."

 

Ser Arthur sighed. "I'll tell him but I can't promise you anything."

 

A person could ride a full day in any direction from the Tower of Joy without encountering a living soul and it had been weeks now since the last letter from Princess Elia. Rhaegar was restless, pacing the tower like a caged animal, his eyes on the path just barely visible on the far side of the Prince's Pass that led through the mountains to Starfall. Ser Arthur had made the journey three--no, four--times now and there had been no news on his last two visits.

 

He hadn't touched her since she'd told him she thought she was with child.

 

Lyanna hadn't expected to mind that, but she found that she did. Arguing with him was about as useful as arguing with a block, and she often pitied poor Ser Arthur, forced to contend with both of them.

 

Once the child is born, I'm free. It's only a few more months now. She tried to remind herself of that every time she glanced out toward the Prince's Pass and imagined riding off on Sym without turning back. She might even have attempted it, save for the waves of exhaustion that kept striking her without warning, sometimes even when she was on horseback. If she were to ride off on her own and fall from Sym's back on one of the treacherous mountain paths, the gods alone knew what might happen. And then all of this would be a waste. So she gritted her teeth and did as she was told, for now.

 

A few more months and it's all over. It became the prayer that lulled her to sleep every night. Just a few more months.

 

But then the wolf dreams began, and so began her doubts.

 

Every time she considered telling Rhaegar about them, something stopped her. She still hadn't forgotten the other dream she'd had before leaving Winterfell, of the Tower of Joy transformed into a tomb. Am I going to die here? It was foolish, of course. Her mother and grandmother had never sickened while giving birth. She was no fragile southron lass, nor was she ill like Princess Elia. And even she had two children and lives yet. But the questions persisted, and the dreams.

 

As for the child itself, the sudden desperate light in Rhaegar's eyes when she'd told him of it had chilled her though she couldn't have said why. He'd explained--or at least tried to explain--what the prophecy she'd long ago overheard had meant, and it sounded more or less like the tales Old Nan had told her of the Long Night and the White Walkers. He thinks his children are going to save us all. It was too strange to believe. And yet the Last Hero had to come from somewhere. He'd had a mother, surely, and a father; maybe even sisters and brothers, though the stories never said.

 

The few books Rhaegar had with him were all written in languages Lyanna did not understand, nor were there pictures to guide her, save the Targaryen crest of a three-headed dragon. As though I needed reminding.

 

She was watching Rhaegar spar with Ser Arthur when she caught sight of the horseman approaching the tower. There were one or two servants who made the journey from Starfall, but this man was not one she recognised. He wore armour--battered and travel-stained--and carried a broadsword slung across his back. Without a word, Ser Arthur dropped back to guard Lyanna, one hand on the hilt of his dagger.

 

The knight had dark curly hair and a thick black beard dusty from the road; at first glance, he looked to be about the age of Lyanna's father. Seeing Rhaegar, he dismounted from the lathered horse and dropped to one knee on the sand, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He looks like he’s been riding for days. And the inevitable thought to follow--Something’s gone wrong. "Your Grace," he gasped, "thank the gods you're all right."

 

Rhaegar glanced back at Lyanna, paused in the doorway, and Ser Arthur a few steps in front of her. "Of course we're all right. But what are you doing here, Ser Oswell?"

 

Ser Arthur clearly shared Lyanna's sentiment, for he moved before either of them could, clamping one hand on Ser Oswell's arm. Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. This was no petty messenger, Lyanna realised, dread rising in her throat. "What's happened?" demanded Ser Arthur. "Is it the king?"

 

"Oh, aye, it's the king," spat Ser Oswell as he shook his arm free, "but not in the way you think." He turned back to Rhaegar. "Your Grace, what do you know of what's happened in the capital?"

 

"I know that Brandon Stark came looking for me, if that's what you're asking."

 

"Brandon?" Lyanna cried out, unable to stop herself. "What do you mean, Brandon came looking for you?"

 

"So it is true," Ser Oswell observed, eyeing Lyanna suspiciously. "Lyanna Stark was here all this while."

 

"When did this happen?" Lyanna demanded, looking first at the kneeling Kingsguard knight and then at Rhaegar. "Why didn't you tell me?"

 

"I think," Ser Arthur interjected, looking directly at Rhaegar even as his voice seemed to boom in the air around them, "that this is a subject best discussed indoors." Glancing over his shoulder to the west, he added, "There's a storm coming."

 

Without waiting for an answer, he steered Lyanna to the doorway. Behind them, Rhaegar squinted toward the dark clouds building in the distance and motioned for Ser Oswell to follow.

 

There was a fire in the hearth--winter in Dorne scarce deserved the name in Lyanna's eyes, but it had been unusually chilly for several days, enough to make Rhaegar even more nervy than usual. He fears the winter more than I ever could. She was a Stark; how could she possibly fear it? She had wondered more than once if that was why he'd chosen her in the first place--and if that fear had blinded Rhaegar to greater dangers.

 

Ser Arthur led her to the silk-cushioned couch, both absurd and perfectly at home in the tower to which she'd grown strangely accustomed. I should have known. I should have known it was too easy, too quiet. Lyanna didn't let go of his hand for a moment even after she settled onto the cushions, but he slipped away too quickly all the same to confer with his newly arrived Sworn Brother.

 

Rhaegar barely seemed to notice anyone, his eyes on the hearth and his hands pressed against the mantel. Still Lyanna waited until Ser Oswell had seated himself at the table with a large goblet of wine before speaking again, her eyes on Rhaegar and her hands tightly clasped in her lap. "Brandon was supposed to be married in Riverrun days after I left." She had stopped counting the days long ago but fully five moon's turns had passed if not longer still since they'd arrived in Dorne. She could hear her voice begin to shake. "What was he doing in King's Landing?"

 

"Lord Brandon never reached Riverrun, Lyanna." At that, Ser Arthur turned aside, muttering something under his breath, but he didn't seem surprised. He told Ser Arthur and not me. She could feel her fingernails digging into her skin as Rhaegar continued. "Your brother rode to King's Landing directly with a small guard and stormed into the Red Keep, demanding my head for dishonouring his sister."

 

"Oh, no." Lyanna felt sick, as though a pit had opened in her stomach. "That first letter from the princess. You told me there was a disturbance in King's Landing. A disturbance..." She pressed one hand to her throat, trying to breathe calmly. "Was that Brandon? Did you lie to me?"

 

"It's done, Lyanna. Your lord father came to King's Landing, explained the situation, and that was the end of it..." At Ser Oswell's expression, Rhaegar trailed off. "What? What's happened?"

 

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but that wasn't the end of it. Not by far." Ser Oswell was looking at Rhaegar in disbelief. "Who told you it was?"

 

For what seemed like ages, nobody spoke. Rhaegar seemed carved of stone as he stared into the hearthfire, his breath shallow. She couldn't see his face, but Lyanna knew fear in animals and could see it in every line of his body. I don't like men who hide their faces. She remembered the king's eyes, the eyes in her nightmares, lighter than Rhaegar's and full of malice, and she could hear the echo of his laughter till it chilled her blood.

 

"Tell me," said Rhaegar, his words barely loud enough for Lyanna to hear. "Tell me what he's done, Ser Oswell."

 

Ser Oswell took a breath, then a gulp of wine. Swallowing with a shudder, he spoke. "Lord Stark and his son are dead, Your Grace. The king gave Lord Rickard to the pyromancers and Lord Brandon to that Tyroshi butcher Lord Varys brought in last year."

 

None of the other names meant anything to Lyanna. Somewhere in the corners of her mind, she could hear herself crying out that Brandon could not be dead, not her dear, stupid, infuriating brother. And my father too. Oh, gods, what have I done? Her tongue felt like a lead weight, the words choking in her throat as she shook her head wildly. She had disappeared with Rhaegar Targaryen and the world had been set afire in her wake.

 

She could hear Ser Oswell speaking again and forced herself to listen. "Not just the Starks. The lords who accompanied them--Royce, Mallister, Arryn--all killed, with their fathers, their heads on spikes over Traitor's Walk."

 

"Mother have mercy," Ser Arthur murmured.

 

"Elia," Lyanna heard Rhaegar whisper. "Is the princess still in King’s Landing?"

 

"Imprisoned in Maegor's Holdfast on charges of treason. I was her guard before she sent me after you."

 

"You weren't there, then, when the Starks died," said Ser Arthur.

 

"I wasn't. The Lord Commander and Lannister were in the throne room with him, the others guarding the doors. But before you judge, Arthur, think on what you would have done in their place."

 

"I wouldn't have stood by while innocent men were murdered--"

 

"The king said they were traitors," snapped Ser Oswell. "That's what our Lord Commander told me. I believed him too, at first."

 

"Enough." The rasp in Rhaegar's voice made him sound almost like Lyanna's wavering memory of his father. A madman and a murderer. "There were consequences, I'm sure, to my father's sudden interest in murdering his lords without cause."

 

"Lord Robert Baratheon and the new Lord Stark have called their banners in rebellion against your royal father. Lord Arryn of the Vale, who was their guardian, names him tyrant and urges all the great houses to take back their sovereign rights and elect a new king. The dragons, he says, are long dead and the dragonkings' power with them."

 

The new Lord Stark. "Ned," whispered Lyanna. "Oh, gods, Ned, what have I done?"

 

To Lyanna's shock, she realised Rhaegar was laughing, but there was no humour in the sound. "My father has started a war. Why would he do this?"

 

"He thinks you're plotting with the Starks and the Martells to take his throne," said Ser Oswell. "The princess insisted that it wasn't true but the king would not believe her."

 

"Of course it isn't true!"

 

"Wasn't." Ser Arthur's eyes met Rhaegar's as he spoke. "He's left you no choice now."

 

Rhaegar looked back at Ser Oswell. "But you said he'd imprisoned Elia. Is she all right? My children--he'd never--"

 

"Princess Elia came to King's Landing to plead mercy for Brandon Stark; instead, the king placed her under arrest and she hasn't left Maegor's Holdfast since. The little princess knows something's wrong and Prince Aegon knows nothing but his mother and his nurse. So they're well, in a manner of speaking." Rhaegar turned away from them both, his hands pressed to his eyes. Ser Oswell's voice was low and bitter, but he looked at Rhaegar alone. "I'm to tell you what's happened, Your Grace, and you can do with it what you will. Your lady wife charged me to ride to Sunspear and tell the Princess of Dorne everything."

 

Lyanna could hear Rhaegar speaking, but the words could have been in Valyrian for all she understood of them. She could see the wolfswood afire again, the flames all around, the shrieking howls of the other wolves as they burned and she, she alone, stayed untouched. "We must go back there at once," she said aloud. "Why do we linger here?"

 

"I must go," Rhaegar told her.

 

"What do you mean, you? You don't think to leave me here, Your Grace." She let the title uncoil like a whiplash. "I'll ride on my own if I must."

 

"Your brother and your betrothed have declared war on the Iron Throne--"

 

"Because of me." She could hear her voice breaking as she spoke. "If I could just speak to Ned, I could make him understand, make him stop..."

 

"It's too dangerous for..." she heard the telltale pause, "for you to travel."

 

"For your child, you mean," she spat. "You can't keep me here against my will!"

 

"It's the safest course, Lady Lyanna, for certain," said Ser Oswell, though he did not meet her eyes. "The Roseroad is no decent place for a lady these days. There's been fighting already, Your Grace, at Ashford and at Summerhall."

 

The latter name hit Rhaegar like a blow, and Lyanna remembered the ghostly ruins, the moonlight and the songs. "Who won?" Rhaegar finally asked.

 

"Lord Robert won three battles in a single day at Summerhall, but I heard as I travelled south that the lords Tarly and Tyrell had defeated him at Ashford. He lives and flies north to the Riverlands. The lords of the Reach, in the meanwhile, lay siege to Storm's End, much good may it do them."

 

"And Catelyn Tully?" Lyanna didn't realise she'd spoken until all the men looked at her. "She was to wed my brother Brandon."

 

Still, Ser Oswell would not meet her eyes, though he seemed willing enough to answer her question. "I can't speak for the lady but Lord Tully has declared for neither side." He turned back to Rhaegar. "The same holds for Lord Tywin Lannister, Your Grace. The lords of the Reach and the Crownlands follow the king; the North and the Vale hold for Lord Stark and Lord Arryn. The Stormlands are bitterly divided, as you might imagine."

 

"What of Dorne?"

 

"They follow your lady wife, Your Grace." There was a world of warning in his voice.

 

Lyanna could hear the wind outside the tower. It was never truly silent here, the air filled with a thousand echoes from across the valley. My father and Brandon are dead. Ned and Robert are rebelling against the king. And all the while she had been here, worlds away, content to forget her family and her duties.

 

"Rhaegar--" she whispered. Pyromancers. What are pyromancers and what did they do to my father? And Brandon--what did they do to Brandon? Someone--Ser Arthur?--had placed a cloak over her shoulders, but she shivered uncontrollably beneath it. In the background she heard Rhaegar asking sharp, urgent questions about armies and commanders, levies and bannermen.

 

Ser Arthur drew her to her feet and began to lead her toward the stairs even as Lyanna tried to pull away. Glancing back over her shoulder, Lyanna saw Rhaegar sink into one of the other chairs and begin a low-voiced conversation with Ser Oswell.

 

"There's more to tell, I don't doubt," Ser Arthur explained softly. "I'm not sure if you want to hear it."

 

Lyanna nodded. "I need to hear it. Tell him, Ser Arthur. Tell him I've heard too many of his lies. He owes me the truth."

 

Slowly--so slowly now, it seemed as though the child was drawing all the strength from her---Ser Arthur led her up the stairs and into the balconied bedchamber. Lyanna sank onto the bed, numb and shuddering. Catching her breath, she looked up at him. "Ser Arthur, may I ask you something?"

 

He knelt in front of her. "I'll answer if I can, my lady."

 

"The story you told me of this tower and the knight who built it..." she swallowed. "There was something you never explained." At his nod, she went on. "You said that he sent the lady he loved, the lady of Highgarden, back to her husband in the end--yes, it was to stop a war between Dorne and Highgarden, I understand. But you never said anything about what she wanted."

 

For a moment, Ser Arthur frowned down at their joined hands. "You're right. I never did say because the songs don't say."

 

"They should."

 

"I suppose they should. What would you have them say, my lady?"

 

"That she and the knight should have run away to the Free Cities and never looked back. Dorne and Highgarden would have gone to war all the same, but at least they would have been together." Her lips were trembling and she could feel yet more tears threatening at the backs of her eyes. "It didn't even matter in the end, did it?"

 

Ser Arthur didn't reply. Instead, he rose to his feet and disentangled his hands from hers. "I'll send him to you. Try to rest, my lady."

 

Though she couldn't have imagined sleeping after all she'd heard, somehow she did--the babe gives me no choice, it seems--and when she opened her eyes again, the sky outside had darkened to a deep, solemn blue. Mayhap it was all a horrible dream. But somehow she knew it wasn't. In the intervening hours someone had come in to light the candles, she realised, half-rising from the bed to peer into the stairwell.

 

"Lyanna?" It was Rhaegar's voice from somewhere behind her. Carefully silent, Lyanna glanced over her shoulder to find him seated against one of the pillars next to the balcony, arms hooked about his knees and forehead bowed, pale hair hiding his face from view.

 

She turned away from him again. "How did they die, Rhaegar? Was it quick?"

 

It was a few moments before he answered, long enough for Lyanna's stomach to begin churning. "No, Lyanna, it wasn't. He tortured them." She could hear the bitterness in his voice, like the grinding of a whetstone. "The king--my father--" he spat the word like a curse, "had his pet pyromancer Rossart burn Lord Rickard alive. Your brother Brandon died trying to save him."

 

"Why?" whispered Lyanna. "Why would the king do it?"

 

"He thought I was plotting against him with your family and Elia's; that I wanted the throne for myself. I swear, Lyanna, I didn't know what he would do. I never would have come here if I'd known."

 

Another lie, she was certain; he'd thought of nothing save the oncoming winter and his precious prophecy. "Did you know he was mad?"

 

"Lyanna--"

 

"Did you know?"

 

His silence told her all she needed to know, but she tried to listen to the words though they lashed her like whips. "He wasn't always like this, not when I was young. I don't know what changed in him, but sometimes I'd look into his face and something else would look back at me. I thought that if the realm were at peace, the succession secured, if everything was as it should be, then maybe he might be all right." He caught his breath, the words half-muffled against his hand. "I was wrong. I was wrong, and your father and brother paid the price."

 

"They aren't the only ones." Lyanna shook her head as tears trickled across her face. She'd cried an ocean of tears already, yet still they came. "How many men have died because of your father?" Because of you.

 

"Hundreds. Thousands, maybe, by now. If you wish them on my conscience, believe me, I hear them."

 

"Then let me speak to Ned and no more of them need die."

 

"Lyanna, don't--"

 

"Rhaegar!" She sat up and looked at him. "I can stop this war if you just let me talk to him." If he will even listen to me after what I've done. But that was a question for another day. "He's my brother," she said, as much to herself as to him, holding the words as a talisman. "He must listen to me."

 

"It's too late for that. We can't risk the journey and I can't risk my father finding you. Not until I have him under control."

 

"But he's mad, Rhaegar. The king is mad. He cannot rule."

 

"He will not. I won't make that mistake again." After a moment's pause, he added, "If there were a way to bring you safely to your brother, I swear, Lyanna, I would. But his army makes for the Trident. We are in the marches. Between us lies the entire army of the Stormlands, led by Robert Baratheon, your betrothed, who believes that I abducted you. What do you think he would do if he were to find you now?"

 

"Robert wouldn't..." hurt me. Or would he now that I've turned him into a laughingstock before the entire realm? If he were to find her pregnant with Rhaegar's child... She remembered his sudden rage at Harrenhal, the bruises his fingers had left on her wrists that night. She had not cared to look at him when Rhaegar crowned her queen of the tournament but she knew he'd been furious, no matter what japes he'd made afterward. Men killed women for what she'd done; she had heard the same story over and over when Brandon had listened to petitioners at Winterfell. Lyanna closed her eyes. "May I at least write to Ned?"

 

"You need no permission from me to do that."

 

Lyanna laughed harshly. "Don't I, Your Grace?"

 

"I can't guarantee that your letter will reach him, or that he will read it."

 

"If it reaches him, he will read it. That I swear to you." Lyanna raised herself slowly until she was standing beside the bed, her head swimming. The tears had crusted on her face, sticky and hot. "The north will have its vengeance, Your Grace."

 

"Not vengeance, Lyanna. Vengeance won't bring back the dead. But you will have justice, as you deserve. I swear it."

 

Weep for the silver prince, but do not follow him. That had been Howland Reed's warning and she had ignored it. If I hadn't run away, none of this would have happened. She clung to one of the bedposts and tried desperately not to cry again.

 

"Lyanna, I..." The gods damn him, why did his voice still sound beautiful to her? "I'm so sorry, Lyanna."

 

"I wish I'd never met you. I wish you'd never seen me at Harrenhal, never spoken to me." She should be at Storm's End now, married to Robert, and Brandon with Lady Catelyn in Winterfell. But I thought I knew better. "They would still be alive if it weren't for me."

 

"Lyanna, don't say that."

 

"It's true. It's true, you know it's true." He'd moved to her side before she could stop him, was holding her even as she shook her head. "If I'd done as I was bid, they'd still be alive."

 

"You didn't know, Lyanna. You couldn't have known." It was so easy now to slip into the embrace. "Leave the blame where it belongs--on my head, and on my father's."

 

May he rot in the coldest, darkest hell, she silently wished. She could wish it on Rhaegar too, but something in her shrank from cursing her child's father. After a few moments, she asked, half-muffled in his shoulder, "What did you think would happen?"

 

He was silent for long enough that she began to wonder if he'd heard her. "The Laughing Storm, my cousin Robert's great-grandsire, nearly started a war with King Aegon V over a broken betrothal. The Prince of Dragonflies rejected his daughter to marry Jenny of Oldstones, but Lord Baratheon accepted the offer of single combat with Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and when Ser Duncan defeated him that was the end of it. I thought...it was supposed to be simple. I ought to have known better. Elia would have told me love is never simple."

 

"Robert never really loved me."

 

"I didn't mean Robert."

 

Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut as yet more tears began to leak out. She wouldn't have thought to have any left now. "But I told Brandon. I wrote it out in a letter and he never read it. He was supposed to be angry with me, threatening to ban me from Winterfell forever until he forgave me. He'll never forgive me now."

