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Chapter Text

Eddard

The Trident would run red come the morrow. Eddard Stark had no doubt of that. The only question was how many men would water its shallows with their blood.

He stood upon a low rise above the rebel camp, cloak stirring in the chill spring wind, and watched his men make ready. Some sharpened blades until sparks leapt like fireflies in the dusk. Others bent to their bowstrings or whispered to their gods before the cooking fires. Horses stamped and snorted, sensing the storm to come. All around him, the banners of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands lifted and dipped, four great houses bound together by grief and vengeance.

How many would be ash on the wind by tomorrow?

He thought of Brandon then. Of his brother’s wild laughter, quick temper, reckless courage. He tried to picture what Brandon had seen in the throne room that day — his father burning, the air thick with smoke and screams, the stench of charred flesh in his nose. Did he rage? Did he pray? Did he despair? Eddard would never know. The memory was his own kind of torment, that unanswered question gnawing like a rat in his belly.

Below, the banners cracked in the wind: a crowned stag on gold, a direwolf on grey, a falcon in flight, a leaping trout. His eyes lingered on the trout. Riverrun’s colors. His wife’s colors.

Catelyn. She was meant for Brandon, not him. Yet she shared his bed now, carried his child beneath her heart. A son, perhaps. Or a daughter. What legacy was he leaving them? Fear coiled in him, cold and sharp. Tomorrow he might die upon the riverbank, and his babe would never know him. He could picture a girl with black hair, a boy with his mother’s eyes, left fatherless before they had even drawn breath.

Benjen would raise them, if it came to that. Benjen, who had always dreamed of the Wall, of black cloaks and vows and the endless cold. The thought of his younger brother chained to Winterfell’s duties instead of ranging free filled Ned with a deep, quiet dread. He trusted Benjen, yes, but he did not want him to bear the weight of Lord Stark before his time. It was Brandon’s burden once, now his, and he would not see it passed again so soon.

He clenched his jaw, forcing down the tide of doubt. A Stark could not falter, not before battle.

A shadow loomed beside him. “My lord,” said Walder, broad-shouldered and thick through the arms, his voice a low rumble.

Walder — the Giant of the north. He had been with them all his life, raised within Winterfell’s walls, sparred beside him, Brandon and Benjen in the yard under watchful eye. When the banners were called, Walder was among the first to step forward.

Eddard turned. “What is it?”

“A rider has come from the royal host,” Walder said. His eyes held no fear. “He bears a white banner.”

Ned fell into step beside Walder as they descended the rise. The camp stretched wide before them, a sprawl of canvas and smoke and restless men. Blacksmiths hammered at dented mail and bent spearheads, the ring of iron sharp as bells. Squires ran with buckets, fetching water from the river. Hounds barked, horses whickered, and the air was thick with the mingled smells of sweat, leather, and cooking meat.

Women moved through it all — camp followers, washerwomen, girls with painted mouths and kohl-darkened eyes who laughed too loudly as they clung to soldiers’ arms. They clustered thickest around the great tent at the camp’s heart, where the crowned stag of House Baratheon flew high against the dusk.

At the sight of them, Ned’s thoughts went to Lyanna. Where was she now? What had she endured? He tried not to picture her in some dark chamber, frightened and alone. He had promised Brandon he would keep her safe, and he had failed.

Robert had not spoken of her in weeks. Since the Battle of the Bells he had taken to passing his nights with a different woman near every night, as if wine and flesh could quench the fire in him. Ned remembered the look in Walder’s eyes the first time he had seen it — disappointment, plain as day.

Walder had grown with them, in Winterfell’s halls and yards. He had known Lyanna’s temper, her laughter, her love of horses, as well as Ned did. He had known Brandon’s swagger and Benjen’s boyish jests. Of them all, Walder had always been the truest, and his silence on Robert’s bed-hopping spoke louder than any rebuke.

It struck him then with bitter weight — it was he who had urged his father to accept the Baratheon match. He who had spoken for Robert, sworn he would be a good husband to Lyanna. He had thought he was giving his sister joy, and his house a strong ally. Yet Robert’s love burned as hot and wild as his temper, and just as quick to turn to ash.

They reached the Baratheon pavilion at last, its hide walls looming high, the golden stag rippling proud above it. Men-at-arms lounged at the entrance, ale cups in hand, but straightened when they saw him approach.

“Wait for me here,” Eddard told Walder quietly.

His old friend inclined his head and took his place by the door, hand resting on the hilt of his axes. Eddard drew a long breath, pushed past the tent flap, and stepped inside.

The air inside the pavilion was thick with torch smoke and fury.

Robert paced like a caged bull, greathammer in hand, his face red with rage. Each time he turned, the stag on his breastplate caught the firelight and flashed. In the center of the tent a man knelt, hands bound, his face swollen and bloody. His torn surcoat still bore the three-headed dragon, though crusted with mud and blood.

Jon Arryn was seated to one side, grave and composed. Hoster Tully stood with arms crossed, his mouth a thin hard line.

“Ned,” Jon said, rising first. His pale eyes softened. “I am glad you came.”

“Lord Stark,” Hoster added stiffly, inclining his head.

Ned’s gaze moved to the bruised prisoner. “What is this?”

“What is this?” Robert thundered, whirling toward him. Spittle flew with his words. “This, Ned, is Rhaegar’s insult. He thinks us fools, does he? That we’ll trot along like good dogs to his trap? He dares send me—me—a message of peace, after he’s stolen your sister, after he’s murdered your kin? By the gods, I should have his envoy flayed!”

The man stirred weakly, but Robert’s roar drowned him out.

Jon raised a hand. “He is an envoy, Robert. He came under a white banner. We are bound to hear him.”

“Hear him?” Robert barked a laugh. “I heard enough. A snake’s hiss is all it was.”

Hoster’s voice was low, but firm. “He claims the prince wishes a parley, Lord Stark. To resolve this without battle.”

Ned looked to the prisoner. “Is that so?”

The man’s lips moved, but the sound was lost beneath Robert’s curses.

“Quiet,” Ned said.

Robert rounded on him, chest heaving. “You cannot mean to—”

“Quiet.” Ned’s voice was harder this time, cold as ice on steel.

For a long moment Robert glared at him, nostrils flared. At last he dropped his gaze and began to mutter under his breath, pacing slower, the hammer dragging behind him.

The envoy lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut, but the other fixed on Ned. His words came hoarse, but clear now. “My prince bid me place this in your hands, Lord Stark.”

He twisted, wincing, and drew a folded parchment from his boot. His fingers shook as he held it out.

Ned took it. The seal was unbroken, the vellum damp with sweat and dirt, but the hand was Lyanna’s. He knew it at once — the sharp, hurried strokes, the half-formed loops she made when she rushed her quill. His breath caught.

Forgive me, Ned, she had written. I never meant for this. Father, Brandon… gods forgive me…

Ned’s throat closed. The words swam before his eyes. His sister’s hand. His sister’s voice.

He forced himself to look up. “What does the prince want?”

“The same,” Jon Arryn said. His voice was steady, calm. “A meeting. He wishes to speak with us, here, before swords are crossed. He asks we come with a handful only, to spare needless bloodshed.”

Robert barked another laugh, harsh and bitter. “Blood has been spilled already! Rickard. Brandon. Thousands dead! And now he would have us believe his honeyed tongue? He’s a liar, a thief, a rapist. I’ll not hear him.”

Hoster gave a curt nod. “It is too late for parley. The die is cast.”

Jon spread his hands. “If there is a chance — one chance — to avoid a slaughter on the morrow, should we not hear it? Let him speak, Robert. We need not yield. We need only listen.”

“Listen?” Robert thundered. “To him? I’ll give him his answer in steel. That’s all he deserves.”

Ned kept his eyes on the envoy. “What else did your prince bid you say?”

The man’s breath rattled in his chest. “Only… that I was to give the letter to Lord Stark, and beg him for parley.”

The tent was silent for a moment, save for Robert’s heavy breathing.

Ned closed his fist around the letter. “Then I will hear him.”

Jon let out a slow breath, as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Wise, Ned. Wise.”

“You’ll hear him?” Robert’s face darkened. “Seven hells, Ned, do you mean to betray your sister, your father, your brother?!”

Ned met his fury with quiet steel. “I mean to hear him. Nothing more.”

Robert’s hammer crashed down on the table, splitting wood with a crack that made men start. “Damn you all! Damn him, and damn his lies. Go then, hear your silver prince. When he stabs you in the back, don’t say Robert Baratheon didn’t warn you.”

He shoved past them and stormed out into the night, his curses echoing after him.

Ned stood rooted, Lyanna’s words trembling in his hand.

The Trident whispered below them, dark and swollen with spring melt, its waters silvered by the moon. They stood upon a low ridge above the shallows, four lords and a knot of chosen men. The night smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and every sound seemed loud in the stillness — the creak of leather, the shifting of mail, the faint stamp of a restless horse.

Ned’s hand lay on the hilt of his sword, though he had no wish to draw it. Around them, the guards of each house waited in a taut silence: Arryn men with their falcon badges, trout of Riverrun, crowned stags, and his own grey direwolves. Every face was grim. This was no feast hall nor tilt-yard — if peace failed, the ridge would be their grave.

Robert had not spoken since they left camp, save to curse under his breath. He paced at the edge, great hammer across his shoulders, muttering like a man with a fever. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding in his beard.

Jon Arryn stood still and solemn, eyes fixed on the river. He had the air of a man who bore a burden too heavy for his frame, yet would not set it down. Hoster Tully shifted uneasily beside him, broad shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow.

Ned glanced back once. Walder stood a step behind them, tall and broad as an oak, his double-bladed axe in hand. Beside him was Ser Vardis Egen, falcon bright upon his surcoat, steel catching moonlight. Walder’s presence steadied Ned’s heart. If treachery came, Walder would die before he let harm touch a Stark.

Robert broke the silence at last. “If we die tonight,” he said darkly, “at least know I warned you. You’ll have only yourselves to curse.”

Hoster gave a short snort. “Parley is parley. The gods themselves watch over such a meeting. No prince would dare break faith beneath their eyes.”

Ned knew well enough that those words were not meant for Robert, or for him. They were meant for Hoster himself.

The night air stirred, carrying the distant clop of hooves. Jon raised a hand. “They are here.”

Ned turned his gaze down the slope. Out of the darkness came three riders only, no more. The moon glimmered upon bright steel and silver hair. At their head rode Prince Rhaegar, tall in the saddle, his cloak pale as starlight, long hair flowing loose about his shoulders. To his right rode Ser Barristan Selmy in white, his face solemn, his honor plain as the sword at his hip. To his left, Prince Lewyn Martell, lean and sharp-eyed, sun-and-spear upon his surcoat.

Three against their score. No banners, no columns of men lurking in the shadows.

Ned’s hand eased on his belt. If this was a trap, it was a poor one.

For a long moment there was only the river’s murmur and the breathing of horses. Steel gleamed in the moonlight, white and silver and grey. No man moved, no word was spoken.

At last the prince broke the silence. His voice was low, and weary. “I did not think you would come.”

Robert grunted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl. Ned felt the heat of his friend’s hate beside him, raw as a wound.

Before Robert could loose his tongue, before Jon Arryn could speak reason, Ned stepped forward. The letter was heavy in his hand. He held it out.

“Do you know the words of this?”

Rhaegar’s pale eyes flicked to the parchment, then back to Ned. “No. They are for you, Lord Stark, and no other. Lyanna made that plain.”

At the name, Robert stiffened as if struck. “You dare speak her name?” His voice was a roar that shook the night. “After what you did? After the shame you heaped upon her?”

The prince did not flinch. Only sorrow passed across his face. “I grieve for you, cousin. But she did not love you.”

Robert’s hammer lifted a finger’s breadth, his shoulders bunching. Ned saw it in his eyes — he meant to charge, meant to crack the prince’s skull and damn the parley.

“Robert,” Ned cut in sharply. His voice was harder than he meant. He forced it steady. “The letter speaks of choice.” He turned to the prince. “Of her going with you by her will. She says she left word for Brandon at Riverrun.”

A sharp breath from Jon. A muttered curse from Hoster.

“No such letter was found,” Hoster said gruffly. “When Lyanna was gone, Brandon swore you had stolen her. He rode to King’s Landing demanding her back.”

Rhaegar turned to him, calm as still water. “And how did Brandon know where she had gone? Who told him? Did he see her taken?”

Hoster’s mouth worked soundlessly. “He—he never said. Only that men had seen your banners—Targaryen banners—near Riverrun.”

“A misunderstanding, then.” The prince’s tone was bitter as ash. “And from it a fire that has near consumed the realm.”

Jon Arryn’s voice was grave. “Enough riddles, Your Grace. You asked for this meeting. What do you mean by it?”

Rhaegar drew himself straight in the saddle. His hair shone silver-white in the moonlight, his face as solemn as any statue. “I mean to end this. I mean to stop the killing. Justice must be done, but not by slaughtering thousands more.”

Robert’s roar cut across his words. “Justice? Justice was lost the day you stole and raped my betrothed!”

The words rang, echoing, hateful. Yet the prince did not answer anger with anger. His violet eyes rested on Robert with a sorrow that seemed almost like pity.

Ned’s fingers clenched tight about the letter. “Is it true?” he asked hoarsely. “What she wrote?”

“I do not know what she wrote,” said Rhaegar, “but they are her words, not mine. Of that I swear.”

Ned closed his eyes. He saw Lyanna in the godswood at Winterfell, flowers in her hair. He saw Brandon laughing in the yard, Benjen chasing after them, their father’s proud, stern face. All gone, or near enough. He opened his eyes again. “Then what is it you ask of us?”

The prince’s gaze did not waver. “That you stand with me. That you end this war not by drowning the Trident in blood, but by deposing the tyrant who set it alight. I grieve for Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark, and I swear to you, Lord Stark, my father will answer for it. He will be brought to justice.”

“Justice?” Ned’s voice was iron. “There is but one justice for Aerys Targaryen.”

Barristan Selmy shifted in his saddle, as if struck, but Prince Lewyn did not stir.

Rhaegar inclined his head. “Aye. And the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But I am no kinslayer, Lord Stark.”

Ned found himself nodding.

Jon Arryn’s question cut the silence. “And us? We who raised banners in rebellion, who defied the Iron Throne?”

Rhaegar’s gaze swept them. “When I am crowned, there will be pardons. You will keep your lands, your titles, your honor. My father is not fit to rule. He should have been curbed long ago. I have come too late to that truth, but I have come nonetheless.”

Ned marked the flicker of shock on Ser Barristan’s face.

“Join me now,” the prince said, “and we march together to King’s Landing. To end this. To restore peace.”

“Peace?” Robert spat the word. “With a liar, a thief, a—” His curse choked off, but his fury did not. “You’ll never have my trust, Targaryen. Seven hells take you!”

Ser Lewyn’s hand drifted to his sword, Barristan’s jaw clenched, but Rhaegar only looked on in silence.

Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully exchanged glances. Their faces were grave, thoughtful.

Ned looked at them all — at Robert’s seething rage, at Jon’s wary hope, at Hoster’s weariness, at the silver prince who stood before them with Lyanna’s ghost between them. He looked down at the letter again, the words that cut his heart open.

He lifted his head. “Aye.” He spoke. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” A pause. “Aerys must die.”

The prince inclined his head slowly. “Then we are agreed.”

And there, beneath the moon and the eyes of gods and men, the rebel lords and the prince who would be king came to a perilous understanding.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

The torches guttered low in the prince’s pavilion, their smoke clinging to the canvas roof, heavy as the silence that lay between them.

Rhaegar sat at the edge of the war table, fingers resting on a rolled map of the Trident, his eyes unfocused. The riverlands stretched inked and precise across the vellum, but all he could see was Lyanna’s hand — the hurried strokes of her letter, the plea in her words. He had placed that burden in Stark’s hands, and Stark had chosen. Blood had been spared tonight, but the harder path still lay before them.

Barristan Selmy stood rigid by the tent pole, his white cloak streaked with dust, his gauntlets clutched tight at his side. He was a man of forty, broad-shouldered, hair thinning, his face square and plain as honesty itself. Lewyn Martell was his opposite — lean, dark, restless, pacing like a cat, the golden spear on his surcoat glinting each time he turned.

It was Ser Barristan who broke the silence at last. His voice was low, but there was steel in it.
“I am sworn to the crown. To the Iron Throne. I am sworn to defend it — and the king who sits upon it. If I do less, I am forsworn.”

The words cut like a blade. Duty had always been Selmy’s shield, his prison both.

Rhaegar lifted his gaze. “It is over, Ser Barristan.” His voice was soft, almost sorrowful. “The crown you speak of is no longer Aerys’s to bear. It has rotted in his hands. Tonight the lords of half the realm bent their will to me, not him. The tide has turned. You must choose where you stand.”

Selmy’s jaw tightened. “My vows are not so easily set aside. I swore before gods and men to guard him.”

“And so did Gerold,” Rhaegar said. “And Arthur. And Oswell. And Prince Lewyn beside you. All men of the Kingsguard, all sworn as you are. They have chosen, Ser. Not lightly, not gladly, but they chose. They saw what my father had become.”

Lewyn paused in his pacing, arms crossed. “He is not fit to rule, Barristan. The smallfolk whisper it. The lords cry it openly. Do you think us traitors for seeing the truth?”

Selmy said nothing, but his silence was taut, aching.

Rhaegar rose to his feet, tall and pale in the torchlight, his silver hair falling loose about his shoulders. There was no anger in him, only a grave weariness. “I do not command your heart, Ser Barristan. I will not condemn you for clinging to your vows. But the realm bleeds, and it will bleed worse if you stand blind. Choose as you will. Only choose wisely.”

He let the words hang in the smoky air. He would not threaten Selmy — that was his father’s way, not his. He would not break the man, though he needed him.

At last Barristan bent the knee. Slowly, stiffly, but with all the solemnity of a knight who had weighed honor in his heart. “Then I shall serve you, my King,” he said. “Until my last breath. May the gods forgive me.”

A breath Rhaegar had not known he held escaped him. One more weight shifted, one more stone set in place. “Rise then, Ser Barristan Selmy, and stand with us. I will not squander your oath.”

Selmy stood, and in that moment Rhaegar let his gaze drift to the tent flap, where the night wind whispered. Beyond those walls lay lords who had once raised banners against him, and who would now ride at his side. Beyond lay King’s Landing, and the father who still wore the crown.

A bloody battle had been averted, but the hardest part still remained. Blood would be spilled yet — not on the Trident, but in the streets of the city he had once called home.

“Tomorrow the ravens fly,” Rhaegar said quietly, more to himself than to the others. “The realm will know its king.”

The smoke reached them long before the gates.

From the ridge above the city, Rhaegar reined in his horse and looked down on the capital. King’s Landing sprawled like a wound upon the shore — red roofs and white walls veiled by a choking pall of black. The gates stood open, the Gold Cloaks scattered. Above the walls, lions roared crimson and gold, not dragons.

At his side, Eddard Stark drew a sharp breath through his teeth. Jon Arryn’s face was unreadable, his mouth set in a hard line. Lord Hoster muttered an oath beneath his breath.

Rhaegar said nothing. The taste of ash was already in his mouth.

They rode through streets littered with corpses. Some wore gold, some wore rags, all were equally still. Dogs skulked among them, tearing at entrails. Smallfolk darted into shadows at the sight of banners, eyes wide, lips bloodied from screaming.

This was no liberation. It was a sack.

When they came to the Lannister camp outside the shattered Gate of the Gods, Tywin Lannister was waiting. He stood before his tent, tall and pale, his armor chased with gold. Behind him the lion banners stirred in the night wind, proud and merciless. Ser Kevan at his shoulder, red cloaks all around.

Rhaegar dismounted slowly, composed, though fury burned in his chest. He strode forward with Eddard, Jon, and Hoster beside him.

“My King, my lords,” Tywin said, bowing the barest fraction. “You come to your city in good hour. It is taken in your name. The reign of Aerys is ended. Justice has been done for Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark.”

His voice was smooth as still water. But Rhaegar heard the lie beneath it — as did they all.

Robert would have spat in the man’s face. Ned Stark’s grey eyes already blazed. “Justice?” the wolf said, his voice low, dangerous. “You call this justice? Why the sack, then? Why the butcher’s work?”

Tywin’s face did not move. “I sent my men to secure the gates and hold the city for its rightful king. If some exceeded my orders…” He lifted one shoulder. “I cannot answer for the failings of every sellsword and footman. The city is yours, my king. Whole and unbroken.”

“Whole?” Stark took a step forward. “There are children in those gutters. Women dragged screaming from their homes. If this is whole—”

Rhaegar raised a hand, cutting him off. His voice was calm, but it cost him. “Enough. Lord Tywin, I thank you. The crown has long rested on a broken brow. You have lent your strength to set it right. For that, the realm will remember.”

Eddard turned to him, shocked. Jon Arryn’s eyes narrowed. Hoster Tully muttered again under his breath. But Rhaegar held Tywin’s pale gaze and did not look away.

“The time of fear is ended,” Rhaegar said. “My father ruled by terror. I will not. If this city is to be mine, it will be by understanding, not by fire and sword. Call back your men, Lord Tywin. Rein them in. No more killing.”

For the first time, the lion lord’s mouth curved faintly, though it was no smile. “I shall try, Your Grace. Yet I am not accountable for every man who bore arms today. I told them only to secure the city in your name.”

A lie. They all heard it. But none could name it, not here, not now.

“Then see it done,” Rhaegar said. His voice was colder now, sharp with command.

Tywin inclined his head. “As you will, my king.”

Behind him, the red cloaks stirred like carrion birds.

Rhaegar turned away. Already, the stench of smoke and blood clung to his cloak, to his hair, to his very skin. Victory had come, but it reeked of betrayal.

Eddard’s voice was iron beside him. “I go to the Red Keep. To see justice done.”

Rhaegar looked at him for a long moment. He thought of Aerys — gaunt, mad, reeking of wildfire, clinging to his throne with talons of fire and blood. A father, still. Yet no father.

At last he nodded. “Do what you must, Lord Stark.”

The wolf gave a short nod and strode away, his men following. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully moved to give orders, their banners spreading through the streets to restore order where lions had left only ruin.

Rhaegar remained a moment longer, alone before the lion’s tent. Tywin watched him with unreadable eyes.

The prince’s hands clenched at his sides. He had spared the realm one battle, but in so doing he had opened the gates to another kind of ruin.

The Trident’s blood had been stayed. King’s Landing’s could not.

The city stank of smoke and blood.

Rhaegar moved through King’s Landing with Barristan Lewyn and Jonothor at his side, their white cloaks greyed with soot. The streets were narrow canyons of ruin: shutters torn from their hinges, doorways blackened from fire, the cobblestones slick with wine and blood alike. The cries of the smallfolk echoed from every alley — weeping women clutching babes to their breasts, men groaning where they bled in the gutters, children staring hollow-eyed at ruin that would never leave them.

This was Tywin’s peace.

Yet here and there, another sight: men in trout and falcon cloaks, wolves and stags sewn on their surcoats, bending to aid the folk of the city. A Stark spearman lifted a boy from the rubble of a burned shop. An Arryn knight bound the bleeding stump of a baker’s hand. Riverland archers drove off looters, while Baratheon men-at-arms carried buckets from the wells.