 

Rhaegar held her in silence until her sobs quieted. A stolen summer, nothing more, and the price was too high. No matter what happens now, the price was too high.

 

"There is one more thing, Lyanna, before I go."

 

"What?"

 

He looked down at her, the candlelight playing across his face, catching shadows in his pale hair, and pressed a folded piece of parchment into her hands. Lyanna unfolded it and saw the seal first--a black circle as big as her palm, a three-headed dragon rampant in blood-red. In comparison, the words seemed small and unimpressive, at least until she read them. I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, do hereby acknowledge Lyanna of House Stark as my paramour--a word Lyanna didn’t recognise--and that her child is of the blood royal. The next few lines spoke of lands in the Dornish marches and a holdfast that would be hers to do with as she pleased. Beneath it was his signature, large and sloping, the R twisted like a dragon's tail, and below, in a tidy, meticulous hand that Lyanna recognised with a jolt, that of Elia Martell, Princess of Dragonstone.

 

It hadn't been so long ago that that was what she'd wanted more than anything in the world. And then I wanted him. He'd made the world beautiful with his songs and his stories. It was a lie--all of it. Now, she wanted to die. If it would bring them back, I would. She wondered if the gods could hear her or if she'd moved beyond their reach. The last weirwood tree she remembered had been north of the Trident, a small, dying thing alone and abandoned. She didn't know what gods they worshipped in Dorne and she'd never learned how to pray to the Seven.

 

Tears choked her throat again--where do they come from?--and she pressed her lips together, unable to speak. The parchment slipped from her fingers and landed on the bedspread.

 

Rhaegar stepped back. "I ride north at dawn. Arthur will stay with you, and Ser Oswell. I won't leave you without protection."

 

"Is it me you want to protect or your child?"

 

"That's not fair, Lyanna."

 

"Don't you dare." Lyanna turned to face him, suddenly wanting nothing more than to rake her fingernails across his face. "My father and my brother have been tortured and murdered. If you'd told me that Brandon was in King's Landing, we could have stopped it. We could have saved him and my father too."

 

"I didn't know--"

 

"You knew enough! You left your wife and children in Dragonstone, didn't you, to keep them away from him?" she spat. "You knew my brother was in danger and you did nothing. You wrote letters. What do letters matter to a madman who burns people for sport?"

 

"Enough, Lyanna. I never thought he'd go this far. To murder great lords, to imprison Elia and the children...there must be some story for the court, else her brother would already be in King's Landing with a poisoned spear for my father."

 

"Not for you?" Lyanna couldn't help but ask.

 

"On the day Elia and I were betrothed, Oberyn told me that if I hurt her, I'd spend the rest of my days in the dungeon at Hellholt begging the gods to end my suffering," said Rhaegar grimly. "Nothing so quick as a spear to the heart."

 

"Then hear me, Rhaegar Targaryen," Lyanna spat, every word a knife. "I want your word on whatever honour you have left that you will spare my brothers. Both of them, no matter what happens. Swear it on your wife and children's lives that you will spare them."

 

"Lyanna, I may not have a choice. We're at war."

 

"No. You don't." Quick in spite of her pregnancy--her training with Ser Arthur clearly paying off--Lyanna twisted out of arm's reach and drew the dagger from her belt. Rhaegar's eyes widened as she held it to her throat. "Swear it, and hold to your promise. Or all that we've done, all the blood and the death and the waste, will be for nothing."

 

"Lyanna--" He made a half-arrested movement forward as she pressed the dagger harder. She could feel something slither down her throat and a drop of red appeared on the bodice of her gown. "Don't do this."

 

"Don't you doubt me," she hissed. "The gods will hear me no matter where I am. Ned lives. Benjen lives. No matter what. If either of them dies, so dies your child. I have sworn it."

 

"Lyanna--"

 

"Swear."

 

He bowed his head, defeated. "I swear it. Your brothers live. Eddard Stark. Benjen Stark. My life upon it, if you must." For a second, in her mind's eye, she saw him dead, the splendid armour she remembered from Harrenhal smashed, his eyes wide and staring. "Now put down the blade, Lyanna."

 

With a shuddering sob, she let it slip from her fingers. Rhaegar snatched it from the air before it hit the ground, cursing under his breath as the blade nicked his palm. He said no more to her, instead disappearing into the stairwell, taking her dagger with him.

 

Snatching up the empty goblet from beside the bed, Lyanna hurled it at the wall beside the stairwell. Though the brass bent out of shape, it somehow didn't help. She sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands.

 

How long she sat there, she couldn't have said, and she might not have moved at all, had she not heard raised voices from below, half-muffled by the storm that had finally arrived outside. Taking up a small lamp, Lyanna crept down the stairs and, blowing out the flame, paused just out of sight of the tower's main chamber.

 

She could only hear Ser Arthur and Rhaegar arguing in low voices. If Ser Oswell was with them, he was keeping his peace, and she did not dare to look for fear one of them might see her. Instead she strained to listen.

 

"What would you have me do, Arthur?" Rhaegar demanded, weariness clinging to the words like chains.

 

"Ride to Wyl and take ship for King's Landing. Not just you," Ser Arthur added, "but all of us. Lyanna too."

 

"You can't mean that," protested Rhaegar. "My father--"

 

"--need never know about her. You know how easy it is to disappear in King's Landing. Ser Oswell will hide her until it's safe."

 

Rhaegar did not answer at first, even as Lyanna strained to hear. It seemed an eternity before he spoke again. "And if I fail, what then?"

 

"You won't fail," said Ser Arthur. "I know you, Rhaegar."

 

"Then you know I can't risk it. He already has Elia at his mercy, Rhaenys and Aegon too." His voice cracked on his daughter's name. "Arthur, you must understand. This child--Lyanna Stark's child--is the key to it all..."

 

"And none of it will matter if your father burns this kingdom to the ground. You need to think of the world as it is, not as you wish it were." Ser Arthur paused and Lyanna could hear him catch his breath. "You are my lord and my king. If you order me to stay, I will not disobey you. But I'm asking you to reconsider."

 

"I don't know how much he knows, Arthur. Clearly he knew--or the eunuch knew--how to get word to me, to forge Elia's cipher and her seal. I don't doubt that he's got eyes on every gate in King's Landing and the harbour too. I can't trust any of them with Lyanna, I can't."

 

"Then why isn't he here? Why hasn't he come after you himself?"

 

"I don't know," Rhaegar admitted. "Perhaps he doesn't know where, only how. And if that's the case, it's only a matter of time before Varys puts the pieces together. He always does, sooner or later."

 

"And what's to stop the king from having you killed the instant you set foot in the Red Keep?"

 

"That might happen even if you were there, Arthur. Don't argue--you know as well as I do that even the greatest knight will fall if faced with ten times his number. If I can convince him that I mean him no harm...it might buy us the time we need."

 

"Time for what?"

 

"For Lyanna's child. For Visenya."

 

The name chilled Lyanna's blood, though it was hardly unfamiliar to her by now. Rhaenys, Aegon, Visenya. Aegon and his sisters reborn to fight a darkness only Rhaegar could see.

 

"Once she's born, Lyanna will be free to go. She wants nothing more to do with me; that much even I can see--"

 

"What of the war on your doorstep, Your Grace?" Ser Arthur's voice was as cold as Lyanna's dreams of winter. "Or will you wait for that too?"

 

"I will send for you, Arthur, when it's time. But I need to do this alone. I started this and I must end it." Rhaegar's footsteps echoed on the flagstones. "Lyanna trusts you, Arthur. It's why I need you to stay here. To protect her, from herself as much as from anyone else."

 

"Her jailer."

 

"Her shield. Protect her, Arthur. This is more important than all of us."

 

"I sometimes wonder," Ser Arthur murmured after a moment, "if you're as mad as he is."

 

The sound that emerged from Rhaegar's mouth shocked Lyanna when she realised it was laughter. "Mayhap I am. He is my father, after all. But I won't drag Lyanna any further into this. I've done her enough harm."

 

"You're doing her no favour by keeping her prisoner here."

 

"Keeping her safe."

 

"Call it what you will--she'll think it a prison. But if these are your orders, Your Grace, I will do my duty."

 

"Arthur--" He stopped and sighed. "Yes. These are my orders. Protect her, and wait for my message. When it comes, make for King's Landing with all speed. Only you."

 

"As you will, Your Grace."

 

She waited until Rhaegar's footsteps faded and the outer door slammed shut before starting up the stairs again, only to stop at the sound of Ser Arthur's voice. "I know you're there, Lady Lyanna."

 

Shamefaced, she crept into the room. "How did you know?"

 

"I have two sisters, one of whom is too curious for her own good." Under any other circumstances, she might have heard ruefulness in his voice--she'd come to associate that with him in these past months. "Also I saw your lamp on the stairs before you put it out."

 

"If I trusted my balance in the dark better..."

 

"You'll do no such thing. Not now, at any rate. Maybe next year." After a moment, he added, "I had a master-at-arms long ago who made me fight blindfolded. It proved more useful than I might have thought."

 

"I heard what you said to Rhaegar. About all of us going to King's Landing." Lyanna swallowed her nervousness. "We could still go, you and I. Just as you said, we could take ship there..."

 

"I may disagree with his choice, but I am bound to it all the same."

 

She bowed her head. "The Kingsguard."

 

He nodded. "We serve without question."

 

"But you question Rhaegar all the time. And you wouldn't have killed my father and brother if the king had ordered it." Would you? She didn't want to ask the question, didn't want to contemplate what the answer might be. "We could go, the both of us. Your sister must be in King's Landing if Princess Elia is." She wondered if Lady Ashara also grieved for Brandon's fate after what she'd seen between them in Harrenhal. She might understand even if nobody else can.

 

"No doubt she is. Ashara never leaves the princess' side if she can help it."

 

"But you won't go."

 

Ser Arthur shook his head. "I'm sworn to protect you, my lady, and to do so here."

 

"I'll go mad if I stay here. You will too, I'm sure." She might have said more, but the door opened to admit Ser Oswell, dripping wet. He nodded to Ser Arthur and glanced uneasily at Lyanna, who sighed. He doesn't approve of me. Not that she could blame him after all that had happened.

 

She waited until he'd seated himself with a goblet of warmed wine before asking the question she'd longed to put to him since his arrival. "Ser Oswell, you said...you said Princess Elia came to King's Landing because of my brother Brandon."

 

The Kingsguard knight peered up at her through narrowed eyes. "She did, my lady, though she couldn't have known what would happen."

 

"Of course not." She stopped for a moment, looking down at her hands, now crisscrossed with small red marks from her nails, before the words tumbled out in a shaking voice. "I never meant for any of this to happen. Nor did Brandon. It was foolish, what he did, but he only wanted to protect me."

 

When she met his eyes again, she realised he was staring at her in confusion. "By the Mother, my lady, nobody blames you, least of all the princess."

 

"Is she in danger?" As soon as she asked the question, Lyanna wanted to slap herself. Of course she's in danger. She's imprisoned by a mad king who murdered my father and brother. "I mean...the king wouldn't really harm her, would he? Her mother rules Dorne, and Rhaegar..."

 

Ser Oswell stared into his wine for a long moment. "I wish I could tell you, my lady. It's as I told His Grace--the king hasn't harmed her or the little prince and princess, but even we of the Kingsguard can't say what he'll do." When he looked up, however, it was at Ser Arthur with what was nearly a smile. "Your sister makes a hardy champion for her in the meantime."

 

"I'd expect nothing less," said Ser Arthur, the quiet pride in his voice stabbing at Lyanna's heart. How many times had Brandon and Ned spoken thus of her?

 

"She's been busy. Made a study of the passages in the Red Keep. Without her help, I'd never have left the city." The smile faded. "She asked me to bring you back if I could."

 

"Believe me, I've tried."

 

"He truly didn't know?" At Ser Arthur's nod, Ser Oswell sighed. "Until I saw this place I didn't believe it."

 

"Are things so bad in King's Landing?"

 

"Not King's Landing," Ser Oswell replied. "It's worst in the Marches. The Tyrells burned most of the bodies near Summerhall on their way to Storm's End, but you can't get rid of that smell so easily. I couldn't imagine how anyone would not know, but I rode for days through these damned mountains--got turned around I can't tell you how many times--and I suppose if you wanted to escape from the world altogether, this is where you'd do it."

 

"We left in the dead of winter. No sane man goes to war in the winter."

 

"Well, there's your problem. We're not dealing with sane men anymore." Ser Oswell took a long drink. "His Grace told me there were letters from the Red Keep. They couldn't have been from the princess--she was forbidden from sending any messages."

 

"False letters, then, to keep us here," said Ser Arthur with a twist of his mouth. "He won't listen to me. I told him that he needs to act now." His eyes met Ser Oswell's. "Does this shock you?"

 

"After what I've seen?" Ser Oswell laughed bitterly. "No, it doesn't. Whatever plot you're hatching, I'm with you. The others...gods, I don't know. To look at him, the Lord Commander has aged ten years since the Starks were murdered. Selmy says nothing, but Selmy has never said a damned thing if he could help it."

 

"Lewyn?"

 

Ser Oswell shook his head. "The king has his balls in a vise. He's found Lewyn's woman--says he'll give her and their daughter to the pyromancers if Lewyn puts a toe out of line. Give him a chance and he'll take it, but he can't promise anything."

 

There were any number of stories about men of the Kingsguard breaking their vows for love or lust, but Lyanna was more surprised that neither Ser Oswell nor Ser Arthur seemed to care that their own Sword Brother had done so. Instead, Ser Arthur continued, "Darry won't abandon the king, not even now. But what of Jaime?"

 

Lyanna had forgotten about Jaime Lannister, the newest member of the Kingsguard, nearly of an age with her. Looking at Ser Arthur now, she recalled that he'd been the one to raise Ser Jaime to knighthood--there was even a song about it. And yet Ser Oswell said he watched my father and Brandon die and did nothing.

 

"The king won't let him out of his sight. No doubt he thinks he'll bolt back to Casterly Rock the first chance he gets."

 

"But you told Rhaegar Lord Tywin hasn't done anything," Lyanna interjected. Both men glanced at her in surprise, as though they'd forgotten she was even in the room. "What is he waiting for?"

 

"For Rhaegar. Lord Tywin's quarrel is with the king," Ser Arthur explained, "and has been since well before Ser Jaime joined the Kingsguard."

 

"He was always fond of Prince Rhaegar," Ser Oswell added.

 

"I don't think fond is the word. But he had hopes for Rhaegar. If he still does..." Ser Arthur's eyes fixed on the door through which Rhaegar had left earlier. "I'm going to speak to him. Much good may it do me--he's as stubborn as any Targaryen."

 

"He can trust the Lord Commander," Ser Oswell said. "Even if Ser Gerold won't help, he certainly won't hinder him."

 

"I wish it were that simple." With that, Ser Arthur picked up a hooded cloak from the hook beside the door and vanished into the swirling rain and darkness.

 

Lyanna sank into a chair beside Ser Oswell. "You're talking about killing the king, aren't you?" When he blinked at her she managed a faint smile. "You'll hear no complaints from me, Ser Oswell. I only wish my brother knew that. I don't know if it would change anything, but it might."

 

Not for Robert, she suspected. But Ned...Ned would never throw away the lives of Northern men for no reason. Their father had taught all of them better than that. And if this war could end with the king's death, surely that's a worthy price to pay.

 

Leaving Ser Oswell to his wine, Lyanna crossed the chamber to the small table where Rhaegar had scattered books, pens, and paper. Turning over a sheet with several lines of musical notation scrawled on it, she sat down and began to write.

 

Dearest Ned

 

Immediately she stopped, a lump rising in her throat. How do I even begin?

 

I don't know if you'll see this at all, but if you do, please read it to the end, I beg you. Know first that I am alive and well, and that I swear to you that I never meant for any harm to come to any of us.

 

She stared down at the paper as tears welled in her eyes. It was a start, but she had a long way to go.

Chapter Text

The muscles in Ashara's legs were burning by the time she finished climbing the secret stair to the princess' chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. She pressed one hand to the small of her back and took a deep breath. If it had been summer, there would have been no way to hide her condition from anyone with a pair of eyes, but the layered fabrics of winter in King's Landing--and her borrowed disguise as a maid--had served her well thus far.

 

Not for much longer, Elia kept warning her, but Ashara had persisted all the same, even when the fatigue and soreness forced her to hide out in the passageways until she was able to move again.

 

With a sigh of relief, she pushed open the wall panel and found herself in Elia's bedchamber. It was empty, but Ashara could hear the princess' voice in the anteroom. Careful of the rushes beneath her slippered feet, Ashara crept close to the door.

 

"...and the only time they ever quarrelled was when King Jaehaerys chose to set aside his granddaughter Rhaenys--yes, sweetling, that's your name too--in favour of his second son. It was Queen Alysanne who told him he was being foolish--that a woman could rule the Seven Kingdoms just as well as a man--but the king wouldn't listen. So she took her dragon Silverwing and flew away to Dragonstone..."

 

"Home," said a small voice.

 

"Yes. Home." There was a telltale quaver in Elia's voice, and it was all Ashara could do not to run to her lady's side, but Princess Rhaenys was too young to be trusted with secrets. "She came back eventually, though."

 

"Want to go home," Rhaenys said. "Don't like it here."

 

"I don't either, sweetling. I promise we'll go home soon, and you'll see Aegon's Garden and the towers and all the dragons." She heard a rustling noise that she supposed must be the little princess wriggling off her mother's lap. "But now you must go with Cara so you can say goodnight to your grandmother and go to bed."

 

Ashara waited until Elia had stepped into the room and closed the door behind her before speaking. "I don't blame her."

 

"If I thought I could get them safely to Dragonstone, the Mother knows I would," Elia sighed. Her eyes met Ashara's. "If you would take them..."

 

"I'm not leaving you, my lady."

 

"Not even to protect my children?" Elia crossed the room and took Ashara's hands in hers. "Ash, you're the only one I trust, and I know you could get them out of the Red Keep."

 

"Yes, I could get them out of the Red Keep, but what then?" demanded Ashara. "We'd need a ship and a captain, and we have nothing, my lady."

 

The king, convinced that Ser Oswell had been bribed, had confiscated all of Elia's remaining jewels. All that remained was her wedding ring, which she slowly drew off her finger. "This would fetch a great price, Ash. More than enough for passage to Dragonstone, maybe even enough to go to Sunspear."

 

"If I sold all your jewels and the queen's too, it would make no difference. No honest captain in King's Landing will defy King Aerys now, not after all he's done." There were pirates and smugglers, certainly, but they were just as likely to sell the prince and princess back to their grandsire for profit. "And, besides, what do you think would happen to you if the children were to escape?"

 

"He can't hurt me."

 

"Yes he can, Elia. If he can murder the lords of Winterfell and the heir to the Vale, there's nothing to stop him from killing you, too." She pushed the ring back onto Elia's finger, where the rubies glittered in the candlelight. "I'm not leaving you."

 

Elia bowed her head. "It's been nearly two moon's turns since Ser Oswell left, and we've heard nothing. Not from Rhaegar, not from my mother."

 

"Even if there were messages, how would they reach you?" Ashara asked, untwisting her hand from Elia's and raising her chin so their eyes met again. "He'll do what he can for you, but he's not a young man and it's a long journey. And harder now that there's fighting in the Reach."

 

"Still? I thought Lord Robert and his army had fled north."

 

"The Tyrells have laid siege to Storm's End with Lord Redwyne's navy. No doubt there are others in the Stormlands who object." Ashara sank onto the bed, drawing Elia with her. "In fact, I think I might be able to learn more."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"There's an embassy from Highgarden due to arrive in five days' time. No doubt the Tyrells feel they ought to remind the king of their great deeds besieging two young boys," she added scornfully. "But word in the kitchens is that the king means to throw a great banquet. Not just for them, mind, but for all the lords of the Crownlands before sending out his armies against Lord Baratheon."

 

"I thought he planned to wait for his bannermen to take care of the rebels for him and bring him Lord Baratheon on a platter," Elia murmured darkly. "The gods forbid the king should be spared the pleasure of burning him before the Iron Throne."

 

"Only if he can catch him. He means to send Jon Connington west in command of the royal army to intercept Lord Baratheon before he reaches his allies in the Riverlands."

 

"Griff?" Elia stared. "He's never commanded anything before."