At a crossroads, a knot of red-cloaked lions were dragged in chains, their swords cast aside. Stark men guarded them with grim faces, while an Arryn sergeant barked orders. Some Lannisters had yielded their weapons willingly, sullen but compliant. Others had chosen defiance and lay in the dirt, still as stone, crimson cloaks soaking redder still.

Rhaegar slowed as he passed, his violet eyes sweeping over them. He had told Lord Tywin the killing must end. He had sworn it would. And still the gods wept in these streets.

“Your Grace,” Barristan murmured, his voice taut with anger. “This is not the justice you promised them.”

Rhaegar’s hand curled into a fist. “No,” he said softly. “This is the ruin my father made, and Tywin has claimed. We will mend it. We must.”

Lewyn Martell gave a bitter snort. “If the lions will let you.”

No more words were spoken as they climbed the Hill of Visenya. The Red Keep loomed black against the smoke, its towers pricking the night sky. The great bronze doors stood open. They passed through echoing halls, where the tapestries stank of smoke and the marble floors bore bloody footprints. Servants peered from shadows, eyes wide, lips trembling, as if still expecting fire to pour from the walls.

Up, through corridors and galleries, until at last they reached the doors of the throne room.

The sight within was one Rhaegar knew would never leave him.

His father knelt hunched at the foot of the Iron Throne, his crown askew, his robes stained dark with sweat and piss. The Mad King’s hair hung lank about his face, his long nails clawing at the stone. He muttered to himself, eyes rolling white, a broken man clutching at a chair of knives he no longer ruled.

Before him stood Eddard Stark, grey cloak stained with dust and blood, his hand upon the pommel of his great valyrian sword. Stark’s men ringed the room, solemn and cold. To one side, Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully stood in silence, their eyes fixed on the fallen king.

And between them all, at the foot of the throne, was Jaime Lannister. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, his sword still red. At his feet sprawled one body — Lord Rossart, the head of the pyromancers. Smoke still curled from the dead man’s robes.

Jaime looked up at them, pale, his boy’s face tight with something caught between defiance and despair.

Rhaegar’s breath caught in his throat. His father, kneeling. His sworn Kingsguard, blade wet. The throne looming above it all like a cruel god.

Lewyn muttered a curse. Barristan took a sharp step forward, cloak flaring, but halted, his knuckles white around his sword hilt.

Ned Stark’s voice broke the silence. “Your Grace. The city is yours. The reign of Aerys Targaryen is ended.”

For a heartbeat Rhaegar could not speak. His whole life had led him to this chamber, to this moment, and it felt as though the ground had vanished beneath him. He saw not a king but a mad old man brought low, and the ruin of all his house’s pride with him.

At last he forced the words out, soft, hoarse. “So be it.”

Two days had passed since the lion’s banners first flew above the gates, and still the city bled.

From the windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, Rhaegar looked down upon King’s Landing. Its streets swarmed with men of half the realm: grey direwolves and trout of Riverrun, falcons of the Vale, crowned stags, red lions, and his own red dragons. They patrolled together in uneasy peace, driving looters back, dragging corpses to the pyres, carrying water for the wounded. Everywhere the air stank of smoke and ash. Hammers rang where carpenters raised scaffolds to shore up burned walls. The wails of the smallfolk carried through the streets like a dirge.

But one host did not move. The Dornishmen under Prince Lewyn Martell remained sullen and still in their camps, banners furled, their faces closed.

Rhaegar did not blame them.

Elia.

His thoughts returned to her again and again, no matter how he turned from them. She had been found in her chamber, stabbed near a hundred times. Her blood soaked her sheets, the children’s toys scattered about her bed. They had slain her with no mercy, no honor — a princess of Dorne, mother of his children, butchered like common prey.

But of Rhaenys and Aegon there had been no trace. His little girl, barely three, with her mother’s dark eyes and stubborn chin. His son, scarcely a babe, who had only just begun to gurgle laughter at his nurse’s songs. No one had seen them flee, no bodies had been found. They had vanished as if into smoke, swallowed by the sack. That absence gnawed at him more than grief, for it was a wound without end — hope and despair tangled until he could not tell one from the other.

The culprit for Elia’s murder had been seized quickly. Ser Amory Lorch, one of Lord Tywin’s dogs, was found drunk and boasting, the knife still red. He confessed under questioning, claiming a soldier’s rage, and paid with his head before the day was done.

Yet Prince Lewyn had stood in the courtyard as the sword fell, his face carved of stone, and when the blood spattered the sand he had not bowed. “One life for hers?” he had said. “One mangy dog for a princess of Dorne?” His words had carried in the stillness.

And Lord Stark’s grim voice had followed: “This was no man’s rage. This was done at command. The lion lord sent his beast, and the beast obeyed.”

All had looked to Tywin. And Tywin, pale and cold, had said, “I gave no such command. A man cannot answer for every madness among his soldiers.” His eyes had betrayed nothing.

Lewyn spat on the ground. “Then the gods will judge you, Lord of Casterly Rock.”

It was Jon Arryn who broke the storm before it could shatter the hall. “Justice, not vengeance,” he had urged. “The man who struck the blow has paid for it. That is justice. If more guilt is found, let it be tried by proof, not rage.”

Even Hoster Tully had nodded, weary. “The realm is raw with wounds enough. We cannot cut deeper without cause.”

Rhaegar had stood silent, torn between his heart and his crown. Every fiber of him wanted to see Tywin cast down, broken, made to pay for Elia’s blood. But he had no proof save the word of his enemies, and he had sworn that his reign would not be founded on the same madness and terror that had poisoned his father’s.

I will not be Aerys, he told himself, again and again.

So Lorch’s blood had been the coin of vengeance, though it purchased little. Lewyn Martell’s eyes still burned with silent fire, and Eddard Stark’s cold disapproval lay heavy as a blade across the hall.

Now, as Rhaegar turned from the window, the chamber door creaked. A herald bowed low.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice trembling. “They are bringing Aerys… to the throne room. He awaits your judgement.”

The words rang in the still air like the toll of a bell.

Rhaegar drew a slow breath. He felt the weight of a thousand eyes already upon him — Stark’s, Arryn’s, Tully’s, Tywin’s, Lewyn’s, Barristan’s, the eyes of every soldier who had marched and every smallfolk who had wept. He thought of Elia’s body, Lyanna’s letter, his children’s faces, and the madman who had sired him, crouched at the foot of a throne of blades.

“The realm waits,” he said softly.

Barristan shifted beside him, his cloak stirring. “And so does history, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar inclined his head. “Then let us go.”

Together they walked toward the throne room, where justice — and all its perils — awaited.

The great doors of the throne room groaned open, and the hush that fell within was heavy as stone.

Rhaegar entered flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister, white cloaks stirring faintly behind them. Ser Jonothor Darry and Prince Lewyn Martell already stood stationed near the dais, shadows in armor, their eyes fixed ahead. The clatter of their boots echoed like a drumbeat as he crossed the long hall, each step a summons to history.

The lords and ladies of the Crownlands filled the benches nearest the throne, silks dulled by smoke, jewels dim beneath the torches. Beyond them the conquerors of yesterday’s war stood arrayed by banners — grey direwolves, blue falcons, red trout, crowned stags, roaring lions.

Jon Arryn’s face was grave, blank as a mask, yet his pale eyes never left the prince. Beside him Robert Baratheon glowered, fury banked but not quenched, his great shoulders tight as a bowstring. Lord Hoster Tully sat slumped, the weight of war in his tired eyes.

And there — Tywin Lannister. Pale, cold, unreadable, though Rhaegar still saw the shadow of their last meeting. The corpse of Amory Lorch was not yet cold when the lion lord had come to him, smooth-voiced, and spoken of marriage. “The realm craves peace, Your Grace. Stability. Bind it fast, and none shall challenge you.” As though Elia’s blood were a trifle, as though Rhaenys and Aegon were already dust. Rhaegar’s fury had near undone his calm then. He had told Tywin that he was already wed — to Lyanna Stark, and she carried his child. Tywin had shown nothing, his golden mask unbroken, only a polite nod before he turned away. Yet beneath that stone Rhaegar had seen the lion’s teeth gnash. A small victory, but a bitter one.

He forced his eyes onward.

Eddard Stark waited with his men, hard grey eyes fixed upon the dais. At his side loomed his great guard Walder, massive as a mountain, and in his hands he bore the ancient sword of Winterfell. Ice caught the torchlight as they moved, a dark mirror of the justice that must be done.

Rhaegar’s chest tightened. His father’s blood would be spilled by that blade, not by wildfire nor pyromancer’s flame, but by northern steel as old as Winterfell itself. He remembered another man — a father who had once been strong, once been just. He had laughed in Summerhall’s ruins, sung to his mother by the sea, held his son high before the realm. That man was gone, burned to madness by fire and suspicion. All that remained was the wreck who cowered now, waiting for doom.

At last his gaze found her.

His mother, Rhaella, stood draped in black at the western wall, her face pale but resolute. One hand rested on the shoulder of a boy — his brother Viserys, silver hair falling to his shoulders, eyes wide as he watched the hall. They had come the day before, despite the dangers of the voyage, because the queen had insisted. “I will see the end of my husband,” she had said, voice hard as steel. “The end of my brother. My monster.”

Rhaegar’s heart ached with regret. He had not been strong enough to protect her in years past, not from the cruelties of the man who had worn both crown and bedchamber. If today gave her solace, it was poor payment for the suffering she had borne. Yet it was all he could offer.

The Iron Throne loomed above them all, vast and jagged, black steel twisted by dragonfire into cruel beauty. Rhaegar climbed its steps, slow and solemn, each blade a reminder of blood and conquest, each step heavier than the last. When he reached the summit, he turned and lowered himself onto the seat. The cold steel pressed against his back, the shadows of broken swords rising like a crown of thorns about him.

He let his violet eyes sweep the hall once more — over banners, over faces, over the weight of history gathered beneath him.

His voice carried, quiet but unyielding.

“Bring him.”

The great doors of the throne room creaked open, and the sound of chains dragged across the floor.

Two gold cloaks entered first, their faces grim, followed by Ser Alliser Thorne with sword drawn. Between them shuffled the king.

Aerys Targaryen was a ruin of a man. His hair hung in filthy tangles, his nails long and black as claws, his crown askew upon his brow. His robes were stained with piss and sweat, his lips cracked, his eyes wild. He stank of smoke and rot, and his chains rattled as he stumbled forward, muttering to himself.

A murmur rippled through the gathered lords. This was the dragon who had ruled them — this broken husk.

“Bring him forth,” Rhaegar commanded from the Iron Throne. His voice carried, calm and cold, though his heart was iron in his chest.

They dragged Aerys to the foot of the throne and forced him to his knees. His head jerked, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, as though he still sought hidden pyromancers in every corner.

Rhaegar rose, his silver hair gleaming in the torchlight, and his words rang through the chamber.

“Aerys of House Targaryen, second of your Name, called King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. You stand accused of crimes against gods and men alike. You burned Lord Rickard Stark alive. You strangled his son Brandon in your madness. You plotted to bathe this city in wildfire, to burn a hundred thousand innocents rather than yield your crown.”

He looked down at the figure on the stones. “What say you to these charges?”

Aerys lifted his head. His eyes were pits of madness, his mouth twisted with spittle.

“Traitor!” he shrieked. His voice cracked like a whip. “Usurper! You are no son of mine! No dragon! You crawl with wolves, with stags, with falcons — with traitors! I am the dragon! The last true dragon! You are nothing!”

His chains rattled as he thrashed, spitting. “Burn them all! Burn the wolf, burn the lion, burn the city! Fire is mine, fire and blood! You think you are king? You are ashes! You are betrayal! You are—”

“Enough,” Rhaegar said. But Aerys raved on, cursing his son, cursing the realm, cursing even the babe Aegon and the unborn child Lyanna carried.

Ser Jaime Lannister stepped forward, face pale but resolute. “He ordered it,” Jaime said, his voice cutting through the madness. “Rossart and the others. He bid them ignite the caches. I heard it with my own ears. Had I not struck, the city would be ash and bone.”

The lords stirred, a wave of mutters sweeping the hall. Some spat, others paled. Robert Baratheon’s fury burned in his eyes, Tywin Lannister’s face was stone, Jon Arryn’s calm mask unbroken. Ned Stark stood like a carved figure, Ice at his side, his grey eyes locked on the kneeling king.

Rhaegar looked upon his father. Once, he had loved this man, sung for him, sought his approval. Once, he had been a king worthy of songs. Now he was a mad husk, raving before lords and gods alike.

“I prayed,” Rhaegar said softly, “that the gods might grant you mercy, Father. That they might return you to the man you once were. But that mercy has not come.”

He drew a long breath. “I will not be your judge. I will not be your executioner.”

His eyes found Eddard Stark. He gave a single nod.

The wolf stepped forward. Gasps rippled through the hall as Lord Stark drew the greatsword Ice from its scabbard. The blade gleamed pale in the torchlight, long as a man and twice as heavy with history.

Eddard’s voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the hall. “Aerys Targaryen. For the murder of Lord Rickard Stark, my father, and Brandon Stark, my brother. For crimes against gods and men, and for the fire you would have loosed upon the innocent, I, Eddard of House Stark, do sentence you to die — in the name of my house, and in the name of justice.”

The Mad King laughed then, a shriek like tearing iron. “Wolves! Treachery! You are no king, boy! You—”

The words ended in a single, clean stroke. Ice hissed through the air and bit deep. Aerys’s head fell to the stones with a dull thud, crown rolling free, and his body slumped forward in chains.

The hall fell silent.

Rhaegar closed his eyes. In the darkness he saw not the madman, but the father who had once lifted him high, the man who had sung to Rhaella, who had dreamed of dragons reborn. He opened them again to the sight of blood pooling at the foot of the throne.

So ended Aerys Targaryen.

Chapter Text

Jon Arryn

Three months had passed since Aerys's fall, and still King’s Landing smelled of smoke.

From the window of his chambers, Jon Arryn looked down upon the city. Roofs still gaped black and broken, walls pocked by fire, scaffolds clung like spiderwebs to the husks of charred houses. The cries of hammers rang through the air, mingling with the low chant of carts hauling stone from the quarries. In the cellars and vaults below the streets, men in leather and mail worked by torchlight, dragging casks of wildfire out of their hiding places one by one, rolling them with a care that made Jon’s heart stop every time he watched. The city was being rebuilt, aye — but it sat upon a tinderbox all the same.

So too did the realm.

The peace was fragile, brittle as thin glass. The Dornish clamored for Tywin Lannister’s blood, Prince Lewyn chief among them, and Oberyn Martell newly arrived, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, speaking openly of vengeance. Tywin answered not with swords but with silk, pressing his daughter forward like a pawn upon a cyvasse board. Cersei Lannister, golden-haired and cold-eyed, had been summoned to the capital, paraded beneath the Red Keep’s arches for all to see — her father’s answer to grief, his bid to bind the dragon line to his own.

Robert Baratheon brooded in silence, fury banked but never far from breaking. Only Ned Stark’s cold counsel and Jon’s own steady hand kept him from storming back to Storm’s End to raise banners anew. Hoster Tully, weary and wary, watched with a trout’s patience. The king had pardoned them all, named them loyalists now, but Hoster’s eyes betrayed the doubt that gnawed at him — a lord who had once bet everything on rebellion could not forget so quickly.

Mace Tyrell had come as well, fat and florid, riding at the head of his host the moment the Rhaegar ordered the siege of Storm’s End to be lifted. He swore fealty to King Rhaegar with all the pomp of the Reach, but Jon had lived long enough to know true loyalty from show.

And still, three armies lingered outside the city’s walls: the former rebels, the Lannister host, and the remnant of loyalist men who had once marched beneath Aerys’s banners. Rhaegar wore the crown now, but peace held only by a thread. Jon had watched him strive to weave it tighter — soft words to some, sharp command to others — but each day it frayed anew.

For Eddard and Robert, the thread was Lyanna. Rhaegar had told them she was coming to the capital, and so they waited, patient as they could be, though Jon saw the storm in Robert’s eyes. For Tywin, the thread was his daughter. For Mace Tyrell, it was ambition. For the Dornish, it was blood.

And for Jon Arryn, it was Ned Stark himself. He and Hoster remained not for crowns or vengeance, but because they knew what Ned knew: Elia’s death had been no soldier’s rage. The order had come from Casterly Rock, though no man dared speak it aloud without proof save from the Dornish. Yet they knew this much — so long as Tywin Lannister held power in King’s Landing, Lyanna Stark and her child would never be safe.

That was why Ned stayed. Why Hoster stayed. Why Jon stayed. If Lyanna was to be queen, she would need more than a dragon to shield her.

A knock broke his thoughts. Young Ser Vardis Egen bowed low in the doorway, helm beneath his arm. “My lord. The council is gathering.”

Jon sighed, heavy with years. A council, they called it — not the small council of old, but a council of lords, convened to keep the peace. In truth it was a stage, where each lord pressed his claim, his grievance, his place in the new order.

He straightened his robes, smoothed his thinning hair, and set his face to calm. The realm needed a voice of reason, and reason was all he had left.

“Very well,” Jon said. “Let us see if peace still holds.”

The chamber they had taken for a council was long and high, with tall, smoke-dimmed windows and a cracked floor of red and black marble that remembered too much blood. Maps lay pinned to trestles, pebbles and carved stags and trout and lions set upon them to mark hosts and harvest tallies; a clerk’s sand still dusted the corners of ink-stained parchments that spoke of grain, timber, stone, and the slow, perilous work of drawing wildfire from the city’s bones.

Jon Arryn paused a heartbeat on the threshold and marked who was there, and who was not.

Eddard Stark stood straight-backed by one of the tables, grey cloak plain amidst a field of silks, Walder looming a half step behind him like a keep given legs. Hoster Tully had taken a chair, hands folded over his knee, the weariness in his eyes not lessened by weeks of sleep. Mace Tyrell sat broad and florid, a golden rose at his breast, all smiles that could not hide the calculation behind them. Tywin Lannister was a pillar of pale metal and colder pride, still as a statue. Oberyn Martell leaned against a carved pillar, the sun-and-spear bright on his chest, his gaze a drawn blade.

Upon the dais, King Rhaegar stood rather than sat, flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry in white. The Iron Throne’s shadows knifed up the wall behind him. Near his elbow, a hard-faced, red-haired lord waited with the air of a hound at his master’s heel. Jon had known the boy only from letters and rumors in the Vale; the man was Jon Connington now, tempered and scarred by exile and loyalty both.

One absence told its own tale. Robert was not here. Wine or a woman, or both, had claimed him; it hardly mattered which. It was a thin comfort that he had not ridden out to claim Storm’s End by force of temper.

Rhaegar’s voice drew the room to stillness. “My lords,” he said, and for a moment it was not the son who had played a harp at summer tourneys but a king who had watched a city burn and vowed that it would not burn again. “My thanks for coming—again—while the realm mends. The work goes on. The caches beneath the city are fewer each day. We move them carefully, with the best men we have. The pyromancers’ ledgers, what we have of them, match our counts.”

No man cheered that; men who had carried green fire like death in a cask did not cheer. Jon watched heads dip, hands tighten.

“The Crownlands send ravens,” the king went on. “The Stormlands too. The Reach rides beneath rose and grain to our gates, asking where to set their timbers. The Vale holds fast and faithful. From the North and Riverlands, oaths renewed.” His gaze moved lightly past Stark and Tully, not lingering, not seeking thanks. “The realm begins to heal.”

“The realm may,” Oberyn Martell said, and his voice was too smooth to be anything but anger, “but Dorne bleeds still.”

The words cracked the quiet like a lash. All eyes turned.

Tywin Lannister did not so much as blink. “Justice was done,” he said, when the silence had grown taut enough to sing. “The guilty man was taken, he confessed, and he paid with his head.”

Oberyn’s mouth curved into something that was not a smile. “A dog foams and bites and is put down. Dorne knows the difference between a mad dog and the hand that holds its leash.”

Connington’s step forward was sharp, unthinking. “Mind your tongue, prince of Dorne.”

Oberyn’s dark eyes slid to him. “You are new to this hall, Lord Connington. Have you come to fetch your king his words when they run from him?”

Rhaegar lifted a hand before the retort could grow fangs. “Peace,” he said. “I am not blind to Elia’s death. I do not forget.” He set his palms upon the table’s edge, as if to steady the room with his touch. “But I will not condemn a lord for a crime without proof. Words are wind. We will have truth.”

“Truth?” Oberyn’s laugh was a hard, bright thing. “Truth is a girl with a hundred cuts. Truth is a city sacked under lion banners while you spoke of mending. Truth is a blood price unpaid.”

Tywin’s gaze did not waver from the king. “The prince mistakes grief for judgment. If he has accusation, let him bring it in law, not in tavern talk.”

Jon could feel the room drawing tight around those two like a noose. Hoster shifted in his chair; Mace Tyrell’s smile thinned; Barristan’s jaw hardened. Stark stood stone-still, eyes gone flint.

It was Eddard who cleaved the tension, his voice blunt as an axe. “Where is my sister?”

Tywin shifted then, the smallest motion, a ripple beneath plate. Rhaegar breathed once, as if he had expected the blow and readied himself for it.

“She is near,” the king said. “The roads are not kind to women with child, and she is heavy with mine. With our daughter.” A faint, unguarded warmth touched his features and was gone. “Visenya,” he said, as if the name itself steadied him. He drew a ribboned parchment from a leather case and offered it across the table. “Words from Lord Commander Hightower, to set to rest the last of your doubts.”

Walder took the scroll for Stark; Eddard broke the seal and read very quickly, lips compressed. When he let the ribbon fall, breath left him in a low sigh that Jon felt more than heard. The hall did not move. Somewhere a clerk shifted quills.

“Then she comes,” Jon said softly, more to mark the fact in the ledger of his mind than to comfort any man in the room. And when she is here, peace will fray tighter or tear in two.

Rhaegar’s gaze swept them again. “We have lingered between camps long enough. The realm needs hands upon the plough. I have chosen mine.” He turned slightly, not quite inviting, not quite warning. “Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost.”

Connington stepped forward, chin high, loyalty like a light about him.

“Will you serve as Hand of the King?” Rhaegar asked.

“I will,” the red lord said, and his voice did not shake.

“So said.” The king’s hand rested on Connington’s shoulder a heartbeat. Tywin’s face did not change at all; it did not need to for Jon to note the cold that came off him like winter. Mace’s lips parted around a soft, surprised “oh,” quickly kneaded back into a smile. Hoster looked only tired. Eddard did not look away from the king.

Before anyone could applaud or object, a whisper like silk drawn over stone slid into the chamber. “Your Grace,” said Varys, as if he had always been in the shadow between pillars and had only now chosen to be seen. He folded his soft hands and bowed, all humility and powder. “Shall I speak?”

Rhaegar inclined his head.

“My lords,” Varys said, and his voice could have soothed a starving dog, “there has been fear for the king’s children. I feared it too.” He let the pause ripen. “When the lions roared at the gate, I took the precaution of moving the little prince and princess from their chambers. It would have been folly to risk the blood of the realm upon the honor of sellswords.” A small, apologetic smile touched his lips. “They were shipped east under names that mean nothing. They are safe. They are… coming home.”