 

"He's the Hand of the King." That was still difficult to believe, though it had been nearly two moon's turns since his appointment. "More importantly," Ashara added, "he's young and stubborn and hot-headed, just like Lord Robert, so no doubt the king thinks he'll succeed where Lord Merryweather failed. I can't understand it any more than you can, but if I can get into that banquet, I might be able to find something out."

 

"Ash, you shouldn't. It's too risky. Why don't you just ask Griff? He should know something. Of course," she added, responding to her own supposition before Ashara could even open her mouth, "that would depend on how much the king and Varys are telling him. They told Lord Merryweather nothing at all."

 

But even as she spoke, Ashara could feel a plan beginning to come together. "I will ask Griff...to be my escort." At Elia's expression, she laughed. "Oh, come now. He hasn't been Hand long enough for anyone to notice yet, but people will expect him to have a lady, or at least a mistress."

 

"Someone will recognise you."

 

"Most of them won't have seen me in nearly a year, and some not at all."

 

Elia's brows twitched upward. "Ash, whatever you may think, your face is not a forgettable one."

 

"It is now," retorted Ashara, gesturing to the servant's livery and the white scarf wrapped round her hair, almost like a septa's wimple. "I've walked past every member of the Kingsguard I can't count how many times and they didn't notice me. Not even your uncle."

 

"Even Ser Barristan?"

 

She had made a point of avoiding him in particular, remembering the look he'd given her when Prince Rhaegar presented the crown of blue roses to Lyanna Stark what seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago at Harrenhal. "Very well. I'll allow him."

 

"So, if you're going to do this mad thing," Elia continued, "you'll need a disguise. I don't doubt that you could find one, but you'll need to work fast. Which leads me to the more important question--how do you propose to convince Griff of this scheme of yours when he doesn't even know you're here?"

 

"He probably just thinks I'm in the Maidenvault with Serra and Lilias and the others. Griff hardly ever paid mind to your ladies. You know that. He was too busy mooning after your royal husband."

 

To Ashara's satisfaction, that prompted a small smile from Elia. "You're determined to do this."

 

"It's our best chance of finding out what's happening in the Reach. If someone has seen Ser Oswell or--the gods willing--Prince Rhaegar, the Tyrells are the likeliest to know." Ashara winced at a sudden stab of pain near her left hip.

 

"Ash, you need to be more careful," Elia warned. "It won't be long now, and you know it's too dangerous for you to have a child here."

 

"I've weeks to spare." Ashara put her arms around Elia's neck and hugged her close. "Give me some credit for sense, please, my lady. I have a plan."

 

"And that plan is...?"

 

"You sent me to see your uncle's paramour, remember? After Ser Oswell's departure?" At Elia's nod, she continued. "I asked her to help me and she agreed."

 

Prince Lewyn, in spite of the king's edicts, had managed to sneak a brief message to his niece begging her to convince his paramour--who ran a brothel on Rhaenys' Hill--to leave King's Landing at least until the rebellion was over. Ashara, on Elia's behalf, had made the request, to no avail. Madam Chataya, a Summer Islander with a wry smile and an infectious laugh, had flatly refused.

 

"And abandon all my hard work? Leave all those who depend on me?" She'd pointed out to Ashara that hers was but one among dozens of brothels in the city and that if she were to disappear, the gods alone knew what would happen to her girls in her absence. "They would be turned out into the streets, no doubt, and made to fend for themselves. I have responsibilities, however much dear Lewyn loves to pretend otherwise."

 

Even afterward, Ashara sat with Madam Chataya for nearly an hour before finally asking the question that burned within her.

 

The woman--only three or four years Ashara's senior if she had to guess, though she seemed much older--reached for her hand and shook her head with a sad smile. "If you'd come to me earlier, pretty thing, I might have been able to help you. But I would guess from the look of you that you are more than twelve weeks gone already. I've seen too many girls take sick and die if they try these remedies too late and I will not have you on my conscience. Come to me when the babe is ready. I have rooms and a midwife."

 

Ashara could have wept with relief and it must have shown on her face, for she found herself in a thickly scented embrace. "There will be a price, of course, but it is nothing too dear."

 

"What do you want?" Ashara whispered, her heart in her throat.

 

"Lewyn told me of a palace in Dorne with gardens where the children of princes and princesses frolic with the children of servants and whores. I would have you take our daughter there when she is weaned."

 

It wasn't even a question. "Of course," said Ashara without missing a beat. "But would you not want to send her to your own people?"

 

A shadow passed over the lady's face. "There is no place for us there now. The pirates burned my village and took us all for their profit. What I have built here is my own, and perhaps it will be hers someday, but I want her to have a choice."

 

When Ashara finished her tale, Elia was smiling--faintly, with tears glinting at the corners of her eyes, but nonetheless smiling. "She's a good woman."

 

"And perhaps," Ashara added with false cheer, "the war will be over by then. Who knows?"

 

"Who knows?" echoed Elia. "You have more faith in Griff than I do."

 

"He's not a terrible choice, all things considered," Ashara pointed out. "He grew up in the Stormlands and Robert Baratheon is his liege lord."

 

"I doubt Griff knows anything useful about Robert Baratheon, but he may surprise us yet."

 

The next morning, well before dawn, Ashara ducked into the passageway--the king at least had the pretence of courtesy enough not to send his servants barging into the princess' rooms until she called, and Lord Varys had yet to enlighten him about the secret stair for reasons of his own. By the time she reached the ladder that would take her to the Hand's chambers, she was already out of breath. Straight ahead, she knew, was the long tunnel leading out of the Red Keep into the city. A pity I'm not going that way. At least not yet.

 

The ladder disappeared into the endless darkness above her, and it wasn't worth trying to carry a lantern. Like it or not, the princess was probably right. I cannot keep doing this, but what choice do I have? Kilting her skirts out of the way, she began to climb.

 

It was a slow, painful process. If Griff isn't there, I might sleep until he comes back. That prospect was sounding more and more appealing the higher she climbed. After what seemed like hours--230 rungs, Varys had told her--the ladder came to an end and she found herself in a tiny passage that seemed to end in a flat wall.

 

As Varys had instructed her months before, she pressed one hand to the lowest part of the wall to make sure the fire hadn't already been lit. Griff's servants keep late hours, it seems. All the better for her. After feeling about in the darkness for a few moments, Ashara found the lever for the secret door and stepped into the Hand of the King's quarters for the first time.

 

Griff had, she supposed, brought in some staff from his own holdfast at Griffin's Roost. It hadn't mattered when he'd simply been here as one of Prince Rhaegar's companions, but there were certain expectations for the Hand of the King, however young and untried.

 

In fact, Griff, half-buried under a pile of blankets embroidered with the griffins of House Connington, hadn't even awakened yet. Unwinding the scarf from her hair, Ashara tucked it into her belt and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. As she placed her hand over his mouth, Griff awakened with a start, one arm nearly cannoning into her head.

 

"It's me, Griff, don't be a fool!"

 

"Ashara Dayne?" he croaked, blinking up at her and rubbing his eyes with one fist. Ashara removed her hand and studied him impatiently. "What in the seven hells are you doing here? How did you get in?"

 

"Never mind that. I need your help."

 

Griff pulled himself to a seated position. "You're dressed like a servant. Is that where you've been? Skulking about? I thought all the princess' ladies were in the Maidenvault."

 

"They didn't look very hard--one Dornishwoman looks the same as another as far as the king's guards are concerned." She crossed her arms over her chest---an instinctive gesture now to hide the growing swell of her belly. Not that Griff had ever been especially observant when it came to women. "Is he not even pretending that she's anything other than a prisoner?"

 

"Nobody's asked," replied Griff, though he had the courtesy to look somewhat ashamed. "Most of the court has forgotten she's even here."

 

"My poor lady," she murmured grimly. "And what of you, Griff? How do you find being Hand of the King?"

 

"Awful." He ran one hand through his bright, coppery curls. "I can't wait to be out of here. Soldiers, I at least understand."

 

"Are Myles and Richard going with you?" He nodded. "The gods protect you, then. All of you."

 

"And your lady says nothing about Prince Rhaegar still?"

 

"How would she know anything?"

 

"If you're running about in disguise, I can't help but think it's on her orders," he pointed out. Ashara rolled her eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Lady Ashara, no matter what your princess thinks."

 

"What I do, I do for her, even if she doesn't ask it of me. You of all people should understand that. Which brings me to why I'm here." She leant forward and lowered her voice. "You know the king is holding a banquet before you leave the city." At his nod, she continued, "I want you to take me there."

 

"And why would I do that?"

 

"What helps my lady helps you in the end, Griff," she retorted. "I'm sure you know too that the Tyrells are sending an embassy here. I want to find out if there's been any word of the prince in the Reach, and if I ask, it'll be far less suspicious than you."

 

"What's less suspicious than the Hand of the King asking about Prince Rhaegar?"

 

"If that Hand of the King is also the prince's friend? Do you honestly think the king would let that pass? He's using you because he wants to trap his son, and he'll get what you know out of you before you can stop him."

 

He bristled. "He can torture me all he wants--"

 

"Gods, Griff, it won't be torture. Lord Varys will find a way far subtler than that." More gently, she added, "The best thing you can do now is follow the king's orders and find Robert Baratheon. Keep his eye fixed on the Riverlands. Even if Prince Rhaegar were on his way here at this very instant, he'd need weeks for the journey, and he'd need a clear road without the king's interference."

 

"Is he on his way? Ashara, what are you not telling me?" he demanded, hands clamping down on her arms. "I don't believe the princess is as ignorant as she's pretending, not for a second. I never did."

 

"Then you know why I can't tell you. You're not a good liar and the less you know about this, the better it is for all of us." Shaking herself free of him, she tossed her hair over her shoulder as Cersei Lannister had done when her father was Hand of the King. "Just as importantly, you'll be seen with a lady before all the court and the Tyrell embassy. That should lay certain rumours to rest for a time."

 

"Rumours?"

 

"You know the ones I mean. This will help you in the end, Griff."

 

"It shouldn't matter," he muttered, cheeks growing red.

 

"It doesn't to me, for what that's worth. Nor to Arthur, nor to anyone who truly knows you." She wouldn't speak for Prince Rhaegar, even knowing what she did. In spite of herself, Ashara squeezed his hand encouragingly. "But you're Hand of the King now. People have expectations."

 

"And if I'm seen with Lady Ashara Dayne..."

 

"Not Ashara Dayne. I'll be someone else that evening. The king doesn't know I'm still here and the longer I can trust in that, the better it is for all of us."

 

Griff's narrowed blue eyes studied her. "You enjoy this, don't you?" he asked, wagging a finger at her.

 

"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted. When he said nothing and raised his eyebrows, she sighed. "Maybe a little. It is exciting. But I'd enjoy it more if my lady weren't a prisoner and the king wasn't mad."

 

"Ashara!" he hissed. "You can't say that."

 

"Seven hells, hasn't everyone come to terms with it by now? He's certainly stopped pretending, unless it's become perfectly normal to set people on fire when they displease you."

 

"That alone is a good reason not to say it out loud. Even I know that, and don't think I haven't heard you complaining about me."

 

"Your discretion has clearly improved. Maybe being Hand of the King isn't the worst thing for you," she suggested, unable to quite hide her smile at his grimace. "Honestly, Griff, I sometimes think I'm going mad here. But that's no matter." She rose from the bed and twisted her hair back into the scarf with practised movements. "I'd best go before your servants find me here. No doubt it would be a more complicated explanation than you'd care to make."

 

"How do you plan to get out? You never told me how you got in..." Griff trailed off as Ashara found the lever concealed behind one of the sconces that flanked the hearth. "I...shouldn't be surprised, should I?"

 

"No, you shouldn't. The Red Keep is full of them. But be careful, Griff," she added, remembering the warning Lord Varys had given her what seemed like ages ago. "Don't go wandering off or you might lose yourself for good."

 

"But you won't?"

 

"I've had a lot of practice. Meet me at the entrance to the godswood at sunset before the banquet. I intend for us to make an entrance." With one last grin at him, she pulled the panel shut behind her. Then she looked down at the seemingly endless ladder into the darkness, sighed, and started down. It was, at least, somewhat easier to climb down. And she had yet more to do before the day was out.

 

Directly beneath the Tower of the Hand was a circular chamber that Ashara was coming to know well, with the three-headed Targaryen dragon picked out on the tiled floor and an iron brazier wrought into a dragon's head. It was always lit--by whom Ashara had no idea. One of Varys' little birds, most likely. Beside each of the half-dozen doorways that lined the chamber was a small symbol etched in the stone just a little above her head. They had no meaning in any language she knew, but she had memorized them all the same, and after a moment's consideration she started through the one marked with what she thought was a crude sketch of the Dragonpit.

 

Madam Chataya's brothel did a brisk business even during the day, but when Ashara presented the token she'd been given, she was nonetheless showed into the lady's own chamber without delay.

 

"But it is too early for you, Ashara Dayne," was Madam Chataya's greeting, a frown furrowing her brow. "Are you well?"

 

"I'm not here for that, mistress," said Ashara, unable to quite repress a grin. "I need your help with another matter--one not so serious."

 

By the time she finished explaining her plan, the brothel-mistress was grinning too, perfect white teeth glinting. "It will take a day or two, but I can find what you need. A gown, yes, and something to hide that hair."

 

"Is it so simple?" Ashara peered at the looking-glass hanging on the wall. It was higher than she might have preferred, but Chataya was an unusually tall woman. "My lady thinks I'm not being careful enough."

 

"Fine words from a Martell," said Madam Chataya with a snort of laughter. "But, yes, it is easier than you think to make people believe you are someone else altogether. Your friend Lord Varys knows more than a little about that."

 

"I wouldn't call him my friend," Ashara countered. "Is he yours?"

 

"We are acquainted. One can't be in my line of work without knowing such men." She eyed Ashara carefully. "I don't suppose I need to warn you to be wary of him."

 

"No, I know that well enough," Ashara conceded with a sigh. "Thank you, mistress, for your help."

 

She must have lost track of the time, for as Madam Chataya led her to the chamber door, she could hear raised voices, laughter, and music from the rooms around and below. A glance at the window confirmed that it was past sunset.

 

"You should go before someone sees you," advised Madam Chataya, holding out a plain brown cloak with a hood. "There are more than a few men from the court here tonight."

 

Ashara nodded and took the offered garment, but found herself paused at the top of the stairwell as a strain of melody caught her ear, played expertly on a fiddle. The madam smiled beside her. "She's from Volantis originally. An escaped slave who made her way first to Braavos and then here. She's taken a liking to one of my girls, and the customers seem to enjoy her playing, so who am I to argue?"

 

But Ashara was only half-listening, suddenly hit with a wave of recollection of when she'd last heard this particular song. She'd been half-drunk like everyone else after the great banquet laid out to celebrate Princess Elia's wedding to Prince Rhaegar, and even the king's outraged absence had done little to dampen the festivities.

 

The prince had disappointed his guests by refusing the traditional bedding, though Ashara had caught Prince Oberyn's grudging nod of approval when his mother pointed out to him that it was at Elia's request. Nonetheless, Ashara and the princess' other ladies-in-waiting had trooped up to Maegor's Holdfast with her, the queen, and the Princess of Dorne in a train of laughter, and led her into the bedchamber before Elia shooed them away at the sound of her husband's arrival in the adjoining anteroom and closed the connecting door behind her.

 

Hushing the other girls with a frantic wave of her hand, Ashara put her eye to the keyhole. The audience chamber had a wall of mullioned windows facing out to Blackwater Bay and the fireworks still arcing high into the sky from the ships far below. Echoes of music and merriment reached even here, but it was from out in the corridor that the queen's favoured minstrels played a circling melody of harp and viol that Ashara had heard before but couldn't identify.

 

"It's a Rhoynish air," breathed Serra, drunken tears glinting at the corners of her eyes. "Translates to Live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove. He sang it to her in Sunspear, remember?" Turning, she pressed her lips to Lilias' and Ashara rolled her eyes fondly.

 

"Silly goose," murmured Ashara, unable to hide her smile. "Go on, then, away with you. May the Maiden smile on you both." She waited till the two of them had stumbled away, Serra singing the Rhoynish words under her breath, before looking back into the darkened audience chamber.

 

The candelabras along the walls were lit, and in between the pools of golden light, Ashara saw a familiar shadow pass, light-footed, clad in red, orange, and gold. Elia's laughter sparkled in the air as she spun, her hand caught in the prince's. She rarely danced now, though she'd loved it as a child, or so Oberyn had told Ashara once, uncharacteristic wistfulness in his voice. She'd spin through the arcades in the Water Gardens until she got dizzy. When she was too weak, I'd do it for her.

 

There weren't tears in Ashara's eyes. The Red Keep is just disgracefully dusty and I've had too much wine. Perhaps she'd seek out Oberyn and reassure him, as much as anyone could reassure the Red Viper that his treasured sister would be safe without him.

 

The closest encounter she'd had with Rhaegar Targaryen was sneaking him out of Elia's rooms in Sunspear the morning after their engagement was announced. Tell her-- he'd said, poised on the threshold, a rueful expression on his face, no, on second thought, you needn't tell her anything. She already knows. As she'd chivvied him from the room, she caught a glimpse of the princess' face, the lazy, glowing smile of satisfaction that made Ashara's heart twist just a little.

 

This is what she wants, Ashara told herself. Had it not been for Elia's illness, Prince Doran might have considered naming her his heir and taking himself to Norvos with his new wife, but that was too risky and the Princess wouldn't countenance it. Dorne always came first, even before her favourite child.

 

Ashara's cry lodged in her throat as she saw Elia's step falter, the telltale quaver in one of her knees. But the prince caught her beneath the elbow, so smoothly it almost seemed intentional, and Elia's arm snaked around his neck. As Ashara watched, she could hear the prince laugh, nervousness beneath the sound.

 

"Are you...your brother said you're not to--"

 

Elia let go of his other hand and pressed her fingers to his mouth. "And if you married Oberyn, his opinion would matter." Her expression made Ashara's breath catch in her throat. I loved a maid as gold as sunset, with midnight in her hair. That was a Myrish song though she couldn't recall where she'd heard it. Probably from Serra. "Whatever they've told you, husband, forget it. You swore yourself to me, not them, and it is my word you should trust."

 

From her position, Ashara couldn't see the prince's face, only Elia, lip caught between her teeth as she watched her husband. "As it please you, wife," he said, in a tone of voice Ashara knew all too intimately from years of living with Martells.

 

"Did you know," Elia asked, "that there's a reply to this song? A trobairitz wrote it in Myr, maybe fifty or so years after the original. If that the world and love were young, and truth in every singer's tongue--"

 

"Now that's unfair--"

 

"--these pretty pleasures might me move," she continued with a wicked smile, "to live with you and be your love."

 

"Not all singers are liars," protested the prince. "Some, I grant you, but they shouldn't speak for all."

 

"And what of princes?" Seriousness threatened beneath her words, but her smile did not falter. "My mother tells me that all princes must know how and when to lie, but she also advised me to find someone to whom I will always tell the truth."

 

"Did you find them?"

 

"I did. And you?"

 

He ducked his head and raised one of her hands to his lips. "Are you offering?"

 

"Only if you promise the same. Truth for truth. And trust, husband, that when I give my word, I keep it." Another lesson learned at the Princess of Dorne's knee, Ashara knew. "Lannisters may pay their debts, but Martells keep their promises."

 

And Daynes are loyal unto the death, thought Ashara as she opened her eyes to find herself once again in a brothel in King's Landing, another world entirely from that strange, lovely night. Madam Chataya was watching her curiously.

 

"A happy memory?"

 

Ashara nodded, not trusting her voice at first. "Happier days. When my lady was first married."

 

"I watched the procession from Baelor's Sept," said Madam Chataya with a wistful smile of her own. "They made a lovely pair. But you must go now, my lady."

 

Sweeping the cloak over her shoulders and drawing the hood forward to conceal her face, Ashara ducked quickly through the growing crowd. Careful to confirm that she wasn't followed, she made her way to the stable and the trap door hidden at the back of one of its stalls, steeling herself for the long passage to come.

 

***

 

Two days later, she made a second trip to Chataya's and, after about three hours, returned to Princess Elia's chamber carrying a satchel. Inside it was a lush velvet gown blue as cornflowers, the fabric carefully draped to conceal, or at least to distract from, her belly. With it, wrapped in thin silk, was an elaborate wig of silver-blonde hair. On first seeing it she'd blanched. Gods have mercy, you'll have me dressed as a Targaryen.