The sound that left Oberyn Martell was not quite a word. Relief uncoiled in his shoulders like a bow loosing; he bowed his head for an instant and when he raised it his eyes were wet and hard at once. “If this is true,” he said very quietly, “Dorne will repay the debt in loyalty, as we promised.”

Tywin’s stillness took on a different quality then—more statue than man. Jon wondered if the lion lord’s jaw hurt from so much clenching.

“Good,” Rhaegar said. “Then we will welcome them together, as kin and subjects both.” He turned toward Oberyn, and this time did not hide the plea in his tone. “I will have justice, Prince of Dorne. But I will have it by law, not by riot.”

“By law,” Oberyn echoed, the word tasting bitter. He looked to Tywin, and to the king again. “Very well. If law cannot find proof, let the gods see it.” He stepped away from the pillar, into the open of the chamber where all could watch him. “I name Tywin Lannister for what he is in my heart—a murderer by command. I demand trial by combat for the honor of my sister Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne.”

A murmur rose like wind through barley. Men leaned forward. Mace Tyrell’s hand drifted to the pouch at his belt as if coin might steady him. Hoster Tully shut his eyes for a beat and opened them on the same weary world. Eddard’s mouth thinned. Barristan’s hand flexed upon an empty pommel.

Rhaegar did not answer at once. Jon felt the room hang on the single thread of a king’s breath. Trial by combat would spare the king the proving he did not have; it would spill noble blood on stone instead of smallfolk blood in streets; it would bind one grievance and loose five more. Yet to deny it would be to tell Dorne there was no road to justice at all.

Tywin’s voice came before the crown’s. “If I am accused,” he said, “I will not skulk behind parchment and procedure. The gods will have me. Let them judge. I swear by the Seven and by the honor of my house that I commanded no man to kill Elia of Dorne. I accept the prince’s demand.”

Oberyn’s smile returned, all poison and promise. “Then we are agreed.”

“Then so be it,” Rhaegar said, at last, and the word filled the chamber like a bell. His face was very still. “The Faith will witness. The date will be set when the city can bear it—and not before. Until then, there will be no brawls in alleys, no ambushes, no feuds played out beneath my windows. This is my peace. Keep it.”

He looked from lion to sun-and-spear, from wolf to rose, from trout to falcon, and Jon knew he looked as well toward a road from the north that carried a girl he had crowned with winter roses and now called wife, heavy with a child he had already named.

“Is there more?” Rhaegar asked.

There was always more. Grain and stone and ships and oaths. Robert’s absence. Cersei Lannister’s cold beauty and colder purpose. Stannis at Storm’s End counting barrels, unthanked and unasked. The children at sea. The wildfire not yet found.

There was a realm to be held together by hands that did not trust one another.

Jon Arryn drew a slow breath and found his voice. “There is always more, Your Grace,” he said gently. “But this will do for today.”

For today, the thin glass held. Tomorrow, the hammer would lift again.

The Red Keep was quiet in the mornings.

Jon Arryn’s steps echoed on cold stone as he made his way along a sun-dappled corridor. Outside, the gulls cried over Blackwater Bay, and from the city below came the faint, steady rhythm of hammers as King’s Landing mended itself. Yet within these high halls, the air was heavy, like a hold of grain waiting for the first spark.

So much still hung unresolved.

The trial by combat drew closer each day. Dorne demanded blood, the Westerlands refused guilt, and the gods would soon be asked to choose between them. Tywin Lannister had named his champion already: a young knight of monstrous size, Ser Gregor Clegane. The man was near seven feet, all brute strength, said to cleave men in half with a single stroke. Jon had seen him once across a yard and remembered thinking he looked less man than mountain given legs.

For Elia’s cause, it would be Prince Lewyn Martell who bore arms. Oberyn had wanted it — his rage was a storm barely held in check — but by law only the Kingsguard could answer in the name of a royal. Lewyn had claimed that right, though age lined his face. He had the honor of the white cloak, and honor would have to be enough.

Jaime Lannister had offered himself as well, with eager eyes, golden head held high, hand upon his sword as if he longed for the chance. But Rhaegar had put him aside. “You are your father’s son,” the king had said, quiet but final. “It would not be justice to force Lord Tywin to watch his son bleed for his cause.” The boy had smiled and bowed, but there had been something sharp in his eyes that unsettled Jon.

And always, the Dornish muttered, pacing like caged wolves.

It was not the only storm brewing. Robert and Ned — once as close as brothers — now circled each other like men on the edge of a quarrel. Robert still muttered that Rhaegar had tricked them, that Lyanna was not truly wed, that the babe in her belly was not proof enough. “For honor,” he would snarl into his cups, “for love, she should be mine still.” Stark did not shout, but his silence was colder than any words. He spoke only of wanting his sister safe, of getting her north again, far from lion claws and dragon fire. The waiting wore them both raw, and Jon feared what might come when at last Lyanna arrived.

He was deep in these thoughts when a softer sound drew him back. The rustle of skirts.

Queen Rhaella moved slowly along the passage, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. She had not been young in years, yet still her silver hair caught the light, and her eyes, though tired, were clear as amethyst.

Jon inclined his head deeply. “Your Grace.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Lord Arryn. You rise early.”

“Habit of old men,” Jon said gently. His eyes fell to her belly. “The child grows strong. That is plain enough.”

Her smile trembled, softer, almost wistful. “The maesters think it will be a girl.” She brushed her palm over her stomach. “A daughter, at last.” But her voice was quiet, and beneath the words Jon heard weariness.

He slowed his step beside her. “You sound sorrowful, not glad. Is something amiss?”

They paused near an open window where the sea wind stirred the hangings. Rhaella turned her face toward the bay, her expression distant.

“Since Aerys died, I should feel… freed.” Her voice was hushed, shaped by years of silence. “I waited long for this day. I prayed Rhaegar would take the throne, that my sons would be spared their father’s shadow. And now it is done.” She closed her eyes. “But pride is not what I feel. Only sorrow.”

Jon was silent, letting her speak.

“I fear for Viserys,” she whispered at last. “He has not spoken since the wolf lord’s greatsword took his father’s head. He only stares, or clings to me, or glares at his brother when he thinks none see. I fear… I fear Aerys’s poison has taken root in him already. Resentment, bitterness. He is but a boy, yet boys can be bent and broken as easy as twigs.”

Her hands tightened over her belly. “This child will not know that shadow. I swear it. But Viserys—”

Jon laid a hand over his own. “Children are not their fathers, Your Grace. The boy is young yet. Time heals where steel cannot. With Rhaegar’s guidance, and yours, he will find his way. He need not be his father’s son.”

She drew a long breath, shoulders easing a fraction. “I pray you are right, Lord Arryn.”

Jon looked at her, pale and proud and worn thin by years of cruelty, and thought that she deserved peace more than any of them. But peace was a fragile thing in this hall of lions and wolves and vipers.

“Come,” he said softly. “The day is long yet, and there is much to do before the gods make their judgment.”

Together they walked on, the queen slow with her burden, the lord heavy with his own.

The throne room of the Red Keep had never felt so crowded, nor so quiet.

Jon Arryn moved through the press of lords and captains, noting each face, each stance, each whisper cut short at his passing. Pale sunlight spilled through the high windows, catching on steel helms and jeweled brooches, on silks from Oldtown and furs from the North. The banners of half the realm hung limp above their heads — stag and trout, falcon and lion, rose and spear, and above them all, the red dragon, its wings outstretched across the stone like a shadow.

Tywin Lannister stood nearest the throne, his daughter beside him like a blade sheathed in gold. He was expressionless, a pillar of cold iron, but in her face Jon saw no such restraint. Cersei’s green eyes followed every movement with naked loathing. Hatred was an easy thing to read, and she did not hide it as her gaze cut toward the doors.

Mace Tyrell was broader than ever in a doublet of green and gold, his florid cheeks flushed, his fingers heavy with rings. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a man eager to see where the wind would blow, already rehearsing what oath he might give.

Oberyn Martell leaned against a column, arms folded across his chest, the sun-and-spear bright upon his breast. He did not shift, did not blink, but his stare toward Tywin was as sharp as any spear he might carry. Even standing still, Oberyn seemed coiled, waiting for a signal that never came.

Near the dais, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard gleamed like snow. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry flanked the throne, solemn as statues, while Ser Jaime Lannister lounged at their feet, golden hair catching the light. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as though he were eager to use it, though his boy’s smile belied the hunger in his eyes.

Robert Baratheon was there too, though sullen, his great frame hunched as he leaned on his warhammer, thick black beard shadowing a face carved with fury. His eyes never left the doors. Eddard Stark stood close by, straight and silent, his direwolf sigil plain against grey wool. The boy’s gaze was iron, but Jon saw the flicker beneath it: a man about to be a brother again, a son again, after too many graves.

Jon marked all this, all of them, but it was the stillness of the air that pressed on him most. All of King’s Landing seemed to be holding its breath.

Then the doors groaned open.

A hush fell, deeper than silence.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, strode in first. His armor shone like milk-glass in the torchlight, his white cloak sweeping behind him. He came to the foot of the Iron Throne, went down upon one knee, and bowed his head.

“My king,” he said.

Rhaegar’s voice was measured, but it carried to every corner of the hall. “Lord Commander. We welcome you home. Was the journey safe?”

Gerold lifted his head. “It was. And the mission entrusted to me is fulfilled. In the name of the king, it is done.”

A murmur rippled through the lords, but it was cut short when more white cloaks followed: Ser Oswell Whent, grave and broad-shouldered, and then Ser Arthur Dayne, tall as a tower, Dawn slung across his back like pale fire. Between them walked two women.

The first was slim and dark-haired, violet eyes bright beneath long lashes, her skin the olive of Dorne. Ashara Dayne. Her beauty was the sort that stilled halls, though her face was unreadable, proud and distant. Jon’s eyes flicked to Eddard Stark; he caught the brief tightening in the young man’s jaw, but Ned’s gaze did not linger. His eyes were only for the girl beside her.

Lyanna Stark walked with her head high, though her cheeks were pale. Her hair fell dark about her shoulders, and in her arms she bore a bundle swaddled in cloth. Against her breast, a babe stirred and whimpered softly.

The lords and ladies of Westeros leaned forward as one. Murmurs raced along the benches, hissed from lip to lip: the wolf maid, the wolf maid, the wolf maid come again.

Jon’s gaze went to Robert. The stag’s face was stone, carved from anger and disbelief. For months he had denied it, railed at it, called it lies spun by dragons. Now the truth was before him, in flesh and blood, and Jon saw it strike him like a mace-blow. His knuckles whitened on the haft of his hammer.

Ned’s grey eyes brimmed, his lips pressed thin to keep them steady. He looked as though he might break into a run, fall to his knees, seize his sister’s hand and never let go. Walder, the great guard at his back, laid a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

Around them the lords shifted. Hoster Tully leaned forward, weary eyes alight for once; news of his grandson’s birth had already softened him, and now joy made him younger by years. Mace Tyrell whispered to one of his men, his expression eager. Oberyn Martell’s face did not change, though his dark eyes never left the babe.

Tywin Lannister alone was still as death. Yet beside him, his daughter’s mask slipped, and her revulsion was plain. Cersei’s lips curled, her eyes narrowing with loathing as the wolf girl walked proud beneath the dragon banners.

Lyanna came to the foot of the throne and stopped. The Kingsguard stood tall behind her. The whispers died.

All the hall was watching, and the fate of the realm seemed to hang on the breath of a girl with a child in her arms.

The throne room held its breath.

Ned Stark was the first to move. The young lord who had been all ice since Jon first saw him on the Trident broke, for a moment, into something warmer. A brother, not a lord. He crossed to Lyanna, took her hand, and bent his head close.