 

Chataya had laughed. "With those eyes, what better way to hide you than in plain sight? Besides, the Lyseni pride themselves on Valyrian bloodlines. All you need now is a name."

 

On the night of the banquet, Elia painstakingly pinned the wig in place using a selection of silver hairpins that the king had somehow overlooked. "Be careful, Ash," she said, meeting Ashara's kohl-rimmed eyes in the looking-glass. She'd darkened her lips to the colour of ripe cherries and even she was hard-pressed to see herself in the woman gazing back at her. "The king has a reputation of his own, or at least he did before Duskendale. Remember Joanna Lannister."

 

"He's got other things on his mind. I'll be fine," Ashara assured her, sounding more confident than she felt. "Besides, I'll have Griff to protect me."

 

Elia rolled her eyes. "I'll hold him to that."

 

Thankful that the passage from Maegor's Holdfast had stairs instead of that dreadful ladder in the Tower of the Hand, Ashara took her leave. The lower bailey was nearly empty, but she could hear echoes of merriment from beyond the vast darkness of the godswood as she made her way around the dry moat toward the Serpentine Steps. Griff, to her pleasant surprise, was waiting by the main entrance to the godswood as she'd requested. Her satisfaction deepened when, at the sound of her footsteps, he turned to face her and his jaw visibly dropped. "What in all the hells...?"

 

Ashara could feel the smile spreading across her face as she held out her hands to him. "I take it you approve?"

 

"You look like..." he shook his head like a dog shaking away water, "never mind. I daresay nobody will recognise you."

 

"You don't clean up too badly yourself," Ashara told him, linking her arm through his. The brilliant red-and-white of House Connington ought to have clashed horribly with his hair, but he'd found a decent tailor to prevent that. Instead, he wore dark grey wool with red and white griffins embroidered on the cuffs and collar and a cloak of white bordered in red and held in place with the bright gold pin that proclaimed him Hand of the King. "More importantly, my name is Mara Denarre tonight."

 

"Mara Denarre," he repeated, raising his brows. "You're pretending to be from Lys?"

 

She nodded, impressed despite herself. "There were plenty of Lyseni in Sunspear and the Planky Town. Mara Denarre was a Lysene girl Elia and I knew in the Water Gardens."

 

"And she won't mind your stealing her name?"

 

"She returned home after Elia married the prince, and is married with a daughter of her own," replied Ashara with a shrug. "She might even enjoy the story, should I happen to tell her."

 

"Ashara." He stopped short, perhaps some twenty feet from the throne room stairs. "Are you sure about this?"

 

"I wouldn't be here if I weren't sure. Now let's get it over and done with." Sweeping the blue velvet skirts behind her in one graceful motion, she straightened on his arm and let him lead her forward. Flanking the doors were two familiar shapes in white plate armour who Ashara quickly recognised as Barristan Selmy and Jon Darry. Neither man spoke as Griff led her past them. Instead Ser Barristan averted his eyes in what appeared to be embarrassment.

 

Ashara had no time to ponder that as they stepped into the hall. The torches gave off the unmistakeable green glow of wildfire, casting the dragon skulls along the walls into long, grotesque shadows over the thronging guests below. She could barely make out the king's pale hair on the Iron Throne at the far end of the room.

 

Griff conferred briefly with the herald standing by the door, who let them pass without announcement. "He's used to it," he murmured to Ashara. "I've told him the same thing at half a dozen banquets already."

 

A servant paused beside them, holding up a tray of filled wineglasses, and Ashara snatched one up without thinking, taking a large gulp of what she quickly realised was Highgarden red. She had to fight not to make a face as she swallowed. You're not Ashara Dayne tonight. Lyseni don't care about petty feuds with the Reach. Never mind that the wine had clearly gone sour on the journey.

 

It took them what seemed like an age to walk halfway through the crowded hall, as guest after guest stopped Griff to ask about one thing or another. He's not half bad as Hand of the King, she was forced to admit, little as the king deserved it. A few shot her knowing smiles, at which she leant closer to Griff and tightened her hold on his arm.

 

"Why, Lord Connington, who is this charming creature and why haven't you introduced her before?" The question came from a man clad in green and white, wearing the embroidered sigil of a mace crossed with a dagger. Though his cheeks were bright red from heat and wine, his eyes were suspiciously narrowed. "Lord Qarlton Chelsted, my lady, Master of Coin."

 

Swallowing her revulsion, Ashara held out her free hand to him. "Mara Denarre."

 

"Lyseni! I should have guessed. Although I did wonder when I first saw you if our dear lord of Griffin's Roost had somehow uncovered a lost Targaryen maid." He prodded Griff with his elbow. "I don't doubt she keeps you well occupied, my lord Hand. But if you don't mind, my lady, I'm afraid I must steal your admirer away for a moment. There are state matters to discuss even on such a night as this."

 

Griff shot her an apologetic look as Lord Chelsted all but dragged him toward an alcove. As soon as they were out of sight, Ashara held her breath and took another swallow of the unfortunate wine. It was still decidedly sour and, as she peered down at it, she wondered if the swirls she thought she saw on its surface were a sign of spoilage or merely an unfortunate effect of the wildfire.

 

As though conjured up by the wine, she found herself on the edge of a gaggle of courtiers in Highgarden green-and-gold, laughing uproariously at something one of them had said. She was about to turn and look for Griff's unmistakeable hair when the words floated out to her from the centre of the group.

 

"...clearly found the only girl in King's Landing who he could mistake for Prince Rhaegar in bed. Poor man. But you know what they say about Stormlanders."

 

She'd said much the same thing about Stormlanders in general and Griff in particular before, but something--perhaps the damned wine--drove her to defend him now. "They say a great many unflattering things about men of the Reach in my city," she said in her best approximation of Mara's delicate, sharpened accent. "He is the Hand of the King. I suggest you hold your tongue."

 

"I'd take more than a suggestion from you, fair lady of Lys." He wasn't in Highgarden livery, she noticed, but was wearing the fox-and-flowers of House Florent picked out on his breast. "Tell me, does he call you by your name when he beds you?"

 

"Really, Lord Ryam, there's no need to be vulgar," snapped one of the Highgarden men. He was younger than Ashara expected, and swaying a little on his feet. "Like him or not, Lord Connington is a well-known swordsman and I don't doubt he'd take it as an insult if you offended his lady."

 

"Shut up, Willem." But the interruption was evidently enough to convince Lord Ryam's friends to distract him, leaving Ashara standing next to her sheepish rescuer.

 

"So there are men with manners in the Reach," she observed dryly. "I'm gratified to know it."

 

"Lord Ryam has had too much wine. So have I, to be honest," he admitted with a grin, "but I know better than to insult the lady who came here with the King's Hand when I have a message for him."

 

"For Lord Connington?" She cursed her own decision to drink more of the sour wine, as she had to blink several times to focus on his face. "What about?"

 

The young man laughed. "I'm certainly not going to tell you."

 

"And why not?" Ashara teased, leaning close to pitch her words into his ear. "I can promise your message will reach the Hand of the King this very night. Can anyone else say as much?"

 

She could see him begin to waver, to glance from her to the Iron Throne where King Aerys sat far above the throng, passing over Varys with a moue of disgust, and then back to her. "You promise me you'll tell him."

 

"On my honour," she assured him. On Mara Denarre's honour, more accurately. What she'd pass on to Griff was her own business. "And the Spider need not know a thing."

 

The young man leant close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath. "We've had word of a horseman riding north from the marches. The last dispatch placed him two days' ride south of Ashford, on a Dornish beast faster than any my master had seen. Black as a devil," he added with narrowed eyes.

 

"And the man?" she whispered, hoping he couldn't hear the sudden pounding of her heart. "What of him?"

 

"Cloaked and hooded in black. But there are rumours, my lady, that Prince Rhaegar rides such a horse, a gift from the Red Viper of Dorne."

 

Ashara swallowed. "I'll make sure the Hand hears your news. It will please him, no doubt, and there might even be a reward in it for you, Ser..."

 

"Oh, I'm no knight, my lady. Just Willem Ashford."

 

"Very well then, Just Willem," she said, brushing her lips against his, "take this for your troubles, and I'm sure the Hand will give you more for these tidings. In the meantime, keep your news to yourself and watch your wine," she added, noticing that the laughter around her was growing wilder, the glasses emptying at an alarming rate.

 

Leaving him staring after her hungrily, she started toward the corner where Griff had now been corralled by Lord Gyles and several other men of the Crownlands. About halfway there, however, her head began to swim. She looked down at her half-empty glass, recalling the peculiar taste of the wine, the oily swirls on its surface. He wouldn't drug his own guests, surely. But as she glanced up at the great looming shadow of the Iron Throne, she fancied she saw the king smiling down, his yellowed teeth glinting in the wildfire's light.

 

The room seemed to tilt around her and she felt the wineglass slip from her fingers, clanging against the ground as it fell. How she kept her balance as she moved through the crowd was a mystery, though she suspected it was the press of people that forced her to stay upright. A door loomed in front of her and she shoved it open, nearly upsetting a servant with another tray of glasses. The kitchens, she realised, thanking her luck. The kitchen garden had a discreet entrance to the godswood hewn into a wall. She'd lost Griff, but that didn't matter. I've found out what I need to know.

 

More importantly, she needed to get as far away from people as she could before her stomach revolted. Stumbling through the arched doorway into the godswood, she sank to her knees against a tree and spat up what seemed like a waterfall of wine.

 

Even the smell was enough to turn her stomach, and she crawled to the wall to catch her breath. Beneath the layers of velvet, she could feel something shift in her belly, wetness between her legs. Mother help me, not now. It's too soon, far too soon. Forcing herself to stand, one hand pressed to the wall to keep her balance and point her the right way, Ashara slowly staggered across the godswood, hoping against hope that she could reach Maegor's Holdfast in time.

 

The trees seemed to swim around her even as she remembered in the darkness that the gods had long ago ceased to listen to her.

 

***

 

The waters of the Torrentine were too rough for swimming, but there was an inlet half a day's ride south of Starfall where Ashara had taken Oberyn and Elia during their visit so many years before. Arthur had warned her about the currents but she'd only laughed at him--at least until one had dragged her underwater at the edge of the inlet. It had been Oberyn, swift as the snake that later became his namesake, who pulled her back, gasping and spluttering, while Elia shrieked from the shore. By the time the guards arrived, Ashara was more embarrassed than scared, but she'd never quite forgotten the sensation of being sucked down into the darkness and the equally sudden jerk upward that brought her back to the light.

 

Her eyes opened now on a gasp, but she wasn't in the water. Rather, she was in Elia's bed, swathed in blankets, and the princess was lying beside her, squeezing her hand.

 

"I'm here, Ash, it's just me," she murmured. "Thank the gods you're awake."

 

"I..." Ashara blinked and tried to raise herself but couldn't. "What happened?"

 

"What do you remember?"

 

Wildfire burning green and gold, the Throne Room swirling about her in a haze of too-loud laughter, and the darkness of the passageways all jumbled together. "There was something in the wine," she heard herself say, horror dawning like new as it must have done when she first discovered it. "I tried to...I don't remember how I got here."

 

Elia drew her tightly into an embrace. "I'm so sorry."

 

"Why you?" Ashara peered up at her, bewildered.

 

"Lord Varys found you in one of the passageways. He brought you here--the gods alone know why; you must have inspired some strange honourable streak in him that none of us knew existed." She paused, swallowing as though gathering her strength. "You lost the child, Ash."

 

Stupidly, Ashara looked down at her belly, still rounded beneath her shift, and at the rags pooled between her legs, crusted with dried blood. Nothing there now. "I've ruined your bed."

 

"Gods have mercy, is that all you can think of?" the princess demanded. "I don't care about the bed, Ash. You had me worried sick. You still do."

 

"I'm fine. I'm..." She bit her lip as tears began to leak from her eyes. "It's better this way. What would I have done with Brandon Stark's baseborn child, tell me?"

 

"Raised her far away from here in the Water Gardens with Oberyn's girls."

 

"Her? Was it a girl?" Ashara buried her face in Elia's neck as the princess stroked her hair. "Did you see her?"

 

"I did." Elia's voice was rough with tears. "She was so tiny. Too small."

 

It had been nearly seven moon's turns since the single night Ashara had spent with Brandon in a secret room somewhere near the black cells. It hadn't even occurred to her to wonder if the babe she carried was a boy or a girl--what did it matter when danger would dog their steps no matter what? Not anymore. "Was it peaceful?"

 

"She never awakened. Gods, Ash--"

 

"No, don't. It's not your fault, and if you try to claim it is, I will scream. It's his fault." Over Elia's shoulder, she could catch a glimpse of the Throne Room's spires through the window. "It's all his fault."

 

That was when she remembered. Just Willem, my lady. A lone horseman on the Roseroad riding a black Dornish stallion. "My lady," Ashara said, pulling away to look Elia in the eyes, "how long has it been since I...since Lord Varys found me?"

 

"Two days, close to three. Why?"

 

"Is Griff still here?"

 

"No, he left by the Goldroad the morning after the banquet, as planned, and all the city's levies with him. I could hear the cheering from here. Why do you ask?"

 

"At the banquet there was a young man in Ashford livery who bade me give him a message, but I never did." She'd lost Griff before she could decide whether or not to pass on Just Willem's message. If he'd left as planned the next morning, presumably the wine hadn't affected him too badly. "They've seen Prince Rhaegar."

 

"Are they certain it's him?" Elia's grip had tightened on Ashara's hands, nearly crushing her fingers. "It could be a trick."

 

Ashara shook her head. "The Tyrells are too wily to support a mad king without some plan in reserve. Given the choice, they'll back your husband against his father. And they've let him pass, at any rate. They could have stopped him easily if they so chose."

 

"If it is him, I pray he isn't too late." Elia exhaled with a shudder. "But we have more important concerns, Ash."

 

"What?"

 

Elia hugged her close. "While you were asleep here, the servants found you. I couldn't keep them away--I tried, gave them every excuse. I insisted that they couldn't move you until you awakened, so we'll keep pretending for another few days, but...Ash, it's over. You'll be with the others in the Maidenvault. But if Rhaegar is on his way--and, Mother help me, I hope he is--it won't be for long."

 

"I can hide. I can--"

 

"No, Ash. Not anymore." Soft as the words were, there was steel in Elia's voice. "I can't put you in danger anymore. If the king were to find out you were spying, we both know what he'd do. I've told them you're with child, that I was protecting your reputation. If we're lucky they haven't told the king."

 

"But the child..."

 

"What they don't know can't hurt you."

 

"Does Varys know?"

 

Elia shook her head. "I can't be certain, but I don't think he does."

 

"What did you do with...with my daughter?"

 

Tears pooled at the corners of Elia's eyes. "She's gone, Ash. There's no trace. I'm so sorry, but I had to. Varys would have known, and if Varys knew..."

 

"I know. I know, I understand, I just..." Ashara bit back the words. "Then I'll pretend. As long as I need to. Pad out my dresses, all of it."

 

"Only until Rhaegar arrives. Then we can be done with this mummery for good." For a moment, Elia just held her in silence as Ashara clung to her, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "Ash," Elia finally asked, "you said he was travelling alone?"

 

"That's what I was told. I'd have thought he'd bring Arthur at least."

 

"She must be in Dorne still. Lady Lyanna. He must have left your brother and Ser Oswell with her, which means..." Elia swallowed. "She must be pregnant, else he'd have brought her with him. Gods, what a mess. What a damned, bloody mess."

 

"The poor girl. I don't envy her being trapped in that tower." Even as she said it, she saw the expression pass across Elia's face and shook her head. "Don't think about it. Don't you even--"

 

"I want you to go to her, Ash. When Rhaegar comes. It's the perfect disguise--sending you home to Starfall for your confinement. You'll have guards, you'll travel by ship to Wyl, and from there to the tower--"

 

"I'm not leaving you," Ashara protested.

 

"If I order you to, you will." Elia's eyes met hers, steady and implacable. "You've seen me through both of my children's births, Ash. You know what you're doing and you'll care for her. More importantly, she won't be alone."

 

"But you will be," whispered Ashara. "Do you truly trust him that much?"

 

"That's not the point. Trust or not, I will have him here. She has no one. Be her guardian, Ash. I know you can do this." She pulled away, her hands clamped around Ashara's. "You will do this for me."

 

Though she longed to with all her heart, Ashara knew better than to argue.

 

***

 

Within a fortnight of her arrival in the Maidenvault, and in spite of Serra and Lilias' renewed company, Ashara was bored to tears. The three ladies-in-waiting were permitted access to the gardens and the godswood--under guard, of course--and given any mild entertainments that highborn ladies might have desired, whether sewing silks, books, or even the occasional singer. It was, comparatively speaking, a friendlier confinement than their mistress had, as Ashara quickly assured both of her companions.

 

It was Lilias, she discovered, who Varys had suborned to write to Prince Rhaegar under Elia's seal. "I didn't want to, but he told me the king would send for my brothers and kill them just like Lord Stark. He wanted to know where the prince was but I couldn't tell him what I didn't know. So he made me write false letters instead."

 

That, Ashara supposed, answered the question of why it had taken the prince so long to return. A foolish reason, but it was better than nothing. Of course, Elia doesn't know that. For the thousandth time, she cursed the king and all the men who followed his orders without question.

 

Keeping up the pretence of a pregnancy was more challenging than she had expected, as both girls knew the signs well, but Ashara persisted and neither Serra nor Lilias questioned her. It had long been their way, since the three of them had first met on Elia's journey north to her wedding.

 

For weeks there was no news from west or south. The latter was a good thing, Ashara knew, for the longer the king went in ignorance of Prince Rhaegar's return, the less time he'd have to prepare for it. More worrying was the silence from the Riverlands.

 

Then, soon after the turn of the year, the three ladies emerged from the godswood to find pandemonium in the inner courtyard.

 

"A raven from Stoney Sept," one of the Grand Maester's apprentices was saying to a servant in livery Ashara now recognised as Lord Chelsted's. "The king won't like it. Lord Griffin has lost Robert Baratheon. Lord Tully has declared for the rebels, and Lord Stark and his northern army are in the Riverlands."

 

"Oh, Griff," whispered Ashara. "What have you done?"

Chapter Text

Of the proud army that had marched from King's Landing just over a moon's turn earlier, the dozen or so bedraggled horsemen who trudged miserably through the city gates were a sad remnant. There were others, of course, still scattered in the Riverlands, but Jon Connington had returned to make his excuses to the king in person. Elia would have told him to stay away, to gather his remaining men into some semblance of order first, but someone must have let slip that Rhaegar had been seen, perhaps even claimed that he'd returned to King's Landing. Only that would have brought Griff back so suddenly. Such loyalties you command, husband. Does it even occur to you what they cost?

 

With Ashara imprisoned in the Maidenvault, she had turned to Aegon's nurse for any rumours that had filtered into the servants' quarters. Cara had no head for intrigue, but she could at least pass on whatever gossip came her way. "My lady," she said, low-voiced, to keep from waking Aegon, "the king intends to execute Lord Connington for his failure."

 

"But he's the Hand of the King." Of course, being Hand of the King hadn't saved Lord Merryweather from being exiled, all his lands and titles forfeit, so was it truly a surprise that the king had moved on to executing his Hands when displeased?

 

"Not anymore," confirmed Cara. "The king stripped him of that title and of his lands, and he's given the Handship to Lord Chelsted, or so the steward was saying..."

 

It took Elia a moment to recall that the Master of Coin was named Chelsted. "We can't let him do it. Not Griff." Not when Rhaegar was days away, perhaps. "Cara, I need to speak to the queen. Can you find her for me?"

 

"Of course, my lady." The nurse scurried away and Elia cradled Aegon close until he squirmed impatiently. His first name-day had come and gone with no ceremony a week or so before word arrived of the disaster in Stoney Sept. He doesn't even know he has a father, my poor boy.

 

It was nearly sunset before the queen arrived in Elia's chambers. "My dear, I'm so sorry. I was sleeping and the guards wouldn't let poor Cara in at first."

 

Though her gown was laced tightly up to the neck and her hair in an elaborate twist, Queen Rhaella's eyes were glassy and bloodshot from milk of the poppy, the shadows beneath them stark against her pale skin. Elia averted her gaze quickly. "Good-mother, I need your help. Lord Connington is back from the Riverlands..."

 

"Poor Griff. I heard what happened."

 

"I didn't. Not the full story," Elia admitted.

 

"Lord Robert was hiding in Stoney Sept. There was a raven from Lord Goodbrook, who heard it before he left Riverrun and took his men with him." The queen shuddered. "He paid the price for that. Lord Tully burnt his village and holdfast to the ground. The maester was able to send a message, but it was too late."

 

"So he's chosen his side, then. Lord Tully." Given what had happened to his daughter's betrothed, Elia could hardly blame him, though she made a silent prayer to whichever god might hear her for the dead of Lord Goodbrook's village.

 

"He has, it seems." The queen blinked away tears. "I knew his lady wife many years ago. She was at court before her children were born. Such a sweet woman, Lady Minisa. I'd offered her eldest girl a place, but Lord Hoster insisted that she remain at Riverrun. He said she was needed there."

 

"Lady Catelyn." Brandon Stark's intended. How many times had Ashara complained of her after the tournament at Harrenhal? Gods above, did we have nothing else to speak of that we gossiped like girls about marriages and trysts? "What happened in Stoney Sept, then?" she asked, as much to clear her head as anything.

 

"I don't know for certain. Our forces had the town surrounded, but somehow Lord Robert escaped. And while they were trying to find him, they were attacked. Not just from Riverrun, but men from the Vale and the North."

 

"The North?" echoed Elia, her heart sinking. "So Lord Stark is in the Riverlands." She had hoped--as no doubt everyone in King's Landing had--that the northern snows and winter winds had delayed Winterfell's armies along the Kingsroad. But these are wronged men seeking vengeance for murdered lords and stolen daughters. No doubt their old gods ride with them and give them speed. Apropos of nothing, she remembered Lyanna Stark's shield from the tourney at Harrenhal with its sigil of a smiling weirwood tree. Punish the king if you will, but spare those who knew nothing of his crimes.

 

The queen was speaking again. "It wasn't Griff's fault. They were outnumbered, outflanked; he did the best he could."

 

"The king thinks otherwise. He intends to execute Lord Connington."

 

"Execute..." the queen's eyes widened, one hand coming to her throat. "But he's the Hand of the King, one of Rhaegar's closest friends. We've already lost so many. Myles Mooton, Elia, dead at Robert Baratheon's own hand..."

 

"Which is why you must stop him, Your Grace," Elia insisted. She rose from her chair and grasped the queen's hands, offering a silent prayer for poor Myles, scarcely three years a knight. "The king would never listen to me even if I could convince the guards to let me go to him. But he might heed you if you reach him in time."

 

The smile the queen gave her turned Elia's blood cold. "He will heed me. Have no fear of that." Turning on her heel, she swept from the room, leaving Elia alone with her doubts.

 

It wasn't until the next morning that the news arrived to reassure her. Jon Connington had departed the Red Keep at dawn with nothing more than the clothes on his back, led by a contingent of gold cloaks to the docks where a ship waited to carry him to Pentos, never to return. At least not while this king lives, added Elia silently as she watched the lone roundship mark a slow path across Blackwater Bay before disappearing from sight beyond the horizon. She should have asked the queen to give Connington a message for Oberyn, if they happened to cross paths, but she no longer knew where her brother was. It was Braavos nigh on a year ago, but he could have made his way to any of the other Free Cities by now.

 

She couldn't help but wonder what the king and Varys had told her mother. Her own letter demanding Dornish aid had revealed nothing beyond what Varys had all but dictated. But Mother must suspect something is wrong. She's no fool. And no doubt her suspicions were behind the Dornish forces' leisurely march northward. If they truly wanted to make haste, they would have reached King's Landing by now. Elia could only hope that Rhaegar arrived first. He has the power to send them back, to stop this senseless war.

 

Or so she told herself. Otherwise I will go mad.

 

The sound of running footsteps outside her door drew her attention from the bay. "My lady," Cara cried, throwing open the door even as one of the guards flung out an arm to stop her, "he's here! The prince! He just rode into the Red Keep--"

 

The guards pushed her back and slammed the door behind her even as Elia let out a half-choked cry, whether of relief or too-long-simmering rage she honestly couldn't have said.

 

***

 

It was well past midday before she heard anything further, this time her husband's voice shouting something she couldn't make out through the closed door. Elia straightened her back but did not move from the window seat, her hands clenched in her lap.

 

Rhaegar was thinner than when she'd last seen him, sun-browned skin stretched tightly across his cheekbones, hair tumbling in tangles over his shoulders. There was something oddly flattering in knowing that haste had trumped her husband's prized vanity; he must have come straight from the throne room to find her. "Elia," he said, his voice hoarse. "Gods, Elia, I don't even know where to begin..."

 

Elia studied him coldly. "I thought you had abandoned me. Abandoned us all."

 

"I deserve that--"

 

"But do you understand it?" demanded Elia. "It's been months, Rhaegar. Did it even occur to you to wonder if something was wrong? Ser Oswell was the first messenger I was able to send since you wrote to me here. Or were you otherwise occupied?" She all but spat the last two words.

 

For a few seconds he just looked at her, disbelief transforming slowly into something else. "But you did write," he finally said. "The letters weren't in your hand, but they had your seal. I was told you couldn't write them yourself--that Varys was watching and you didn't want to raise suspicion. The last word I received was that you were returning to Dragonstone with the children."

 

"And you believed that, of course." He winced visibly at the acid in her voice. My seal. Varys. It had to be Varys. Gods curse him. He would claim, of course, that he was doing the king's bidding, but the king no longer saw anything beyond his own twisted fancies. Varys could be lying to his face and he wouldn't know. And yet he would not help me. No, instead he betrayed me to the king. And Rhaegar had believed him. "What else did these letters tell you?"

 

"That Brandon Stark's father had marched him back to Winterfell in disgrace. That Robert Baratheon was cooling his head in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn's eye." It was not a smile on Rhaegar's face so much as a grimace of pain. "It's a pretty tale, isn't it?"

 

It was, and a plausible one too. It is what ought to have happened. She wondered which of them had conceived that macabre detail. Varys, no doubt. Still, when she looked at Rhaegar, she wanted to scream. You should have known. You should have guessed. She could have picked out a false letter from him in an instant; even in letters he dictated, Rhaegar had turns of phrase, tics, patterns that followed him from poetry to prose. Oberyn had them too, as did her mother. She had thought that Rhaegar, who twisted words into songs like the lacemakers of Myr, might have thought to look for such intricacies in letters too. But perhaps I'm the only one who sees those things. Since letters had long been her windows to the world, perhaps she saw more in them than was ever intended.

 

Rhaegar had begun to pace back and forth, twisting the black riding gloves between his fingers. As though hearing the timbre of her thoughts, he continued, "It was only when I saw the crows that I began to wonder if something was wrong."

 

"Crows?"

 

"Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, flying north. Vultures too, other scavengers. Birds who feast on the dead." He was gazing into the glowing brazier as though into a pit infinitely deep. "It was maybe a week before Ser Oswell arrived and told me the truth. I saw it too as I rode north. Ashford. Summerhall." He stopped, one hand pressed to his mouth. It was his haven, his first love. Elia nearly reached out to him but stopped herself as he spoke again. "Four armies' worth of men dead in a single day. And always those damned crows. I can hear them now, Elia, and every voice among them thanks me for the feast I've given them. So many dead already and for what?"

 

"For a lost girl and a wayward prince." Elia shook her head. He could be lying. Rhaegar had always claimed he was a bad liar, but she'd learned a valuable lesson in the dangers of making assumptions about Targaryens. And if he is lying, does it even matter anymore? That question she could not answer. "Of course you believed them," she conceded wearily. "I can't forgive you for it but I suppose I can see why."

 

Rhaegar closed the distance between them and knelt at her feet. "I am so sorry, Elia. For all of it."

 

"I was a fool to think anything else. I walked into the trap and I didn't even see it close behind me." Rhaegar reached for her hands and Elia shrank back, taking some small pleasure in his expression. "Didn't you wonder about us? Didn't you care?"

 

"Of course I care," he protested. "You told me not to write to you in King's Landing unless something had gone wrong. I sent letters to Dragonstone, but when I heard nothing, I told myself--"

 

"You told yourself what you wanted to hear. You filled your mind with your precious prophecy and left space for nothing else." Rhaegar's eyes met hers, wide and dark and guilty. "You believed the best of your father even though you must have known what he was capable of."

 

"I never thought he would hurt you, or the children."

 

"There are ten thousand Dornishmen marching north as we speak--ten thousand men who may never return home. Who do you think called for them?" Elia's voice was shaking. "He asked me if I knew the story of Helaena Targaryen and her children. Oh, yes," she added, seeing the horror in his expression, "he looked me in the eyes and told me to consider which of my children I loved more; said he was giving me one more choice than she had. So I did as I was told. I betrayed my mother and brothers and all of those ten thousand men who by right shouldn't even be here."

 

He reached for her again but stopped at her expression. "Gods, Elia, if I'd known--"

 

"Why did you stay away so long?"

 

"Because," said Rhaegar after a moment, guilt and remorse written into every line on his face, "it was the first time since my father returned from Duskendale that I could hear myself think. I told myself it was for the greater good, for the realm. And, yes, I told myself all was well here and what news I heard from King's Landing seemed to bear it out." He shuddered. "But that's over now. I know what needs to be done."

 

"And that is?" She tried to keep the scepticism from her voice. It's not over, Rhaegar. That is not your decision to make.

 

"I mean to dispatch Ser Gerold to the Tower of Joy." Rhaegar spoke slowly, each word forced out. "He's to send Arthur back here, and when he arrives, after I've met with the rebels..." He swallowed. "I intend to finish this, once and for all."

 

A pit opened up in Elia's stomach. "You don't mean..."

 

"He trusts no-one but the Kingsguard, which is why I need Arthur here and Ser Gerold away." He looked down at his hands as though only just realising they were shaking. Oh, gods, he truly means it. "With the Lord Commander gone, Arthur will get me close enough. The rest is up to me."

 

"You would both be forsworn," Elia whispered. "Ashara told me. She overheard you in the sept on the night Aegon was born." He bowed his head and Elia sighed. "Why, Rhaegar? Why would you do something so foolish?"

 

"It was a test," he admitted. "Or so I thought. The two things I wanted most in the world and I could only have one of them."

 

Oh, husband, why do you persist in believing that the world is a song? In spite of herself--in spite of everything--Elia wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "I thought you'd given up your plan to be Baelor the Blessed when you married me."

 

"He's still there," said Rhaegar softly. "They all are. The good kings and the cruel ones, the mad ones too; all in my blood and in these walls. Lyanna told me that all the kings of winter lie side by side in a crypt beneath Winterfell and all I could think was how relieved I was that we didn't do the same with our dead. I cannot imagine Targaryens sleeping peacefully beside one another."

 

"No, nor can I," Elia admitted, "but perhaps that's the point--that in death, these things no longer matter. What is it the god of Braavos says?"

 

"Valar morghulis; valar dohaeris. All men must die; all men must serve the Faceless God. He is the Stranger by another name." Rhaegar's smile seemed to be dragged out of him with chains. "I can only pray the gods will understand in the end. Rhaegar, first of his name, the Kingslayer. It has a ring, doesn't it?"

 

"Better than Rhaegar the king who never was," snapped Elia.

 

"They say my father's blood is tainted." Rhaegar turned his hands palm-upward as he stood.

 

It was true, of course, but saying that aloud would not help. "They can say what they want. The smallfolk love you, not your father and certainly not Robert Baratheon." Although he cut a romantic enough figure, she supposed, charging to war and glory for his stolen betrothed--never mind that Lyanna Stark had broken the engagement of her own will.

 

But the smallfolk don't know that. They only know the poison he and Jon Arryn are spreading. A tale of abduction and rape, of madness and murder. No, Rhaegar couldn't rely on those who had once adored him. Not without some reassurance that he still deserved that love. Elia chose her words carefully. "Distance yourself from Aerys now and you could take Robert's supporters from him without spilling another drop of innocent blood. The Starks and the Tullys want justice for their dead--they want your father to answer for his crimes. If you give that to them now, what need have they for Robert?"

 

"Elia, I can't do this without Arthur."

 

"What of my uncle?" Lewyn had seen the king's folly at first hand and he had been reckoned the finest swordsman in Dorne in his youth, at least until Arthur Dayne supplanted him. "He'll help you. I know he will."

 

"And if something goes wrong?" Rhaegar demanded. "Your uncle, Kingsguard or not, is a prince of Dorne. We're already at war on two fronts; I can't risk a third."

 

"My mother understands oaths as well if not better than any man," insisted Elia. "She would never betray us."

 

"Seven hells, Elia, this is my burden, not yours!" Rhaegar's voice was a whipcrack as he turned away. "And I don't want you or the children anywhere near the Red Keep when it happens."

 

"The children, I grant you. We'll send them to Sunspear; Viserys too, maybe even your lady mother." With Rhaegar here, they might even stand a chance of doing so without the king's knowledge. A few weeks in Lady Mariam's care would bring the queen out of her spell. Even a few weeks away from the king and Pycelle's stores would do that. Elia crossed the room and laid one hand on his shoulder. Rhaegar covered it with one of his, cold fingers clinging to hers. "But I'm not going anywhere. We started this together, Rhaegar, and so we finish it. You will not leave me behind, not anymore."

 

"I never meant to leave you at all," he murmured, leaning back as Elia slipped her arms around him despite herself. "Gods have mercy, what have we done?"

 

"Wrong, Rhaegar, and it is our duty to repair it. If that's even possible."

 

He nodded, his mouth a tight line. "And what of us? Can we be repaired?"

 

Elia leant her head against his shoulder. "In time, maybe. When the war is over; when your father is gone and you are king; when we are safe."

 

She scarce noticed when he turned in her arms, only when he kissed her. Damn him--he knows me too well and it's been so damned long. Since well before Aegon was born and the maesters had barred him from her bed. The Dornish set little store by celibacy and the Martells least of all. With great effort, Elia pulled away to look him in the eyes. "I haven't forgiven you."

 

Hurt was written in every line of his face, but even still, he stepped back. The air seemed too cold by half. "Do you want me to go?" he asked.

 

She was of the Rhoynar and of Dorne. I bow to no one, not even the blood of the dragon. Not even to her husband. Rhaegar was watching her in uncertain silence. Finally, Elia shook her head. "Then I'll never forgive you."

 

It might have been laughter she heard as her lips met his, or it might have been a half-choked sob of relief. Either way, Elia found she did not care. There would be time enough for judgement later. This is for me.

 

His hands were rough against her skin, callused from days of riding. Once he might have held back, turning his own uncertainty into a delicate torment, playing upon her as though she were an instrument as rare as his harp, but not now. This is for me. She relearned him inch by inch, marking him with teeth and nails until he gasped her name like a desperate breath of air.

 

There was a strange kind of peace in this, Elia thought to herself afterward. Rhaegar had fallen asleep almost instantly, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, lips pressed against the back of her neck. If she were more given to self-deception, she might have imagined that nothing had changed, that the past year had never happened, but Elia had always prided herself on seeing the world for what it was. Rhaegar lies to himself enough for both of us. When she glanced over her shoulder after she knew not how long, she realised he'd awakened, his eyes fixed on the unlit hearth.

 

"Should I call for the servants?" she murmured. "You must be starving."

 

He shook his head. "Not yet."

 

"You said before," Elia ventured, "that in the tower you could hear yourself think for the first time since Duskendale. That was before we married."

 

Rhaegar shifted a little, his fingers tangling in her hair. "I knew my father was vain and selfish long before the Darklyns held him prisoner, but after he came back...to him, everyone was an enemy. Lord Tywin, me, my lady mother. Lord Tywin had said somewhat outside the walls of Duskendale--I'd thought it a ruse at the time, but now I wonder if he wanted Lord Darklyn to execute the king. Worse still," he added after a moment, "he might have had the right of it."

 

"He'd known the king since they were boys." She'd heard any number of stories from her mother of Lord Tywin outshining King Aerys. Elia had even pitied him a little, trapped in the shadow of the golden lion of Casterly Rock as Elia herself sometimes felt trapped in Oberyn's shadow. But meeting him had changed all that; there was no cause to pity a man so consumed by envy and hatred. "He might have seen what you and your mother couldn't."

 

"He was my father and the king. My duty was to him above all. I couldn't question him without being thought a traitor." An easy excuse, in retrospect, but she forced herself to imagine what she would have done if her mother had turned on her with no cause. Oberyn would have fought back, but I am not Oberyn.

 

"And Lord Tywin ruled the realm, for all that your father was on the throne," Elia remembered. That much had seemed obvious, even in Dorne. "I suppose that made it easy to pretend."

 

"Easy is one word. Father didn't give us a choice. Even in Sunspear, even in Dragonstone, he was always there. That shadow over me and my mother, reminding us that if we went too far, something awful might happen. And then the winter came back..."

 

"Surely your dealings with the Starks have taught you that it always comes back," she pointed out. "You can't control the seasons, Rhaegar, whatever you may believe."

 

"I can't make you understand it."

 

"But Lyanna does?" It was the first time she'd said the girl's name aloud since she'd last spoken to Ashara of her plans.

 

"I thought she did. And mayhap she still does," Rhaegar mused, "but too much has gone wrong."

 

Elia turned to face him. "Was she worth it?"

 

"Ask me again after the war is over."

 

"For shame, husband. I intend to find out for myself after the war is over," she said, forcing a laugh she did not feel. "If you could go back and choose differently, would you?"

 

"Lyanna said she would. She told me that she wished she'd never met me."

 

A wiser girl than Elia might have supposed. "Can you blame her?"

 

"No. My father murdered hers, and her brother; he drove the realm into war for no reason at all. There's no turning back from that."

 

"She carries your child," said Elia softly. "And she's barely more than a child herself." She'd known that all along, hadn't she? Mother and Maiden forgive me; I didn't think. That had always been Oberyn's besetting sin--Elia never thought she would fall prey to it. And yet here we are.

 

"I know." The words were so quiet she scarcely heard them, pain in each syllable. "But there's nothing to be done for it now."

 

"That poor girl," Elia murmured. "But you're wrong, Rhaegar. We need to do something."

 

"After the child is born, once Lyanna's well enough to travel, they'll make for Starfall. Will your mother protect them? If the worst should happen?"

 

Elia nodded. "Of course she will. Without question. But is that what Lyanna wants?"

 

"It's what is best for the child."

 

"I'm not asking about the child. I'm asking about your paramour. Lyanna Stark. Look at me, Rhaegar," she ordered, catching his chin in her hand. "We have ruined her life, destroyed her family. We must make amends."

 

"And I will." He held her gaze steadily. "Once I've finished with the rebels, Elia, I promise. Lyanna will want for nothing; we always knew that."

 

"Well. We knew a great many things then that didn't come to pass," Elia pointed out. She let him go and rose from the bed, reaching for the black silk robe embroidered with red Targaryen dragons.

 

"Isn't that mine?" Rhaegar asked idly.

 

Elia glanced over her shoulder, her face perfectly straight, as she wrapped the robe around herself and sat back down on the bed. "I stole it while you were away. What do you mean, finish with the rebels?"

 

"I need to meet them face to face. My cousin Robert and Lyanna's brother Eddard Stark."

 

"Not in the field, Rhaegar." He had made half a jape on their way to Harrenhal--it was as much as Rhaegar would ever do--that the last man he wanted to meet in the lists was Robert Baratheon, who he'd seen once before in a tourney at Storm's End the year before they married. He's too big and too fast, and when the heat of battle's on him the man fights like a cornered boar. "Tell me not in the field."

 

"If the gods are good, it won't come to that. Jon Arryn is no fool; he knows pitched battle is always the last resort."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Lord Tyrell and Lord Redwyne have blocked Storm's End from land and sea, and they tell us the garrison is reduced to eating rats. Renly and Stannis Baratheon are among them." He recited the words as if by rote, staring into the darkness. Little Renly, who was to be Viserys' squire. Elia could feel her gorge rising and forced it down. "A word from me and we could lift that siege, let Robert's brothers go free."

 

It wasn't a bad idea, she conceded. "What would you ask in return?"

 

"Peace terms. I would end this war, Elia, whatever it takes. I never meant to start it, but it seems that intentions count for nothing."

 

"Can't you send peace terms from here? Why must you meet them?" She looked back at him. "I mean it, Rhaegar. The rebels are in the Riverlands. You would be surrounded by enemies."

 

"You would have me hide behind the walls of King's Landing instead?"

 

"Will you throw your life away for your father's whims? He wants you dead. Surely you must know that by now." Reaching out, Elia took Rhaegar's hand as his eyes met hers. "Why not wait? Wait for our armies to regroup in the Crownlands, for the Dornish spearmen we've paid for so dearly..." Only the barest hesitation before she added, "Wait for Arthur."