Jon heard only fragments.

“I’m sorry,” Lyanna whispered, her voice unsteady. “For Father. For Brandon. For all of it.”

Ned’s mouth tightened, but his voice was soft. “What’s done is done. You are here. That is enough.”

She pressed the bundle into his arms. The babe stirred, let out a thin cry. Ned held him as if he were made of glass, his face easing for the first time in months. The lords of the realm leaned forward as one, staring at the wolf with a child in his hands. Jon thought: Grey eyes. Dark hair. Stark to the bone already.

Then Lyanna lifted her chin and walked forward, alone, until she stood before the Iron Throne.

Rhaegar did not sit. He descended a single step, silver hair bright in the torchlight, sorrow and longing written plain upon his face. His voice was low, but it carried.

“Lyanna of Winterfell. My wife. My queen. You have come home—and with our Visenya.”

A shiver ran through the hall. Robert Baratheon’s hands whitened on the haft of his hammer, fury burning behind his eyes. Tywin Lannister’s face was carved from stone, but his daughter’s lips curled, green eyes glittering with hatred.

Lyanna’s answer was steady. “Do not call me queen, Rhaegar. And she is not Visenya.” She turned her gaze to Ned, to the babe in his arms. “There is no Visenya.” She said. “Only Jon”

The words hung like smoke.

Rhaegar flinched, then mastered himself. “I dreamed her,” he said. “The song of ice and fire. Three heads, three children. A daughter to bind the realm—”

“You dreamed,” Lyanna cut in, her voice tired, almost sad. “And for that dream, my father burned. My brother strangled. You chased a song and it brought us nothing but death.”

A ripple of whispers ran through the lords.

Rhaegar’s violet eyes fixed on the child in Ned’s arms. Wonder and pain broke across his face. “My son…”

“Ours,” Lyanna said. “But he will not be yours in the way you mean. I swore an oath before the heart tree. With blood on snow, with my hand on the bark. I swore I would take him north, and never set foot south of the Neck again. I swore he would be a Stark.” Her breath shook, but her eyes did not falter. “I cannot be your queen. I will not.”

The silence was knife-sharp. Robert took a half step forward, grief and rage twisting his face, before Jon’s hand on his arm held him still. Oberyn Martell leaned on his spear and watched with unreadable eyes. Rhaella pressed a hand to the swell of her belly, her lips moving soundlessly, perhaps in prayer.

Rhaegar’s voice broke into the stillness. “Lyanna… if you ever loved me—”

“That is why I ask it,” she said, cutting him with sorrow in her voice. “If you ever loved me, let me go. Let him go. Do not make a song of us. Let me take my son north, and call him by his right name. He has Stark blood, and it will be his shield. He is not a dragon. Look at him.”

Ned angled the child forward. The babe blinked against the torchlight, grey eyes wide, a tiny fist curling in the air.

Rhaegar’s hand twitched, as if he longed to reach for him, but did not. His lips parted, but no words came. At last he whispered: “Jon.”

Lyanna’s voice softened. “Aye. Jon. My son.”

The hall erupted into murmurs — shock, dismay, relief, disbelief. Jon Arryn heard every voice in them: Robert’s broken breath, Tywin’s silence as cold as iron, Mace’s astonished bluster, Hoster’s sigh, Oberyn’s dry laugh.

But above them all was Rhaegar’s silence, the prince who had sought to weave prophecy into crown and sword, and who now stood undone by a girl with a child in her arms.

Jon thought , Peace was won with swords and blood. But here, in this hall, a wolf girl shapes the realm more than any king.

Chapter Text

Eddard

The kingsroad stretched ahead of them, a grey ribbon winding through the green and gold of late summer. Fields rolled to either side, dotted with villages where smallfolk paused at their labors to watch the banners pass. Smoke rose from thatched roofs, oxen lowed in their pens, and beyond it all the woods thickened toward the northern hills, dark with promise of the coming cold.

When Ned looked back, he saw what remained of the host. Not many. The war had ended without the great slaughter that all had feared; the fields of the Trident had not drunk half the blood they might have. Now the men went home in twos and threes, banners rippling once more toward the keeps that had birthed them.

William Dustin rode beneath his red horsehead, long axes crossed behind him as he turned his face toward Barrowton. Beside him flew the mailed iron fist of Deepwood Motte, Lord Glover’s men eager for the sea winds of the northern coast. The rest had already scattered — Manderly to White Harbor, Bolton to the Dreadfort. Only a handful remained to ride with him as far as Winterfell, and already the host felt thinner, smaller, the war shrinking into memory as the road unspooled beneath their hooves.

They had won. Without a great battle, without rivers choked with corpses or fields burned black. Only a few clashes, bloody enough for those who fell, but not the ruin that war so often left. The gods were kind, Ned thought, though he had little trust in the mercy of gods.

To his right, Walder rode with his long axe across his saddle, a shadow cast in iron. He kept close to the litter where Lyanna lay with the babe, his gaze never straying far. A pillar, a shield, a promise. He had been their companion since boyhood, a quiet giant at their side, and Ned knew with sudden certainty that Walder would die before he let harm touch Lyanna again. For that, Ned was grateful beyond words.

Ahead lay Winterfell. His wife waited there — Catelyn, stranger and bride both. She had seemed a gentle soul when first he met her, kind-eyed and courteous. He did not love her; that had not been asked of him. But he hoped, in time, that affection might grow, or at least friendship. There was a child, too — his son, Robb. He scarcely knew what it meant, to be a father. A boy had been born while Ned marched to war, and now he rode home to find him nearly past his swaddling days. He felt the weight of that as keenly as the sword at his hip.

His thoughts turned south, unwillingly. Olive skin, eyes like dusk lit by violet fire. Ashara Dayne.

He remembered their last words, bitter and gentle all at once, spoken in a garden of pale stone where the wind had smelled of salt. A parting that had never felt whole, a wound half-healed. He told himself it was folly to dwell on it, but still he did. In another time, another life, the tale might have ended differently. But not in this one.

He set his jaw and looked ahead again, to where the kingsroad vanished into the mist of distance, and to the grey stones of Winterfell that rose only in memory, not yet in sight.

The road north unrolled beneath his horse, but his mind wandered south, back to the Red Keep, to the day when steel rang in the throne room and the gods were called to judge.

He could still see Ser Lewyn Martell, white cloak billowing, face calm as he bowed before the Seven. An old man, aye, but still a knight of the Kingsguard, and uncle to the woman butchered in her bed. For Elia’s honor, he had said. For Dorne.

And across from him, the Lannister champion. Gregor Clegane. They called him the Mountain, though he was hardly more than a boy, but never had Ned seen such monstrous size on a man. He towered above the hall, shoulders like stone ramparts, greatsword in hands thick as mallets. Beside him even knights of renown looked small. Ned had thought of Walder then, the giant of Winterfell, and found himself wondering if this Clegane too had giant’s blood in his veins.

The duel had been no dance. No tilt of lances, no measured blows. It was slaughter dressed as judgment. Lewyn moved swift, blade flashing like silver, and still it was not enough. Clegane’s first stroke near split his shield in two. His second carved deep into the Dornishman’s side, and though Lewyn fought on, bloodied and staggering, the third blow hacked him clean through at the hip.

Ned had never forgotten the sound — steel biting bone, the hall’s gasp, the silence after.

Oberyn Martell’s eyes burned hotter than any torch. Fury made flesh. But he had said nothing. None had. What words were left, when the gods themselves had spoken?

The memory soured as they all had. After the duel, Tywin Lannister had wasted no time. He pressed his daughter forward, all smiles and silken words, claiming the realm needed binding, that peace must be sealed with marriage. Lyanna had renounced the crown, had sworn to return to the North, so the king must take another queen.

Jon Arryn’s face had been grave, troubled. Hoster Tully shifted in his seat, weariness in his eyes. But what stayed with Ned most was Oberyn’s look — not grief this time, but hatred. Hatred cold enough to last a lifetime.

In the end, Rhaegar had accepted.

Jon Arryn had called it wise. “The lion bound is the lion tamed. It is best to tie him close.” Perhaps it was. Ned did not know. The gods had judged Tywin innocent; perhaps there was nothing left to fear.

Yet he could not shake the memory of the King’s face as he gave his answer. Rhaegar’s eyes had been confused, empty, as though the man who had spoken of prophecy and songs and Visenya had been hollowed out when Lyanna turned from him. He had not spoken much since. He had never once gone to see the babe, though Lyanna had not barred him.

Ned heard her voice even now, quiet in the dark of the litter as she bent over the crib: “He wanted a Visenya, not a Jon.”

What father spurned his own son because he was not born a daughter? Ned could not fathom it. He had not even laid eyes on Robb, not once, yet he knew already he would die for the boy.

Perhaps it was for the best, then, that Jon came north. King’s Landing was a pit of vipers, and a father who would not look upon him was no father at all. Better Winterfell, grey stone and cold wind, where a boy could grow straight and true. Better to be a Stark than forgotten as a Targaryen.

The kingsroad wound on, hooves thudding a steady rhythm, but Ned’s mind strayed again to King’s Landing, to the day when the little ones were brought back.

He could still see Varys gliding into the hall, soft hands cradling two children as though they were spun of glass. The girl clung to him with dark eyes wide, her hair in tangles, her cheeks still streaked from tears. The boy was scarcely more than a babe, bundled tight, a scrap of silver hair peeking from beneath his wrappings.

“Rhaenys. Aegon,” Varys had said, as though offering jewels back to a king.

And Rhaegar — for a heartbeat, he had smiled. Truly smiled. He had swept his daughter into his arms, and for the space of a breath it was as if the hall had lightened. The dragon king made tender by a child’s embrace.

But then the girl had asked, in her small, piping voice: “Where is Mother?”

Ned’s heart clenched even now at the memory. The smile died on Rhaegar’s face, fading like morning mist. He had faltered, searching for words he could not speak. And it was Oberyn Martell who came forward, kneeling, his voice gentler than Ned had ever heard it.

“Rina,” he whispered. He gathered the child into his arms when she reached for him, and carried her away from the hall, away to see what no child should see. Ned had prayed in silence that day, that the girl would not carry the wound forever. Yet he knew too well how grief could carve deep and lasting scars.

A soft cry broke him from his thoughts — not memory, but present. Baby Jon stirred in the litter beside Lyanna, whimpering until his mother hushed him with soft words. Ned turned in his saddle, watching her cradle the child to her breast.

Jon. His nephew.

The sound carried him to another crib in the Red Keep. There had been two babes once, lying side by side. Lyanna’s boy, and the queen’s girl. Daenerys.

He remembered Rhaella’s face when first she saw the Stark child. Joy and sorrow mingled, a strange ache in her eyes. Later she had spoken to Ned quietly, when Lyanna had gone to rest.

“Must he go so far north?” she had asked him, voice low with weariness. “He is my grandchild too. A part of my blood, as much as hers. Even if Rhaegar will not claim him, must I lose him as well?”

Ned had not known how to answer. Lyanna had answered for him.

“I swore it,” she had said, her voice steel under velvet. “He will be raised in Winterfell. He will be a Stark. But you will always be welcome, Your Grace. You will always have a place by his side, if you wish it.”

Rhaella had bowed her head then, her hand upon her own daughter’s crib. “I will come,” she whispered. “As often as I may. The boy should know his kin. Even if…” She did not finish the thought, but Ned had seen the sadness writ plain.

Daenerys had stirred then, gurgling in her sleep, a tiny hand reaching blindly toward the other child. For a time the two babes had lain so close their hands touched, wolf and dragon both, before fate drew their paths apart.

Now the boy slept in his mother’s arms as the wheels turned northward, and the girl remained in King’s Landing, last daughter of a doomed king. Ned wondered if either would remember the other.