 

"Elia--"

 

"Rhaegar, can't you understand? Everything would change if Aerys were gone." She couldn't help but glance at the panel beside the hearth even though she knew they spoke too softly for anyone lurking behind it to hear. Even still, the word dead seemed far too final to speak aloud within these walls. "If he were gone, you could call for reinforcements from the Reach, from the Westerlands…"

 

"From Casterly Rock, you mean." Rhaegar was frowning thoughtfully at her.

 

"Lord Tywin's quarrel is with your father, not with you."

 

"I thought you disliked him."

 

"I do," she allowed. "But he knows what he's doing, unlike any of the men your father propped up in his place. More importantly, he has an army and has declared for neither side. He must be waiting for you--it's the only explanation."

 

"I'll send word to him. But Elia--"

 

"But nothing," she hissed. "Are you so eager for death, husband, that you chase after it?"

 

"I need to know, Elia." His voice cracked on the word but he held her gaze still. "I thought it was the right choice. I thought I was saving us all, but this...gods help me, Elia, I need a sign. Something. Anything."

 

"If you want divination, you're asking the wrong person." Lyanna Stark had strange dreams, she recalled, that she called green. Like the children of the forest. Rhaegar, so far as she knew, saw nothing in his sleep, no doubt to his annoyance. Sometimes the queen would speak of dreams she had with a strange emptiness in her voice as though she knew more than she was saying, but she rarely said anything further about it and Elia knew better than to pry. "I thought I was being clever and sorting out a problem before it existed; you thought you were fulfilling an ancient Valyrian prophecy. But what we thought doesn't matter anymore, Rhaegar, if it ever did." She glanced toward the window to see twilight spreading across the sky. "Did you hear about Griff?"

 

"No, what about him?" Rhaegar hesitated before speaking again. "He's not..."

 

Elia shook her head. "He's alive. The king confiscated his lands and exiled him after he lost Lord Baratheon in Stoney Sept. But Myles Mooton died in that same battle. I'm so sorry."

 

Rhaegar bowed his head, hair obscuring his face. "May the gods ease his passing. He deserved far better. They all did."

 

"They went to battle for you, Rhaegar. Not for your father." His head snapped up and his eyes met hers. "You must remember that. There are hundreds--thousands--of men willing to die in your name. If you intend to ask that of them, be sure of it." There would be even more if Aerys were gone. But she wouldn't say that aloud, not now. Instead she rose from the bed and said, more gently, "I'll call for the servants to draw you a bath."

 

"Elia?" He reached for her hand. "Do I even deserve to be king after this?"

 

"The fact that you're asking that question puts you head and shoulders above your father," she replied, "but it's not one I can answer."

 

A smile flickered across his face. "Always the truth, however unflattering."

 

"I gave you my word when we married that I would always tell you the truth. I don't intend to change that now."

 

It had been so long since she'd passed through the antechamber doors on her own that she found herself shaking as she did it, as though waiting for an unseen axe to fall. Varys' hulking guards were gone, the corridor empty save for two bored-looking young men in Targaryen livery who straightened, startled, at the sight of her. Elia gestured toward the chamber. "Send someone to attend to the prince. He's had a long journey."

 

One of them scurried away while the other stayed at his post, watching her wordlessly as she made her way to the great staircase. One floor down, Cara's entire face lit up when Elia appeared in the doorway of the nursery. "I knew it, my lady. I knew they'd need to set you free now."

 

"To a point, Cara," Elia demurred as she reached for her son. "How fares my little prince?" Aegon, who had been engrossed in chewing on the arm of one of Rhaenys' dolls, frowned up at her. Elia picked him up and kissed the top of his head. "Your father's here," she murmured. "What that means to you, I couldn't even say."

 

Dropping the doll, Aegon wrinkled his nose and reached for a handful of Elia's hair. Gods, I must look a sight, she suddenly realised, cheeks reddening as she caught sight of Cara's grinning face. What the guards must have thought... Well, it scarcely matters, does it?

 

She'd intended to take Aegon upstairs with her after feeding him, but her son dozed off instead and she hadn't the heart to awaken him. There would be time enough on the morrow, after all. Whatever decision her husband made, it would not happen overnight.

 

By the time she returned to her rooms, some half a dozen servants were clearing the last of a small supper and hauling the large copper tub into the corridor. They lowered their eyes as Elia passed, though none, she noted, were the servants the king had assigned to her during her captivity. They at least had the sense to steer clear now.

 

Rhaegar was nowhere to be seen when she stepped into the bedchamber. Frowning, Elia retrieved a fresh gown and restored some order to her hair--no doubt, as word spread of Rhaegar's return, they would have any number of visitors this evening--but before she could ponder further where her husband might have gone, a noise from the far corner of the chamber, behind the privy curtain, caught her attention.

 

It was somewhere between a yelp and a strangled growl. Elia groped for the knife she'd hidden in the counterpane, her heart thudding, blood pounding in her ears. After a moment, she called out, voice trembling, "Rhaegar? Is that you?"

 

"Seven bloody hells!" shouted her husband, stumbling half-dressed from behind the curtain as something small and black landed on his shoulder. Snatching it up with one hand, he glared at it, and Elia, torn between relief and disbelief, dissolved into peals of unrestrained laughter.

 

"It's a..." she couldn't finish the sentence. Tears were spilling from her eyes, the knife clattering to the floor, forgotten. Rhaegar was staring at a small black kitten, who was glaring right back at him and hissing, tiny claws lashing out helplessly. "Gods, you nearly scared me to death," she finally managed between gasps.

 

"Scared you?" echoed Rhaegar. "It jumped at my face, the little beast. Nearly scared me to death."

 

"Well, I'm glad you still breathe. There's nothing dignified about dying in the privy..." The laughter bubbled up to the surface again and she buried her face in the pillow.

 

Rhaegar rolled his eyes and tossed the kitten onto the bed, where it flattened its ears and hissed again. At that moment the bedchamber door flew open to reveal a sheepish-looking Viserys carrying a basket covered with a cloth. Beneath the cloth, Elia could see several shapes moving.

 

"There he is!" her good-brother cried out, pointing to the kitten on the bed. "He ran away from us, Elia. We couldn't catch..." he trailed off as he caught sight of Rhaegar, eyes widening. "Rhaegar! You're here!"

 

Rhaegar opened his mouth to reply but a small, orange-clad shape barrelled into him instead, nearly knocking him off-balance. Rhaenys clung tightly to her father's knees, glaring up at him with an expression not unlike the kitten on the bed. "Oh, gods," he murmured, disentangling himself and sinking to his knees to look into Rhaenys' dark, lovely eyes, "look at you."

 

"It's been almost a year," Elia said quietly. "You won't recognise Aegon at all."

 

The black kitten, in the meantime, had got hold of one of the fringed edges of the bedspread and was attacking it viciously. Without a word, Viserys crept forward and set the basket on the bed. Another kitten--this one grey and white--poked its head out from beneath the cloth and mewed at Elia.

 

"Song," said Rhaenys.

 

"Song, please," Elia reminded her, meeting Rhaegar's eyes with a brief smile. "I'm sure your father would be very happy to sing for you, sweetling, but maybe not now..."

 

"It's fine, Elia," said Rhaegar, his smile bringing an answering one to Rhaenys' face. "She's waited long enough."

 

"Song, please," Rhaenys repeated. "Song for kittens."

 

Rhaegar eyed the black kitten suspiciously, then glanced at his brother. "These are yours?"

 

"They're the kitchen cat's litter," replied Viserys. "We were bringing them to show Mother, but that one ran away." The black kitten paused in its gnawing of the bedspread, yawned, and went back to it. "The second cook said he's a right little bastard."

 

"Viserys, language." Try as she might, Elia's reprimand did not sound remotely stern. "You'll upset your mother if you speak like that around her."

 

"But that's what he said," protested Viserys. "Where were you, Rhaegar? We've been wondering for ages now."

 

"It's a long story," Rhaegar muttered. Rhaenys wound her arms around his neck and he rose to his feet. "How's Mother?"

 

Viserys shrugged. "She sleeps too much. I tried to tell her but she wouldn't listen. Sometimes I can't even wake her up. I don't like that."

 

"Elia?"

 

She shook her head. "I'll explain later. Now," she announced, holding out her arms for Rhaenys, "I believe you promised our daughter a song."

 

Reluctantly, Rhaenys let go of her father, but kept her eyes on him as he dug through his abandoned saddlebag for his harp. Elia combed her fingers through her daughter's tangled curls until Rhaenys looked up at her, wrinkling her nose, and Elia dropped a kiss on her forehead. "You look like a scullery girl. And you," she added, winking at Viserys, "had best wash before your mother sees you."

 

"She won't mind," Viserys said with a grin. "Rhaegar's home. If I were all over mud she wouldn't even notice." There were now two kittens in his lap, the grey-and-white and another grey with a tufted tail. "Do you think she'll let me keep them?"

 

"Not all of them. We need to leave some in the kitchen to catch mice, after all. But I don't see why you can't have one."

 

"Me too!" Rhaenys bounced on her lap.

 

Rhaegar settled on the bed, his back against the post so he faced them, the harp resting on his knee. The black kitten hissed at him once more and he picked it up by the scruff of the neck with a sigh. "I agree with the second cook about this one."

 

Viserys giggled and Rhaenys held out her hands. "Mine."

 

Rhaegar met Elia's eyes. "Really?"

 

Elia shrugged. "He seems to have decided he wants your attention. I daresay Rhaenys senses a kindred spirit."

 

"We're both going to regret it."

 

"Well, then," said Elia, "let's hope that age mellows him a little and he learns more from Rhaenys than she from him." The kitten, now imprisoned between Rhaenys' pudgy little hands, yowled in protest. "You'll need to think of a name for him, sweetling."

 

"I can think of several," volunteered Rhaegar. Elia threw a pillow at him, which he caught and tucked behind his back. "And put a bell around his neck, for everyone's sake."

 

"The terror who stalks in the darkness, hm? A regular Black Dread."

 

Rhaegar's lips twitched with suppressed laughter as he busied himself with the harpstrings. Rhaenys was showering her new pet with kisses, chattering about bells and collars and, more inexplicably, wings. "Balerion," she announced, looking up at Elia.

 

"Like father, like daughter," Elia remarked. "A fondness for ill-tempered creatures named Balerion." When her eyes met Rhaegar's over their daughter's head, she couldn't help smiling. "Go on, then."

 

The song was one she hadn't heard before, about a wildling prince and the daughter of the King in the North, and there was no question as to where he'd learned it. Even still, she found herself caught in its spell, tears pricking at her eyes as the northern princess' son faced his father in battle and killed him unknowing. By the end of the song, Rhaenys had fallen asleep, the kitten still clutched in her arms, having accepted its fate at least for the time being.

 

When the last notes faded to silence, Viserys was frowning at his elder brother. "But why didn't the lady just tell her son who his father was?" he asked. "He wouldn't have gone to war against him if he'd known."

 

"I don't know about that," Rhaegar admitted. "Fathers aren't always good to their sons."

 

Elia followed his gaze to the still-lit windows of the Throne Room, barely visible through the bedchamber window. "Are all the northern songs so grim?" she enquired, her voice deceptively light. "I suppose they have the climate for it."

 

"There's one that isn't, about the battle for the dawn," said Rhaegar, "when the last hero took up his magic sword and killed Night's King with a single blow, and the Long Night was finally ended."

 

"I'm tired of winter," Viserys complained. "Mother says there's no winter in Dorne but Father won't let us go there because of the stupid war."

 

"The war's nearly over, Viserys," Rhaegar replied. "And once it's over, we'll all go to Dorne. How about that?"

 

Viserys grinned. "Are you going to kill Robert Baratheon, Rhaegar? You should. Lord Stark and Lord Arryn too."

 

"It's not that simple," Elia interjected, "but your brother is going to see this war ended. Because you're right--it is a stupid war, and one that should never have begun."

 

"Father says they're all traitors, though. There wouldn't be a war if it weren't for them."

 

"That's..." Rhaegar trailed off for a moment, "...not quite true. The king hasn't left the Red Keep since the war began so he doesn't know for certain. But I do promise you, Viserys, it won't be too much longer."

 

His eyes met Elia's and she hoped against hope that he was right. For all their sakes.

 

***

 

Rhaegar stayed in King's Landing for a fortnight while the Crownlands levies slowly assembled outside the city gates. In the meantime Elia's ladies returned to her side, Lilias apologising in floods of tears for the letters she'd been forced to send in Elia's name.

 

"You had no choice," Elia told her. "I could no more blame you than I could blame myself for not finding a more capable messenger."

 

Ashara, as she had promised, was keeping up her false pregnancy, though Elia could see the strain in her face at the continued pretence. "I shouldn't have asked you to do this," she murmured as soon as the two of them were alone in the godswood, away from prying eyes and ears on a morning that almost held a glimmer of spring warmth.

 

"Well," Ashara said, "we didn't know what the king would do, and it seemed the safest course at the time. And, as you said, now I have a ready excuse to leave court."

 

Elia sighed. "You're angry with me."

 

Ashara fixed her with a glare. "My place is here. Not with your husband's paramour delivering her baseborn child."

 

"Whatever happens, it is not Lyanna Stark's fault and she doesn't deserve this. She's younger than your sister. Remember that."

 

"I trust you aren't going to defend him."

 

Elia half-shrugged. "I can't change what happened, and I still intend to be queen of this realm, Ash. There is but one man who can give me that."

 

"Only if he defeats Lord Robert. Does he intend to fight them?" asked Ashara with what anyone who did not know her would have termed indifference.

 

"Not if I can help it," Elia murmured. "Rhaegar has some strange notion that he needs to prove himself, to confirm that the gods are still on his side after all that's happened." At Ashara's expression she shook her head. "Don't say anything."

 

"I didn't." After a moment, Ashara took her hand. "Why won't you go to Sunspear? You'd be safer there. We all would be."

 

"Like it or not, these are my people now. If I can't convince Rhaegar--if he goes north to fight the rebels--what sort of queen would I be if I fled?"

 

"You're starting to sound like a Targaryen," Ashara remarked dryly. "Next thing, you'll be dreaming of dragons."

 

"I promise you that will never happen." Elia looked down at their joined hands. "I've had enough of dreams and prophecies. When all this is over, I fully intend to keep my attentions on this world, not the next. Rhaegar too. He's learned his lesson."

 

"I should damned well hope so after all that's happened." Ashara looked at her. "How could he have been so blind?"

 

"We both were, Ash."

 

"Only one of you ran off with the Lord of Winterfell's daughter," said Ashara with a shrug. "Speaking of that, what do you mean to do with Lyanna Stark's babe? And with her, for that matter?"

 

"Help her however I can," said Elia without hesitation. "You know that's why I'm sending you."

 

"To keep her loyal?"

 

"An unflattering cast, but I suppose that's part of it. Gods forfend she has a son and takes it upon herself to play kingmaker, but she never struck me as that sort of woman." Girl. Call things by their proper names. She winced. "Tell her everything, Ash. About her brother and father, about the king. Rhaegar's sins are his own and he will answer for them, but the murder of the Starks is at Aerys' door. I can't claim to know Lady Lyanna well, but if I were in her shoes, I should blame myself, and none of this is her fault."

 

"On that much we agree." Ashara slipped one arm around her shoulders and the two of them sat in silence for a long time. Then, after a quick glance at the sun slowly making its way toward the western horizon, she murmured, "I'll do as you say, my lady. But I want you to promise me somewhat in return."

 

"What's that?"

 

"That you'll write to your mother and brothers telling them the truth, and if something should go wrong--if Prince Rhaegar should fall in battle--you'll leave King's Landing. Without him, you have no one here to protect you." As though anticipating Elia's arguments, she placed one hand over Elia's mouth and continued. "Prince Lewyn is sworn to the king, and the queen can't help you; she can scarcely help herself. As for Prince Viserys, he'll be the king's new heir, so he's perfectly safe."

 

"Aegon should be his heir," Elia protested, though with little force. There would be few lords willing to follow a babe in the cradle, no matter who his father was.

 

"And Dorne will support you in that, but what good will it do if King Aerys has him smothered in his cradle as a threat?" Elia could feel the blood draining from her face at the thought. "You've done everything you can. If your husband fails, there's no shame in retreat. Promise me, Elia."

 

Slowly, she nodded. "I'll see it done." Even as she spoke the words, she reminded herself that it might not come to that; that Rhaegar could still be convinced to move against the king in advance of meeting with the rebels in the Riverlands.

 

What hope Elia might have had, however, was dispelled on the same day that Ser Gerold Hightower and Ashara took ship from the harbour. A message arrived from Maidenpool late in the evening with Lord Mooton's seal, bordered in black for the death of his son and heir. Robert Baratheon has declared himself the rightful King on the Iron Throne. Eddard Stark will marry Hoster Tully's elder daughter and Jon Arryn the younger, binding their alliance with blood. We stand firm with the king, but many flee to the traitors, calling for an end to what they call the Targaryens' reign of terror.

 

"Jon Arryn must be three times his bride's age," murmured Elia to Rhaegar the next morning as he prepared to ride out to the Kingswood to meet the forces arriving from Dorne. "The poor girl."

 

"The Riverlands, the North, and the Vale," Rhaegar said, as much to himself as to Elia, "allied to take us down."

 

Elia handed him his riding gloves and adjusted one of the straps on his doublet. "Did you send a message to Casterly Rock?"

 

"I did, but there's been no reply." Rhaegar sighed. "Lord Tywin is biding his time. With this news, I can hardly blame him. Lord Tyrell has diverted some of his forces north along the Roseroad and we have the Dornishmen, but...these rebels are seasoned men who have been fighting for months now."

 

"Then they must be heartily sick of it," Elia told him. "What do you have to gain by fighting them now?"

 

"He's declared himself king, Elia. There's no going back from that, and there's no ignoring it. The longer we stay silent, the more doubts the other lords will have."

 

They would have fewer doubts with you on the throne in your father's place. She almost said it aloud, but bit her tongue. "Don't go," Elia said instead, her voice low and hoarse. "Please, Rhaegar. Send someone else."

 

"Robert's quarrel is with me, and I've stood aside too long already."

 

"But if you die--"

 

He pressed one finger to her lips. "You will go to Dorne and raise our children. Robert won't dare to press his advantage against your mother and brothers--not with you and the children in Sunspear. And perhaps, when she's old enough, Rhaenys can marry a child of Robert's."

 

Elia stared at him in horror. "Not in a thousand years."

 

"Then I'd best not die." Leaning forward, he kissed her. "We'll go to Dorne," he said finally, "when I return."

 

If you return. The words hung in the air between them. Elia forced herself to smile. "Rhaenys will love the Water Gardens. She'll rule them in days, I guarantee it."

 

Rhaegar laughed. "I should like to see that." He raised her hand to his lips. "And have a care for yourself, Elia. You see how badly I do without you."

 

Before Elia could say anything, he caught her in a fierce hug. As his mouth pressed against her hair, she heard the muffled words and something warm stirred within her. My queen. She clung to him for a moment, then, slowly, let him go.

 

There was a formal farewell, of course, the following day, where the king at least pretended to care about his son as he wished him well. When Rhaegar knelt before Elia, she covered his hands with hers and said only, "Remember your promise."

 

He looked up at her. "I will. For your part, whatever happens with his father, you can trust Jaime Lannister."

 

Ser Jaime was the only knight of the Kingsguard in the Red Keep. The king had been furious at what he saw as Ser Gerold's defection to Rhaegar and his revenge was to put Prince Lewyn in charge of the ten thousand Dornish spearmen riding north along the Kingsroad. My uncle is no battle commander. There was no question in Elia's mind that it was done to spite her. He'd already sent Barristan Selmy and Jon Darry to gather up the scattered remnants of Jon Connington's army, insisting that he no longer trusted any lord to do his bidding effectively.

 

Glancing toward the lonely, young Kingsguard knight now, Elia felt a pang of sadness. "You should take him with you," she said. "You're in greater danger than the king."

 

"The king fears Lord Tywin's silence. I told him I would send Selmy and Darry back as soon as we regrouped in exchange for Lannister, but he refused. I will have three Kingsguard knights with me, Elia," Rhaegar assured her. "They may not be the three I would have chosen, but they will serve just as well. Trust Jaime. He'll watch over you and the children."

 

"Just come back."

 

He raised her hands to his lips and held them there for a moment, eyes closed, before letting go. Mounting the great black destrier, he looked back at her, and at Rhaenys clinging to her skirts. Elia held his gaze until he wheeled the horse round and spurred him through the Red Keep's gates, a contingent of guardsmen in red-and-black following in formation. Richard Lonmouth, wearing a black armband for poor, dead Myles Mooton, carried the Targaryen standard beside him.

 

The queen took her arm. "Come to my rooms. We can watch them till they're out of sight."

 

Elia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Rhaegar's presence had seen her Dornish guards returned to her and they took their places flanking her chair as she sat. Rhaenys took the queen's hand and in that unwieldy procession they made their way up the Serpentine Steps back to Maegor's Holdfast. By the time they arrived at the queen's audience chamber, whose windows overlooked the city below, Rhaegar's banner had reached the foot of Aegon's High Hill.

 

As the procession of guards made their way toward the Gate of the Gods, more soldiers spilled from the side streets to join them. The roar of the crowds lining the Kingsroad was loud enough to be heard even from Maegor's Holdfast. Elia glanced at Queen Rhaella who was watching in silence, fingers twisting and untwisting the strands of pearls around her neck, and the queen met her eyes briefly, revealing tears snaking their way down her cheeks.

 

"Rhaegar asked me for my blessing but even as I gave it to him I had the worst feeling," she said, her voice trembling. "Do you know what he said to me?" When Elia shook her head, the queen shivered. "I may not have intended harm, but I am guilty all the same."

 

Elia could think of nothing to say to that, so she embraced the queen instead, realising as she did so how painfully thin her good-mother had become.

 

By the time the royal army had disappeared from view it was nearly sunset. Elia returned to her rooms to feed Aegon, struck anew by how empty they seemed now. At least she thought them empty until the round, silk-clad figure of the lord spymaster melted out of the shadows.

 

"Has it never occurred to you to knock?" Elia demanded, hoping she didn't sound as startled as she felt.

 

"What would be the point of that? I'm a spymaster, princess, not a courtier."

 

She adjusted Aegon in her arms when he made a noise of complaint. "I trust you aren't here to imprison me again."

 

"You're the last thing on the king's mind now. If you keep quiet, he might continue to forget about you."

 

"How magnanimous of him," said Elia dryly. "Why are you here, Lord Varys?"

 

"I'm here to make you a proposition."

 

"I'm certain I'm not interested."

 

"You're a fool if you think the king will let you or your children leave this place," Varys remarked, as though she'd said nothing at all. "Your husband may have loosened your chains, princess, but rest assured you are still a hostage."

 

Elia narrowed her eyes. "For whom?"

 

"Oh, for any number of people. Your esteemed uncle of the Kingsguard. Your mother and brothers. Your dear husband, may the Warrior guide him to victory."

 

"You almost sound sincere."

 

"Why shouldn't I be? If he were to lose, it would be the end of the Targaryens." Elia's surprise must have shown on her face, for Varys shrugged and continued, "I serve at King Aerys' pleasure, but I've never flattered him, nor have I any illusions about him. If he should decide that his son is a threat, what do you think he would do to you? To your children?"

 

I promise you Lord Rossart is very good at his trade. She wouldn't think of that. She would not. "You're bluffing."

 

"Maybe I am. That is for you to decide." He moved closer, silk slippers silent on the floor. "But as for my proposition, here it is. Lord Velaryon has ordered several ships from the Targaryen fleet to stand at the ready in Blackwater Bay in case the battle should turn against the prince. I can see to it that your son is aboard one of those ships and well away from King's Landing."

 

"My son," echoed Elia. "Not Rhaenys. Not me."

 

It might have been a smile flashing across his face. "I'm not a worker of miracles, my lady."

 

"You're mad to think I'd even consider it." But something was tugging at her memory, a cold, sneaking feeling that he'd backed her into a corner without her knowing. One boon, anything I ask, so long as it is within your power.

 

"Lest you forget, princess," said Varys softly, "you owe me."

 

"Brandon Stark is dead." Even as she spoke, she knew what he was going to say.

 

"His death was no fault of mine. I made my arrangements; it was his choice to turn them down." He took one step closer." Your oath, princess, still stands."

 

"You think I will give you my son?" Disbelief sharpened Elia's voice. Of course he'd waited until she sent Ashara away, until Rhaegar had left her. I have no one. "What would you intend to do with him?"

 

"Not part of the bargain," he retorted. "You gave me your word of honour. One boon. Anything I ask."

 

"Not this." She cradled Aegon close until he whimpered a soft protest. "What kind of monster are you to part a mother from her son?"

 

"What I am is no concern of yours, Your Grace. It is your oath that concerns me more."

 

"Rhaegar will never allow this. He will hunt you down--"

 

"Your husband, as you well know, is about to fight a pitched battle against three seasoned commanders." As he spoke her worst fears aloud, Elia's heart began to pound hollowly. "What makes you think he'll come back?"

 

Because he promised me he would. Because he loves his children and would never abandon them. And yet, hadn't he already abandoned them once to chase a prophetic dream halfway across the realm, leaving a war in his wake? "What makes you think he won't?"

 

He ignored her question. "If your husband loses to Robert Baratheon, your precious little heir is worth nothing. What makes you think any lord would support a blood-cursed babe in arms over a man grown and a proven warrior?"

 

"Then why do you want him?"

 

"There are always uses for a royal child," Varys replied quietly even as Elia began to shake her head in horror. "I warn you, princess, do you refuse me now, I will hold you an oathbreaker."

 

"What do oaths mean to creatures like you?" she spat. "Your very existence is built on lies."

 

"Then perhaps you will remember that when you need my help."

 

"Get out!" Aegon began to cry in her arms, and Elia rocked him absent-mindedly, all her attention focused on the eunuch still studying her. "You infect my eyes---get out!"

 

With a sigh, Lord Varys made her a bow. "As you wish, Your Grace."

 

Once the door had closed behind him, Elia cradled Aegon close until his crying subsided to a soft whimper. "I'll never let him take you. I'll never let anyone take you from me."

Chapter Text

When the Tully and Arryn banners came into view across the barren landscape to the south, Catelyn disappeared into the sept, leaving Lysa to watch from the battlements as the horsemen drew closer. By the time they reached the river, she could see two more banners--a grey direwolf on white and a black stag on gold, crowned.

 

The thread in the crown seemed brighter than the rest of the sigil, and she remembered Lord Arryn's words. If you want a king, I can give you one.

 

Robert Baratheon himself was a giant of a man armoured in black and gold with a booming voice that echoed through the entire castle. Beside him, Lord Eddard Stark seemed a pale shadow in grey, cold and silent as Lysa imagined the North to be. No wonder Catelyn had decided to hide rather than face them.

 

It would never have worked had their father been there. But Lord Hoster was nowhere to be found.

 

"I'm afraid," said Lord Arryn to Lysa's uncle, "that Lord Hoster was wounded in battle. The surgeon said he must be moved slowly and carefully. He should arrive within the week." Edmure cried out, and Lord Arryn smiled first at him and then at Lysa. "Fear not, Lord Edmure, Lady Lysa. Your father is a strong man and will heal good as new."

 

Without Catelyn there, it fell to Lysa to welcome them alongside Uncle Brynden. She said the words by rote, holding out the large ruby-chased chalice of wine to Lord Arryn.

 

To her shock, he shook his head. Then, without missing a beat, he gestured to the giant in black and gold armour. "Your Grace. This is Lady Lysa Tully, Lord Hoster's younger daughter. Lady Lysa," he added, meeting her eyes boldly, "this is Robert Baratheon, rightful King on the Iron Throne."

 

Lysa's mouth dropped open. While she was grasping for something--anything--to say, Uncle Brynden rescued her. "Be welcome, my lords, to Riverrun. Come in, for we have much to discuss. How many men have you brought?"

 

"Eighty, with horses. Another hundred and fifty travel with Lord Hoster, most of them wounded. The rest make for the Trident."

 

"Do you mean to go south and lay siege to King's Landing, Lord Arryn?" Edmure piped up. Uncle Brynden shushed him quickly and gestured for Lysa to take him away. Sulkily, Edmure followed her while Lord Arryn and the others joined their uncle in the great hall. "Father said Riverrun was mine while he was gone. Why don't I get to listen?"

 

"Ask our uncle later. We'll go to the sept and pray for Father." Robert Baratheon was limping as he made his way up the stairs, leaning on Eddard Stark's shoulder heavily enough that the northern lord strained beneath the effort.

 

"I don't want to pray," Edmure was complaining. "I'm supposed to be the lord of Riverrun until Father gets home."

 

"You're just a child," snapped Lysa. "Father would be ashamed if he saw how you're behaving." As she suspected, that shut him up.

 

The convoy bearing Lord Hoster and the other wounded of Stoney Sept arrived some several days later and it took most of the daylight hours to find them all places either within Riverrun's walls or in Lord Arryn's camp on the northern bank of the Red Fork. Lysa scarcely saw Catelyn that day, as she was directing their efforts with Steward Wayn while Lysa joined Septa Finetta in tending to the wounded, one by one. By sunset, her back was aching almost beyond bearing, hands shaking from exhaustion, and Septa Finetta sent her to her room to rest.

 

As she passed the triangular solar, however, Lysa caught sight of her father through the half-opened door and slipped into the room. Lord Hoster was seated at the great wooden table with Uncle Brynden beside him. Lord Arryn was pacing back and forth with a goblet of wine in his hand, and there were seven or eight other lords ranged throughout the room whose colours and sigils Lysa did not recognise. One of them, a slender young man with some sort of lizard emblazoned in green on his surcoat, glanced at her but at Lysa's brief gesture, said nothing to reveal her presence.

 

As she looked closer, Lysa could see that her father was propped in place in his chair, cushions to either side, and his face was grey in the lamplight, his hair dull, and his blue eyes half-closed. She could hear his laboured breathing even from where she stood.

 

"What do you mean to offer Lord Tywin?" Lord Hoster was asking, as his white fingers gripped the arms of the chair.

 

"What he wants. What Aerys denied him to his face in Lannisport all those years ago," said Lord Arryn. "The chance to make his daughter a queen."

 

Cersei Lannister had once been certain that she would be a queen. Lysa had heard it from one of the maids and, when she asked Cersei, the former Hand of the King's daughter had said nothing but tossed her golden curls and smiled like a cat who had got into the cream. That had been years ago, when Rhaegar Targaryen was still looking for a bride.

 

"A tempting offer," Uncle Brynden allowed, "but isn't Robert still betrothed to Lyanna Stark?" As he spoke, his eyes met Lysa's and widened in surprise. She shook her head and raised her finger to her lips.

 

"Rhaegar Targaryen has returned to King's Landing and there's been no sign of Lady Lyanna for nearly a year. We must, I fear, presume the worst." The young man who had noticed Lysa earlier made a soft noise of protest, but Lord Arryn did not seem to hear. Lysa glanced quickly in his direction and at made a quick study of the other lords in the room, but the grey direwolf was nowhere to be seen, nor the Baratheon stag.

 

"Wherever she is, the girl is damaged goods now," Lord Hoster pronounced from his chair, pressing his fingers to his temples. Lysa was gratified to see her uncle wince at the tactless words, though her father didn't seem to notice. "If he truly means to be king, he can't marry a woman known throughout the realm as another man's leavings. He'd be a laughingstock."

 

I cannot marry Robert and have made my choice. What would the king-to-be say if he knew what Lyanna Stark had written to her brother so long ago? Lysa couldn't imagine telling him; the very thought made her queasy with fear. And Father has probably forgotten by now. If only it were as easy for me. She still prayed for forgiveness from the Crone for not telling Lord Brandon's squire about the Lady Lyanna's letter. But if she's dead, what good will it do now?

 

"Robert is stubborn, but he'll come round," Lord Arryn was saying, though he had the grace to look uncomfortable. "And if, gods willing, we find Lady Lyanna alive, her brothers will care for her in Winterfell, where she belongs. After all that's happened to her, no doubt she'll have no interest in staying in the south."

 

Lysa couldn't listen anymore. She turned on her heel and fled from the solar and down the stairs, not knowing where she ought to go. The sept--no, she couldn't face the Maiden's eyes. Damaged goods. Another man's leavings. Cat might have sweet dreams of the two of them happy in Winterfell but Lysa knew full well that would never happen. Her lord father would never jeopardize his alliance with the Starks by wedding her to Lord Benjen in her condition. I should have run away with Petyr while I had the chance.

 

Uncle Brynden found her in the godswood some hours later, wrapped in a thick cloak, its hood pulled forward to hide her face. "It upsets you, doesn't it?" he asked softly. "What's happened to Lady Lyanna."

 

"We don't know what happened to her," Lysa said, "but everyone thinks they do. And nobody seems to care what she might want."

 

Her uncle settled beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Your father says things sometimes and doesn't mean them, especially now he's in pain."

 

"You don't need to defend him, Uncle Brynden," Lysa murmured.

 

"Mayhap. He does want to speak with you, though, after supper."

 

"Do you know what he wants?"

 

He shook his head. "He hasn't told me. But I'm sure it will be fine, Lysa."

 

After supper, as ordered, Lysa made her way to her father's bedchamber. Lord Hoster was propped up against a pile of cushions, the red-and-blue coverlet pulled up to his waist. Above it, she could see the swathe of bandages covering his entire chest and hear the rattle of his breath testifying to just how seriously he had been wounded. When he first looked at her through eyes bleary from milk of the poppy, he blinked as though not quite recognising her.

 

"Cat, is that you?"

 

"No, Father, it's Lysa," she replied, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. "Uncle Brynden said you wished to see me."

 

"Lysa, of course." With a sigh, he twitched one hand in what Lysa supposed was a gesture for her to sit. Retrieving a stool from beside a nearby table, she sat gingerly.

 

"I can come back tomorrow, Father, if you're in too much pain..."

 

"The pain will still be here tomorrow. And the day after and so forth. Maester Kym tells me it will be months before I can ride again. Your uncle called me a fool, but that is Brynden's way." His eyes met hers, blue and unfocused. "Did he tell you why I wished to see you?"

 

"No, Father. He said you hadn't told him."

 

"I thought I had." The sound he made could have been a bark of laughter or a wheeze, but Lysa couldn't tell. "It's this filthy stuff Maester Kym feeds me. Says it's for the pain, but what good is that when I can't remember?"

 

"You'll be better soon, Father." She didn't ask the question she was sure everyone was asking. If Lord Hoster was confined to bed, who, if anyone, would lead Riverrun's armies against Prince Rhaegar? Her uncle was the natural choice, but there had been no announcements, no proclamations. "All is ready for Cat's wedding, Father, as you wished," she said, apropos of nothing.

 

"He's a good lad, Eddard Stark. Steadier than his brother. More sense...Jon Arryn's doing, no doubt." From what little Lysa had glimpsed of the new Lord Stark, she couldn't disagree--he was a narrow-faced young man with frown lines etched deep around his mouth. Recalling Brandon Stark's stories and laughter, she was hard-pressed to think them brothers at all, save for their similar colouring. "They'll wed three days hence. And you, Lysa, will wed Lord Arryn that same day."

 

"I..." Lysa's mouth worked, but no words emerged at first. "Father, what are you talking about?" It must be the fever, the wound, the milk of the poppy. He can't be serious. "Lord Arryn is..." old enough to be my grandsire.

 

"A good man. A strong man, and kind. A greater match than I might have hoped to make after your foolishness." He swallowed. "You'll be Lady of the Eyrie and the Vale, and if Robert takes the throne, you may be greater still."

 

"But Father--"

 

"You made a mistake. A stupid, impulsive mistake. And I did too...should never have taken in that stripling, no matter what his father said." He took another rattling breath. "If your mother had been here, gods rest her...but there's no help for that."

 

"Petyr didn't--"

 

"Don't speak that wretched boy's name to me," snapped Lord Hoster. "Nor to anyone else. He's as good as dead, and better that he were. Better that Brandon Stark had killed him and killed your shame with him."

 

"I'll tell Lord Arryn," Lysa said, her voice trembling with threatened tears. "I'll tell him everything."

 

"He knows, Lysa. I've promised him a fertile wife to bear him heirs, replace the ones he's lost."

 

As though I were nothing more than a broodmare. Somewhere in the background, she heard the clatter of the stool tipping over as she jumped to her feet. "I won't marry him. I won't."

 

"Yes, you will," her father said, all of winter's chill in his words, "or call yourself my daughter no more. Riverrun will be closed to you forever, and Winterfell too--why would your sister sully herself with you when she's the greatest lady in the North?"

 

There had been so many moments when Lysa had nearly broken down and told Catelyn everything, but she'd always stopped. Catelyn had never made a wrong step in her life; what misfortunes had followed her had been no fault of hers. She couldn't understand. She's never been in love; she's only ever done her duty. Catelyn would tell her that songs and stories were all well and good, but they lived in the world, and there was no place for such nonsense. She'd said as much about Lady Lyanna, after all. And I'd be just as disgraced as she is if Father hadn't kept it all secret.

 

"Father, please," Lysa whispered, "don't do this. I'll become a septa. I'll join the Silent Sisters. I'll never do anything wrong again, I swear it..."

 

"It's already done. You should thank me, child, for giving you a second chance." Lysa shook her head wordlessly, desperately. "You'll marry when Cat does, or you'll be turned out on the River Road to make your way alone."

 

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words clogged her throat instead. You couldn't do that to your daughter. He'd killed her child in the womb, after all. What was to stop him from turning her away forever? There were other fathers who had done as much and worse to their daughters. And even if Catelyn wanted to help her, she would be hundreds of leagues away in Winterfell.

 

Through the roaring in her ears, she could hear her father's voice again, strangely gentle now. "I'm your father, child, and I only want the best for you. You'll marry Jon Arryn, yes, you will, and bear him children to inherit the Vale. You will make me proud, Lysa."

 

Bowing her head to hide her tears, Lysa clenched her hands tightly together. "I will obey, Father," she whispered. You've given me no other choice.

 

Catelyn was waiting outside Father's chambers when Lysa emerged. "Uncle Brynden told me you'd gone to see Father. How is he?"

 

Lysa ignored the question. "I'm to be married, Cat. To Lord Arryn."

 

If Catelyn was shocked--and Lysa suspected she must be--she hid it well, restricting her reaction to widening eyes and a hand over her mouth. "Lord Arryn?" she repeated. Lysa only nodded, not daring to speak. "They say," Catelyn finally ventured, "the Vale is a fair place." She enfolded Lysa in a tight hug. "I wish you could be in Winterfell with me, but at least I know you'll be somewhere beautiful."

 

Lysa squeezed her eyes shut but the tears leaked out all the same, soaking into the shoulder of Catelyn's gown. For once, her sister didn't scold her, only held her close, knowing as Lysa did that there would be few more of those moments before the two of them parted, perhaps forever.

 

***

 

Her wedding day dawned crisp and cold, but the sky was a glorious shade of blue. Arryn blue, Lysa thought to herself as her maids plaited dried flowers and white ribbons through her hair and dressed her in a simple gown of soft white wool edged with red trout on a blue border. Once she might have cared that it was not as fine a gown as Catelyn's, but even as Lysa caught sight of her face in the looking-glass, she felt nothing. Instead she bit her lip to keep from crying again--Septa Finetta had warned her that no bridegroom wanted a weeping bride, but Lord Arryn didn't want her. Nor I him.

 

Catelyn looked glorious, but her bridegroom scarcely glanced at her. Some part of Lysa wanted to shake Lord Stark by the shoulders, demand that he give her sister her due, but instead she stared at the flagstones beneath her feet, wishing with all her heart that she could turn to her own husband-to-be and see a very different face. It was a quiet ceremony and sombre, and as Lysa watched the crowd on her way to the altar, she saw black armbands on nearly every arm. It had been more than half a year since Brandon Stark and his father were murdered and so many others had died in their name. When will it be enough, Lysa wondered.

 

She barely heard the septon's words, addressed to all four of them, and she didn't dare look at Lord Arryn until they were facing one another. Her vows, she spoke without thinking, staring at her hands, at the unfamiliar silver-and-sapphire ring on her wedding finger.

 

For a second, the heavy weight of her maiden's cloak lifted from her shoulders, only for another to replace it, of blue-and-white wool. Catelyn had told her just the previous night that the traditional Arryn bride's cloak had belonged to Lady Sharra herself, the last Arryn to rule the Vale, but it was in the Eyrie's treasury, the one gracing her shoulders a copy hurriedly sewn together here in Riverrun.