Of all the memories that clung to him from King’s Landing, it was Robert that stung the most.

It had been the night before he left, when the feasting hall was dark and only a few torches burned. Robert had sought him out, smelling of wine and despair, his great hands restless on the haft of his hammer as though he meant to fight the shadows themselves.

“She will marry me, Ned,” Robert had said, the words low and fierce, as if speaking them could make them true. “I’ll make her forget that silver prince. I’ll be good to her, you know that. I’ll raise the boy as mine. I’ll—” His voice had cracked then, and for an instant all the bluster fell away. What remained was only hurt. Hurt, and longing.

Ned had listened, but even as the vows spilled from Robert’s lips, he had seen the truth in his friend’s eyes. They were not the eyes of a man ready to raise another’s son. They were the eyes of a man already broken, clinging to a dream that had shattered in his hands.

“She is going north,” Ned had told him, firm as stone. “Lyanna will not wed you. She will not wed any man. That is her choice, Robert. You must hear it.”

But Robert would not hear. His face had flushed red, his voice rising. The talk had become a quarrel, then a shouting match. “You would deny me this? After all we’ve bled for?” Robert had thundered. “Am I not worthy? Do I not love her?”

In the end it had not been Ned’s voice that silenced him, but Lyanna’s.

She had come forward, dark hair loose about her face, the child asleep in her arms. Her words had been quiet, but they cut sharper than any sword.

“I will never set foot south of the Neck again,” she told him. “Not for Rhaegar. Not for you. My place is in the North. If you love me, Robert, truly love me, then you will let me go.”

Robert had faltered then, torn open, his great shoulders sagging as though a mountain had been laid upon him. He had looked at her, at the babe, at Ned — and found nothing left to say.

The next morning he was gone. No word of farewell to Jon Arryn, no embrace for Hoster, no last clasp of arms with Ned. He rode out with his stormlords, hammer strapped across his back, and did not look behind him.

Robert was a man of many women, a lord who laughed loud and drank deep, but perhaps he had truly loved Lyanna. Perhaps that was what made the wound so deep.

Ned wondered, as the kingsroad stretched ahead, when he would see his friend again — and whether they were still friends at all.

A cry from ahead broke his thoughts. A rider spurred toward them, the direwolf banner snapping in the wind. The man’s shout carried over the fields:

“Winterfell! The castle is near!”

Ned lifted his eyes. Far ahead, grey stone rose against the sky, towers stark and ancient, smoke curling from its chimneys. Home.

The sun was low when they reached the fork in the kingsroad. Beyond, the track split, one road bending west toward Barrowton and the Rills, the other angling northwest for the wolfswood and Deepwood Motte. The grey stones of Winterfell lay straight ahead.

They drew rein before the crossroads. The banners rippled once more in the wind: the crossed axes of House Dustin, the black iron fist of House Glover. Fewer now than when they had set out from the capital, but loyal to the last.

William Dustin reined close, his long-hafted axe across his saddle. His weathered face was lined from wind and sun, but his eyes were steady. “Lord Stark,” he said, inclining his head. “Lady Lyanna. It was an honor to ride with you this far. For Brandon’s memory, I would have gone twice the road.”

Lyanna’s hand tightened on the edge of her litter. “You have our thanks, William,” she said softly.

Ned bowed his head, the words heavier in his throat than he meant them to be. “For my brother,” he answered. “And for my house. I will not forget it.”

Dustin gave a curt nod, but something flickered in his eyes, a grief old and unyielding. He wheeled his horse without flourish, raising a hand. His men turned west with him, the yellow banner streaming behind like a flame fading into the hills.

Lord Glover spoke next, stockier, his fists broad as the sigil he bore. “The road calls us on to the sea,” he said. “Deepwood will want her sons home.” He cast a look toward the babe in Lyanna’s arms. “May the gods keep him safe.”

Ned inclined his head again. “And yours.”

The iron fist turned north and west, his riders trailing behind like shadows into the trees.

When the dust of their departure settled, there were only three riders left on the road: Ned, Lyanna with the child in her arms, and Walder beside them, tall and silent as a wall of iron.

The direwolf banner lifted ahead, carried by the Winterfell outrider who had found them. Beyond the rising ground, Ned glimpsed it at last: grey stone towers against the fading light, smoke curling from the chimneys, the sound of ravens on the wind.

The gates of Winterfell yawned open as the procession clattered across the drawbridge. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and the familiar tang of woodfire and hot iron drifted on the air. The sound of the portcullis chains groaned above them, and beyond the arch, the yard spread wide, crowded with men and smallfolk come to see their lord return.

Ned’s eyes roamed the faces. He saw young Jory, tall for his age, his wide eyes fixed on the horseman at his side — Martyn Cassel, straight-backed and proud in his mail. The boy sat up higher at his father’s glance, as if eager to prove himself a man already.

Nan stood by the kitchens, her bent frame wrapped in furs too heavy for the day. She leaned on her cane, eyes misted with age but sharp still, and when Walder passed her, towering like the iron pillar he had always been, she gave him a look of mingled pride and sorrow.

At the top of the steps stood Benjen. His hair stirred in the wind, black as Ned’s own, his youth tempered by the weight that grief and duty had pressed upon him. Beside him was a woman Ned had met only once before, auburn hair bright in the sun, a babe cradled close to her breast. Catelyn. His wife.

Ned’s breath left him in a long sigh.

He swung down from his horse, boots striking the stones, and climbed the steps. Benjen met him halfway, and they clasped each other tight.

“You’re home,” Benjen said, his voice rough but steady.

“Aye,” Ned answered. For a moment he simply held his brother, the smell of horse and leather between them, the warmth of kin. I thought I might never see him again.

When they parted, Ned turned to Catelyn. She dipped her head, a courteous smile on her lips.

“My lord husband,” she said softly.

“My lady.” He took her hands briefly, uncertain, then looked to the bundle she carried. “And this?”

Catelyn’s smile warmed as she drew back the blanket. “Your son. Robb.”

Ned gazed down at the child. Red hair, bright as autumn leaves, and eyes the blue of a cold northern sky. Stark eyes, though, he thought — not their color, but their weight. Already solemn, already strong. His throat tightened. Robb Stark. My son.

A stir ran through the yard then, a ripple of whispers. “Lady Lyanna,” he heard on more than one tongue.

He turned. The litter’s curtain had been drawn back, and Lyanna was stepping down, Walder’s hand steadying her though she scarcely seemed to need it. She moved slowly, carefully, the babe in her arms held close. Her dark hair spilled loose, her cheeks pale from the road, but her eyes — those grey Stark eyes — were bright.

The crowd parted as she came forward. Walder loomed at her side, a shadow of iron, but it was Lyanna who drew every gaze.

At the foot of the steps, Benjen all but leapt down to meet her. He reached for her as though afraid she might vanish if he did not.

“Lyanna,” he breathed, and folded her in his arms, careful, careful, as if she were still the girl who raced through the godswood with flowers in her hair. He drew back then, his gaze falling to the bundle she held. “And who’s this?”

“My son,” Lyanna said, her voice steady though it carried a note of pride and defiance both. She looked her brother full in the face. “Jon Stark.”

The murmur swelled, smallfolk and guards whispering, glancing one to another. Stark. She called him Stark.

Benjen’s eyes widened, but he smiled all the same, and Lyanna placed the babe in his arms. He held the child as if he had never held one before, reverent, awed.

Ned watched, and for a heartbeat, joy swelled so sharp in his chest it hurt. His family, here, whole again. Scarred, aye, but not broken. Not entirely.

He cleared his throat then, and his voice carried over the yard. “There will be time enough for words later. For now, we are home, and home asks for rest.”

The yard erupted in cheers, the sound echoing off the grey stone walls.

Ned turned his face up toward the towers of Winterfell, black against the reddening sky, and felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders like an old cloak. Home. At last.

Chapter Text

Lyanna

The wind tore through her hair as she leaned low over her mare’s neck, the world flying past in a blur of green and grey. The Wolfswood opened around her like a song she had not heard in too long — the pounding of hooves, the crack of branches, the sharp scent of pine and earth. She laughed, wild and full-throated, urging the horse faster still.

Behind her, Benjen’s voice rang out, breathless. “Slow, Lya! Seven hells, you’ll break your neck—”

She glanced back once, grinning. Benjen was bent low, spurring hard, but his gelding’s stride was shorter, slower. Beyond him came Jory Cassel, jaw clenched, stubborn as all the Cassels ever were. The boy was game, but he’d never keep pace with her in full gallop.

No one could, she thought with pride, her heart hammering. Not Benjen, not Eddard, not even Brandon in his boldest days. She had always been the fastest rider of them all. The Wolfswood had missed her, and she it.

The grey towers of Winterfell loomed ahead, banners rippling faintly above the gatehouse. She tasted victory already.

The bet had been simple — and foolish. The last one to reach the gates would tend the stables alone for a week, mucking out stalls until the stink clung to their very skin. Ned’s punishment, for a tapestry that had met an untimely end after too much wine. Whose doing? She could scarcely remember. Perhaps hers, perhaps Benjen’s, perhaps no one’s at all. Only that Lady Catelyn’s face had gone stiff as frozen snow when the torn fabric was found. Ned, grave as always, had declared someone must answer for it.

So they had wagered instead. A race, a gallop, the stables won or lost by speed. It was fair, Lyanna had argued, and Benjen had agreed.

Now the gates drew nearer, the yard beyond full of smallfolk pausing in their tasks to watch. Lyanna tightened her grip, pressed her heels, and her mare surged. She felt alive, every muscle singing, the Wolfswood wind in her blood.

At the corner of her eye she saw Jory push past Benjen, his mount straining, the boy’s teeth bared in effort. Benjen cursed, hunched low, desperate to close the gap. Lyanna laughed again, wild as a wolf.

The gatehouse swept over her, stone shadow falling cool across her face. She was first. Jory clattered in just behind, red-faced and panting, and then Benjen, cheeks flushed with frustration.

Lyanna drew her horse to a canter, hair tangled, eyes bright, grinning as wide as the heart of winter itself.

“Looks like the stables are yours, little brother,” she called, her voice ringing off the walls.

Benjen groaned, but even as he slid from his saddle, there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Lyanna swung down too, her boots hitting the yard stone. For the first time in too many years, she felt free — truly free — as if war and crowns and sorrow had been nothing but a bad dream, blown away by the wind.

The yard was alive with the clatter of hooves and the laughter of men-at-arms returning from the hunt. Grooms darted about, taking reins and offering brushes, while dogs barked from the kennels. Lyanna swung down from her mare, cheeks still flushed from the ride, and Benjen slid down beside her with a groan.

“You had a head start,” he muttered darkly, though his grin betrayed him.

“You had two good legs and a horse,” Lyanna shot back, tossing her hair out of her eyes. “If you can’t beat your sister, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

Benjen made a face, and Jory Cassel, still catching his breath, chuckled from behind. “She has you there, my lord. You’ll find no man in Winterfell who can out-ride Lady Lyanna.”

Lyanna arched an eyebrow, smirking. “And no Cassel either.”

Jory colored a little, but he grinned all the same. “Aye, my lady. Still, if Lord Benjen wants company in the stables, I’ll not let him muck them alone.”

Benjen groaned louder, throwing his hands up. “Traitor!”

Their laughter echoed off the grey walls, warm as hearthfire. For a heartbeat, it felt as if nothing beyond these stones mattered — not kings, nor wars, nor the ghosts of grief that still lingered at Winterfell’s hearth.

The moment shattered with a cry.

“Aunt Lyanna! Aunt Lyanna!”

Little Sansa came hurtling across the yard, auburn hair streaming, cheeks wet with tears. She flung herself into Lyanna’s skirts, sobbing.