 

A cheer went up from the assembled lords--so few ladies scattered amongst them, only from the nearest holdfasts--as the septon declared them married. She could hear Robert Baratheon's voice above them all. A king's voice, to be sure. And he did look like a king, far more so than her wavering memory of King Aerys. But one didn't choose a king for his looks or his voice. Indeed, until recently, one did not choose a king at all.

 

Lord Hoster had thrown open the stores of Riverrun, such as they were, for the wedding banquet. Steward Wayn had balked at first, protesting that their supplies were already low, but her father had insisted in the end. It won't be long till the war ends and our fates are sealed, one way or the other. Lysa scarcely touched any of the ten courses, nibbling here and there on dried fruits that she knew wouldn't turn her stomach, and the evening whirled by in a blur.

 

She didn't hear exactly what Lord Arryn said to prompt it, but the Lord of Storm's End turned his attention to Cat and her husband, raising his dripping glass of wine. "Let's get them to bed, boys!" he roared as Cat blushed almost to the colour of her hair and even Lord Stark's cheeks grew red.

 

Lysa bit her lip and waited until the raucous crowd had left the great hall, carrying the young bride and groom and leaving bits of clothing in their wake. To her relief, Septa Finetta touched her elbow and motioned for her to rise. "Your lord husband," she said, "has asked that the bedding be kept quiet. You see how he thinks of your comfort."

 

She ventured a sideways glance at Lord Arryn, but he was deep in conversation with her father, so she followed Septa Finetta instead of trying to catch his attention. Her feet instinctively moved to the bedchamber she and Cat had shared, but Septa Finetta led her firmly down a different corridor to what she knew was Lord Arryn's chamber. Briefly, Lysa looked over her shoulder, wishing she'd thought to bid her old bedchamber farewell that morning.

 

New rushes had been laid out on the floor and fresh candles lit. There were even flower petals on the sheets and bed hangings alternating Tully trout and Arryn falcons. She wondered where her father's steward had managed to find them on such short notice, but didn't ask as Septa Finetta and two of the maids began to undress her. The sheets, when Lysa slipped beneath them, were icy cold.

 

She could hear the uproar from the corridor, followed by Lord Arryn's voice, though she could not make out what he said. The other ladies withdrew, Septa Finetta pausing just long enough to give Lysa a trembling smile. "May the Maiden and Mother bless you, child, and give you many children."

 

Does she know? It hadn't occurred to Lysa to wonder before, but she was certain the answer was no. If she knew what I'd done, she wouldn't look at me that way. No sooner had she left before the door opened again to admit Lord Arryn wearing a blue bedrobe trimmed with white fur. The candlelight softened his features a little, but nothing could hide his age and Lysa had to fight another surge of tears. She remembered--of course she remembered--what she'd done with Petyr all those months ago, and the very thought of doing that with Lord Arryn was enough to make her sick to her stomach.

 

"My lady," he said without looking at her, crossing to a table holding a flagon of wine and two glasses. "Will you have some wine?"

 

Not trusting her voice at first, Lysa nodded. Aware that he couldn't see her, she forced herself to speak. "Yes, please." Clearly he hadn't noticed how much she'd drunk at dinner, and Lysa saw no reason to enlighten him. The wine was sweet--not Arbor gold, but somewhat similar--and she took a larger swallow. Maybe if I was drunk, I could pretend he's Petyr. Another look at Lord Arryn dissolved that thought instantly.

 

"This isn't what you want," Lord Arryn remarked. His voice revealed nothing, neither the warmth she'd seen in his dealings with his two wards, nor the anger that always crept into his words when he spoke of the Targaryens. "It would seem we've both been forced into it."

 

"Forced, my lord?" echoed Lysa. "What do you mean?"

 

"I hadn't intended to marry again. I had two heirs, both raised in my household..." he trailed off, blinking, and she realised there were tears in his eyes. "It ought to have been me, but we were trying to get your lord father off the field and Denys threw himself at Jon Connington to distract him. The battle was won, yes, but the price...gods, the price. My niece and their son are still at the Gates of the Moon, but Alys has always been frail, and the boy a babe in arms..."

 

"I'm so sorry, my lord," was all Lysa could think to say. "Lord Denys seemed like a good man."

 

"He was. So was Elbert, my poor nephew, may the gods keep him. But King Aerys murdered him, and his newest Hand killed Denys." He raised the wineglass and drank deep. "Your father agreed to give over command of Riverrun's armies to me if I married you."

 

Lysa's mouth dropped open. "But my uncle..."

 

"I can't speak for why he made his decision, only that he did." Finally, he looked at her, the coverlet drawn up to her chin, her hair spilling over her shoulders--she knew it looked beautiful; her hair had always been her best feature, prettier even than Cat's, especially in candlelight. "Do you know the Arryn words?" When she shook her head, he continued, "As High as Honour." He laughed bitterly. "But if there is anything this war has taught me, it is that honour is a rare thing indeed."

 

The Tully words echoed in Lysa's head--Family, Duty, Honour--and she hid her wince behind another gulp of wine. "I didn't have a choice either. My lord father told me I must marry you."

 

"Who was he? Your young man." He almost sounded gentle, but so had Maester Kym before he murdered her baby. "Or do you not remember?"

 

She couldn't tell him. Not when Petyr's father was one of his bannermen. I'm married to him now; he can't know. "I don't remember," she lied. "Maester Kym gave me a horrible posset to drink and I was so ill...it's all cloudy and I don't remember."

 

Lysa had eaten very little at the banquet and her stomach was beginning to churn from the wine. Still, she took another swallow. "They made me do it. I didn't want to."

 

"Gods, what a mess," muttered Lord Arryn. "But the deed's done now and we'll just need to make the best of it. Just as I told Robert when he got that servant girl with child. Mistakes happen. What matters is how you deal with them."

 

He drained his glass and set it down on the table. Lysa did the same with hers and held it out to him, none too steadily. The room seemed to tilt around her. I'm drunk, she realised, recalling how she'd felt on the night she had gone to Petyr's bed, and had to bite back the wholly inappropriate desire to laugh.

 

Jon Arryn was looking at her, frowning. "Is something funny, my lady?"

 

"No, Lord Arryn," Lysa mumbled.

 

"You've had too much to drink."

 

"I haven't. I know my duty, my lord," she said, realising only as his cheeks grew red that she'd spoken too harshly. By the time she opened her mouth to apologise, he'd turned away. "Lord Arryn, I..."

 

"Enough," snapped Lord Arryn. "Let us have done with this farce. I may not be what you want, Lady Lysa, but we are man and wife in the eyes of the gods and I am in need of an heir."

 

He blew out the candles, one by one. As the room faded into darkness, Lysa wondered if the gods would forgive her for praying that the next great battle of the war might make her a widow.

 

***

 

For a fortnight, she endured. She dragged her steps to the bedchamber every night and closed her eyes as Jon Arryn sought his heir between her legs. And every day she told herself not much longer now. It was only a matter of time before he rode again to war, and the gods alone knew what might happen.

 

There was little time to mope, however. She spent her days with Septa Finetta tending to the wounded of three armies while Catelyn saw to the smooth management of Riverrun. After the exertion of the wedding, Lord Hoster had slept for nearly two days and on Maester Kym's orders, had begun holding council meetings in his bedchamber.

 

One by one, lords and their soldiers were beginning to leave Riverrun, riding east to meet the armies of the North and the Vale near the Trident. And somewhere far to the south, the royal army advanced.

 

"Twenty thousand men at least," opined one soldier in Baratheon colours as Lysa adjusted the dressing on his thigh. Before the wedding, Septa Finetta would have done it to preserve her modesty, but a single day had changed all of that. "But an army is only as good as its commander, and Lord--King Robert--is the greatest in the land."

 

"One of the greatest, I'll allow," interjected an older man whose surcoat bore an orange sigil bordered with runes. House Royce of Runestone, she remembered, one of many sworn to the Vale. My bannermen too now. Catelyn had spent months learning the houses sworn to Winterfell after she was first betrothed to Brandon Stark, but Lysa hadn't had the chance.

 

Of course, if Lord Arryn died in battle... But she couldn't think too much on that.

 

"...the Kingsguard ride with Prince Rhaegar. The last man I'd wish to meet on a battlefield is Barristan the Bold."

 

"Barristan the Old, you mean," the Stormlander scoffed. He couldn't have been older than twenty. "I'd be more frightened of the Sword of the Morning, and there's been no word of him."

 

"Old or not," snapped the Runestone man, "he'd snap you in half like a twig. I saw him fight in Duskendale when he rescued the Mad King..."

 

"And a fine piece of work that was, to rescue a mad king--"

 

"Enough, my lords," Lysa interrupted, placing one hand firmly on her charge's chest. "You're on the same side. Not to mention you'll open your wounds if you start fighting one another and I'm not stitching you up again."

 

There was something satisfying in the sheepish look and muttered "yes, m'lady" that followed from both men. The Runestone man eyed her curiously--hardly a surprise, since she was his new liege lady and young enough to be his granddaughter--and she offered him a smile before asking about his bandaged arm. Her honour may not satisfy Lord Arryn, but she could do her duty just as well as Catelyn.

 

One entire wing of Riverrun's triangular keep had been given over to the wounded, and by the time Lysa finished her rounds, the sun was setting. As she stepped into the courtyard, a shadow fluttered at the corner of her eye--a raven perched just outside Maester Kym's window above, the telltale flash of white tied to one leg.

 

Ravens were a rare enough sight since Lord Hoster had word of the royal army's departure from King's Landing. Though messengers on horseback were slower, they ran less risk of being shot down, and there were still plenty of loyalists spread throughout the Riverlands, watching the skies.

 

Neither her father nor Uncle Brynden appeared at supper that evening, and the remaining lords were full of whispers as to what the unexpected raven might portend.

 

"From Casterly Rock, perhaps," Lord Mallister suggested. The contingent from Seagard was due to ride for the Trident in two days' time. "There are rumours of a great host massing in the Westerlands, but Lord Tywin has yet to choose a side."

 

"That would require Lord Tywin to care what other men think of him," replied Lord Piper with a sigh. Though sworn to Riverrun, his lands beside the Red Fork were on the border of the Westerlands.

 

"He does care, Lord Piper," Lord Arryn said. When both men turned to him, he continued, "Lord Tywin cares very deeply what other men think of him, though I don't doubt he wishes it were otherwise. If he did not care, Tarbeck Hall and Castamere would stand today."

 

The words sent a shiver down Lysa's spine. The fall of House Reyne and House Tarbeck had happened years before she was born, but everyone knew the story. And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear. The rest of the conversation washed over her--something about Lord Tywin's brothers, bringing briefly to mind Gerion Lannister's visit the previous year--but she couldn't concentrate and excused herself. To her relief, Lord Arryn--my husband--scarcely seemed to notice.

 

She found Uncle Brynden on the battlements, gazing out across the maze of tents and campfires. When he heard her footsteps, he turned and gave her a faint smile. "What brings you here, Lysa? Shouldn't you be with your husband?" She might have imagined it, but he might have hesitated a little before that last word.

 

"He's still in the hall. What's happened?" When her uncle shook his head, Lysa crept forward and took his arm. "I'm a married woman now and Lady of the Eyrie. If it's important, I should know."

 

"You'll always be my little niece," he reminded her softly. "Even when you have grandchildren of your own, that won't change."

 

"You know what I mean," she scolded. "Tell me, Uncle Brynden."

 

"You saw the raven?" At her nod, he sighed. "It came from Rhaegar Targaryen."

 

Lysa blinked up at him. "Not from the king?"

 

Uncle Brynden shook his head. "Prince Rhaegar wants to make peace. He's offered us all pardons if we convince Robert to give up his claim and return to Storm's End."

 

"Just like that?" Lysa frowned. "It can't be that simple."

 

"Of course it isn't. There would need to be negotiations, arguments, the gods alone know what else, but it might mean an end to the fighting. I told your lord father that he should at least consider it, but he doesn't trust the prince to keep his word."

 

Lysa couldn't blame him; not after all that had happened. "Do you trust him?"

 

Uncle Brynden sighed. "I don't know. There was more in the message. Nothing so certain as a promise, but an implication that the king would not be long upon his throne. Whether that means exile, imprisonment, or..." he trailed off, frowning, "I couldn't say. Your lord father thinks he's lying, that it's a trick he and the king have concocted between them to trap us and destroy us all. And mayhap it is. After all, the prince did abduct Lady Lyanna or at the very least he's involved in her disappearance, and we can't forget that."

 

"If he truly wants to make peace, he ought to tell Lord Stark where she is." Whatever her father said about Lady Lyanna, it was clear that her brother cared for her and wanted her back, no matter what had happened. If I'd run away with Petyr, I can't imagine Edmure would care that much. "Has Lord Arryn said anything?"

 

"He doesn't know yet, unless of course your father has told him by now. The message was intended for your father's eyes alone."

 

Lysa's heart thudded. "Did he offer Lord Arryn a pardon too?"

 

Uncle Brynden frowned at her. "Not in so many words, but if he's willing to let Robert live, the gods know he ought to spare Lord Arryn too. There have been more than enough lords killed in his father's name; I can't think he's interested in continuing that. Don't worry for your husband, sweetling. He'll survive, one way or the other." Lysa didn't know what to say to that, and after a moment or two, Uncle Brynden slung one arm around her shoulders. "How are you, Lysa? I know he's not the man you would have chosen for yourself."

 

"He's..." Lysa swallowed, "I'm still getting used to it."

 

"Your lord father should have given you more time. It's what I told him, but he insisted."

 

"He tried to force you to marry once." They all knew the story of Father and Uncle Brynden's quarrel, back when Mother was still alive. It had been Lady Minisa who had convinced the two of them to make peace, but they had never been close again. "That didn't work."

 

Uncle Brynden chuckled. "No, it did not, and he's held it over my head ever since. Even when I was arguing with him earlier about the prince's offer, he brought up poor Bethany Redwyne. Never mind that she's been married to Lord Rowan for nigh on ten years now." They stood silent for a few more moments before he spoke again. "Why was he so insistent, Lysa? This was the first I'd heard about a betrothal for you since before Jaime Lannister joined the Kingsguar--and you were married within days."

 

"Father didn't say?" Lysa asked slowly.

 

"He said it was none of my concern, that he was your father and you'd do as you were bid." His arm tightened around her shoulders. "What happened, sweetling?" Tears pricked at Lysa's eyes and she leant against him. "You can tell me, you know."

 

"You'll think I'm horrible," she whispered.

 

Uncle Brynden placed both of his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. "I could never think that of you, Lysa. No matter what."

 

The whole story spilled out of her in a rush, tears streaming down her face. Only when she reached her wedding night was she able to look into Uncle Brynden's eyes and realise that he was staring at her. "Gods have mercy, child."

 

"I'm just as bad as Lyanna Stark, aren't I?" she asked, sniffling.

 

He only hugged her close and said again, "Gods have mercy, child. I'm so very sorry for all of it."

 

For the first time since all of it had started, since she'd lain with Petyr all those months ago, Lysa felt emptied. It was as though a weight had lifted from her heart. "Will you come with me to the sept, Uncle Brynden? I'd like to pray for my son."

 

"Of course, sweetling. We'll go together."

 

***

 

The next morning, a commotion awakened Lysa and she realised she was alone in the bed. As she emerged from the corridor into the great hall, she found herself surrounded by armed men, shouting back and forth and charging past her as though she wasn't even there. She found her father and Uncle Brynden on the dais, her father seated in his chair, wrapped in blankets, with Maester Kym beside him. Uncle Brynden wore his customary black armour with a surcoat of Tully blue, black gauntlets tucked into his belt.

 

"What's going on?" asked Lysa, hating the shrillness in her voice.

 

"Our men depart for the Trident," said her father. "The castellan at Sow's Horn sent word to Ser Wilis Wode that the royal army has crossed into the Riverlands. The end of this war may finally be upon us, gods willing."

 

"Gods willing," Lysa echoed. "Where is Lord Arryn?"

 

Before her father could answer, the unmistakeable voice of Robert Baratheon boomed across the great hall. "Silence, all of you!"

 

He stood a head taller than the men surrounding him; even Lord Arryn scarcely came up to his shoulder as he stepped forward.

 

"My lords," he called out, "we ride to battle against a madman and a tyrant who thirsts for our blood and for those we hold dear. You men of the Riverlands, you may wonder why you should risk your lives to rise against the Iron Throne, but I swear to you that we will prevail! We will throw off the yoke of the dragonkings and their tainted blood, and we will crown a man whose courage should by now stand beyond question. The thrice-victor of Summerhall and Stoney Sept, descended from the Storm Kings of old, I give you Robert, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!"

 

The hall erupted in shouts and cheers. Lysa watched as Robert--King Robert, she reminded herself, though the title still felt strange--wrapped Lord Arryn in a bear hug and clapped the solemn Lord Stark on the shoulder.

 

"Onward to the Trident, my lords!" shouted the newly named king. "Let's bring the Conqueror's line to a crashing end and take back what's ours! Vengeance for our dead and for my fair lady Lyanna!"

 

It was well into the afternoon before the last of the army's supply train passed through Riverrun's gates. Lysa had long since bid farewell to her husband, speaking words by rote for the Warrior's blessing upon them and their cause. Then she watched as Catelyn's young husband bent over her hand and whispered something to her that made her sister's cheeks flush pink.

 

"What did he say?" she asked as they watched their husbands ride forth from the gates onto the River Road.

 

Catelyn squeezed her hand. "He hopes to hear soon of an heir for Winterfell. And I hope I don't disappoint him."

 

Riverrun was eerily quiet after the army's departure. All of the castle's levies had been drained, leaving only a skeleton guard in place. When Edmure asked their father, Lord Hoster had replied only that if their side lost, no number of guards here at Riverrun would make a difference.

 

The days grew warmer, and Lysa even began to see buds on the trees in the godswood. It had been long enough since the last summer that she almost didn't remember what it felt like. One day, she and Catelyn were walking along the gravel paths, arm in arm, when her sister came to a halt before the carved weirwood.

 

"Lysa," murmured Catelyn so softly that Lysa could barely hear her. "It's been more than long enough and my moon blood hasn't come."

 

"It hasn't?" whispered Lysa. Hers had been unpredictable since drinking Maester Kym's potion, but it occurred to her that the last time had also been before the wedding.

 

Catelyn shook her head. "It might not mean anything. But what if...?"

 

"A baby, Cat. Maybe even an heir for Lord Stark."

 

"Or a dead traitor's son," said Catelyn, bitterness twisting the words, "depending on who wins."

 

She couldn't have known Lysa's secret prayers. Mother forgive me. I know he's a good man. I know it. But I just can't bear the thought of him touching me. I can't stand it. And the look in his eyes the morning after, cold and disappointed. It was her father's fault for forcing them to marry, for handing her over to Jon Arryn like a prize cow.

 

But if she were to have a child--a boy--he might never need to touch her again. It was that thought emboldening her as she slipped her arm around Catelyn. "Mine hasn't come either," she admitted.

 

"Oh, Lysa." Catelyn's face brightened instantly. "How wonderful that would be if both of us were to have boys."

 

"They'd be the best of friends," Lysa replied, "just like your husband and Lord Robert. Brothers more than cousins, the heirs to Winterfell and the Eyrie. Can you imagine?"

 

A week later, Lysa awakened to a gush of blood between her legs. Catelyn helped her clean up in silence and held her while she cried, though she would never have guessed the true reason for Lysa's tears. Neither told their father what had happened; there were some secrets best kept between them.

 

Still no word came from the Trident. Lord Arryn had written to Lord Hoster some weeks past to announce their arrival, but there had been nothing since. Then a dust-covered messenger rode through the gates bearing a letter for Lord Hoster, which he studied for several moments, a frown deep between his brows.

 

"What's happened, Father?" Edmure finally asked. "Did we win?"

 

Lord Hoster shook his head. "It isn't from your uncle. There is an army marching east along the Gold Road. It must be from Casterly Rock, but I knew nothing of it, nor did anyone else. Whatever Lord Tywin has planned, he's kept it to himself long enough."

 

He barked an order at one of Maester Kym's apprentices to have a message sent forthwith to Uncle Brynden at the Trident. Lysa went up to the battlements to watch as the raven shot into the sky from the rookery. When she looked out at the road, she saw a single horseman charging toward the castle, bearing the black-and-gold banner of House Baratheon.

 

Even before the shout went up from the assembled guardsmen, she knew.

 

"All hail King Robert, first of his Name!"

 

The war was over.