Lyanna bent quickly, gathering the child against her. “Sweetling, what is it? Who’s hurt you?”

“Jon and Robb!” Sansa wailed, stamping her foot. “They’re mean! They won’t play monsters and maiden with me!”

Lyanna smoothed her hair, fighting a smile. “And why not?”

“Because—” Sansa hiccuped, her blue eyes enormous and solemn, “—because I want to be the monster. They said they’re not maidens, only I am!”

Lyanna laughed, a bright, clear sound that made Sansa pout. “Well, they’ve the right of it. Those two are little monsters through and through — always plotting mischief and laughing when they’re caught.”

Sansa sniffed, unconvinced. “But I want to be the monster.”

“Of course you do,” Lyanna said, kissing her brow. “But let me tell you. You’ll be the fairest maiden Winterfell has ever known. But for now…” She leaned close, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why don’t you go to the kitchens and ask for a slice of honeycake? Say it’s from me, and we’ll keep it a secret. Your mother need never know.”

Sansa’s tears faded into a trembling smile. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

The girl’s little arms squeezed her tight before she skipped away, skirts fluttering, already dreaming of cake.

Benjen crossed his arms, watching her go. “You spoil her.”

Lyanna straightened, shrugging with a wolf’s grin. “She’s well behaved. A good girl.”

“Aye,” Benjen admitted, lips twitching. “Like her lady mother.”

Lyanna laughed, sharp and merry. “Seven save us all, I hope she’s not too much like Cat.”

Even Jory laughed at that, though he tried to smother it behind his hand. Benjen rolled his eyes.

Their mirth was cut short by the heavy tread of boots.

Walder loomed into the yard, broad as the gates themselves, his face grave. He had been smiling when they rode in, but the cheer had left him now. His voice was low, steady as stone. “Lord Stark summons you to his solar.”

The three of them exchanged glances, laughter draining into unease. Ned did not often call them together in such a manner.

“What is it, do you think?” Benjen murmured.

Lyanna shook her head, already brushing dirt from her skirts. “We’ll soon find out.”

Together they fell into step beside Walder, their merriment fading as they crossed the yard toward the looming keep.

Walder pushed open the heavy oaken door, his bulk filling the frame. Lyanna stepped through first, Benjen close at her side.

The solar smelled of ink and parchment, of smoke from the hearthfire and the faint chill of stone. Lady Catelyn stood by the window, the afternoon light slanting across her auburn hair. Her hands were knotted before her, her face pale, lips pressed thin.

Ned sat behind his table, Ice laid across the trestle at his side, his eyes grave.

Lyanna tried to cut the tension with a smile. “If this is about the tapestry, then it’s settled. Benjen confesses.”

Benjen spluttered. “I’ll do no such—!”

But neither Ned nor Catelyn smiled. Ned’s hand tightened on the parchment in his grasp.

“This is no tapestry, Lyanna.” His voice was iron. He lifted the scroll slightly. “A raven. From the king.”

The jest died in her throat. Her heart thudded once, hard. In five years she had not seen that seal, not since she left the Red Keep with Jon in her arms. Ravens came often enough from Rhaella — soft words for her grandson, questions about his health, about his first steps, his first words. But never from Rhaegar himself. Never.

Benjen sensed her unease and broke the silence first. “What does the king want?”

Ned unrolled the parchment. His face, already grave, seemed to harden further as he read aloud. “The Greyjoys have sacked Lannisport. They’ve raided villages in the Reach and Riverlands. Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Isles and the North Sea. The king calls the banners.”

Silence thickened.

Lyanna felt her stomach twist. Another war. five years — five meager years of peace, and already the realm bled again.

“It has not been so long since the last war,” Ned continued, quieter now. “The kingdom is still fragile. Balon saw his chance. He thought us divided, thought us weak. He was wrong. He will pay that error in blood.”

“You mean to go.” Lyanna’s voice came sharp.

“I must.” Ned met her eyes without flinching. “I swore an oath to Rhaegar. It is my duty to obey my king.”

“Your duty, your honor,” she snapped. “And what of your family, Ned? What of Cat? What of the babes? Must they bow to your oaths too?”

At that, Catelyn stirred. Her voice was soft, but it carried. “He is right, Lyanna. He swore his fealty, as did his bannermen. The North cannot stand aside while the realm answers.” Her hands trembled as she folded them tighter together. “But it does not make it easier to bear.”

Lyanna turned sharply to her. “You would let him march from you without protest?”

Catelyn’s blue eyes were calm, but rimmed with worry. “I knew what it meant to wed a lord. His duty is larger than me, larger than Winterfell. I will keep the hearth in his absence, as my lady mother kept Riverrun when Lord Hoster rode. But that does not mean I do not fear each raven that comes from the south.”

Her words struck Lyanna silent for a heartbeat. She thought of her own promise to never ride south again, and wondered if Cat envied her for it.

Benjen’s voice broke the quiet. “When do we leave?”

Lyanna turned, startled. “We?”

Benjen squared his shoulders. “Aye. I’ll not let Ned go alone this time. I’m a man grown. My place is with him.”

“What of Winterfell?” Lyanna demanded. “There must always be a Stark here. Always.”

“There will be,” Benjen said with a crooked smile. “Four, in fact. Robb, Sansa, Jon — and you. Winterfell will not be without its wolves.”

Lyanna frowned, unwilling to yield, but Benjen’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “It will be over quick. Balon thinks us broken. He’ll learn his folly soon enough.”

Ned nodded. “The realm has answered. Hoster readies his men, Jon Arryn too. Even Mace Tyrell marches, and Dorne sends spears. Only Robert stays behind.”

At Robert’s name, Lyanna stiffened. She had not seen him since he left Winterfell in bitter silence. Rumor carried word enough: that he had wed a girl of Estermont, that she had given him a daughter. Yet she could not forget the look in his eyes when he last stood before her — torn, angry, pleading. Perhaps still bitter. Perhaps mad.

Her thoughts were broken by Ned’s voice again. “There is another letter. From Dragonstone.”

Lyanna’s heart leapt. “For Jon?” she asked quickly. She half-expected another of Rhaella’s soft pleas for word of her grandson.

But Ned shook his head. “No. This one is for me.” He unrolled it. “The queen mother sails for White Harbor. She comes north, with Viserys and Daenerys. She wishes to see her grandson with her own eyes.”

Lyanna blinked, her breath catching. Five years Rhaella had waited. Now she was coming here.

Beside the window, Catelyn’s face paled further. Her hands clenched in her skirts. “The queen herself, here, in Winterfell.” Her voice was hushed, but edged with worry. “With her children, the  prince, and the princess.”

Ned’s face was unreadable. “We will host them. They are family.”

Family, Lyanna thought, though not hers. Her stomach knotted, half with guilt, half with defiance. Jon slept in his cradle as a Stark, and a Stark he would remain.

The torches burned low in the corridor as Lyanna made her way down the familiar hall. The stones of Winterfell seemed softer at night, shadows stretching long, the silence broken only by the wind at the gates and the distant howl of a wolf. She pushed open the chamber door with a gentle hand.

Inside, laughter met her.

Jon and Robb were still awake, tussling on the furs laid before the hearth, two little wolves in the den. Jon’s dark hair was a tangle, Robb’s auburn locks bright in the firelight. They had built some game of sticks and carved knights, now collapsed in a heap, both boys red-faced with mirth.

Lyanna leaned against the doorframe for a moment, her heart swelling. How many nights had she dreamed of this? Of quiet, of home, of children safe within these walls?

“Enough, you two,” she said, smiling. “The hour is late. Into bed with you, or I’ll set Walder to carry you to the stables and bed you down with the horses.”

Robb giggled and scrambled into his small bed. Jon followed, slower, but obedient, climbing under the furs with his little scowl of reluctance.

Lyanna came to Jon’s side, smoothing his hair back from his brow. She bent to kiss his temple, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of child and straw. “Sleep well, little wolf. Tomorrow you’ll need your strength.”

Jon looked up, grey eyes bright with curiosity. “Why, Mama?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Because your grandmother is coming. And with her, your uncle and your aunt. They will want to see how strong you’ve grown.”

Jon’s eyes widened, alight. “My grandmother? Truly? What does she look like?”

Before Lyanna could answer, Robb piped up from the other bed. “Like a Targaryen. From the books. All silver hair and violet eyes.”

“Will they bring dragons?” he added, voice eager.

Lyanna laughed, the sound soft in the shadows. “No, sweetling. The dragons are gone. Long dead.”

Robb pouted. “That’s not true. Jon dreams of them. Down in the crypts.”

Lyanna turned sharply to her son. “Is that so?”

Jon shifted beneath the furs, his small voice uneasy. “Not dreams. Nightmares. I don’t like them. They’re scary.”

Her heart clenched. She gathered him close, pressing a kiss to his dark hair. “Then they’re only shadows, love. Nothing more. If they trouble you, you need only come to me. You’ll always have a place in my chamber.”

Robb gave a loud laugh. “He’s not a baby! He said so himself!”

Jon’s cheeks flushed. “I’m not,” he insisted, squirming free. “I’m five. I’m not a baby anymore.”

Lyanna’s lips curved. “No, you’re not. You’re growing too fast for me to keep up.”

Jon’s expression softened. “Will Father come too? With Grandmother?”

The question pierced her like a blade. For a moment she could not speak. How do you tell a child that his father has no place for him? She forced a smile. “Your father is very busy. But perhaps — perhaps when the war is done, he may ride north with Uncle Ned and Uncle Ben. We can hope for it. But do not build too high on hope, little wolf. Sometimes it breaks beneath us.”

Jon’s face fell, and Robb sat up in his bed, frowning. “Why doesn’t Jon’s father like him? My father likes me.”

Lyanna’s throat tightened. She stroked Jon’s hair, meeting both their eyes. “The king loves all his children. Even Jon. But a king’s duty is heavy, and he cannot be everywhere. It is not dislike. Only… distance.”

Jon turned his face into her arm, and Lyanna felt the ache of guilt deep in her bones. One day, she would have to tell him all of it — why they could not go south, why his father’s love was a dream he might never touch. But not tonight. Tonight, he was only a child, and she would let him be one.

She drew back, forcing cheer into her voice. “Now, enough questions. Would you like a story before sleep?”

Both boys lit up at once. “Yes!” Robb shouted, and Jon nodded eagerly.

Lyanna settled herself between their beds, her voice dropping to the low, sing-song cadence of the hearth. “Then I shall tell you of Bael the Bard. Of the wild songs he sang, and the daughter of Winterfell he stole away.”

The boys leaned close, eyes wide, the shadows of the room deepening around them. Lyanna’s words wove through the chamber, soft as the wind in the godswood, wrapping her children in story and dream.

And when their breathing slowed and the fire sank to embers, she sat in silence for a long time, watching the rise and fall of their small chests. Her son. Her nephew. The future of Winterfell sleeping side by side.

She bent once more to kiss Jon’s brow. “Sleep well, little wolf,” she whispered. “Sleep well, and dream no dragons.”

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The courtyard was busy with the life of Winterfell. The clang of hammer on anvil rang from Mikken’s forge, sharp as a bell. The smell of roasting apples drifted from the kitchens, spiced with cinnamon and cloves. Servants hurried across the yard with baskets of onions and leeks for the stores, dogs nosed about after scraps, and smoke curled steadily from the great chimneys above.

To any visitor, it would have seemed a picture of peace. Yet Catelyn felt the tension humming beneath it all, a taut string waiting to snap.

She walked slowly along the covered gallery, her hand resting lightly on the curve of her belly. It was only just beginning to show, but already maester Luwin had pressed her not to overstrain herself. Still, with her husband and his brother gone to war, the duty of Winterfell’s lady fell on her shoulders. She moved from hall to hall, seeing to the kitchens, the armory, the stores, making certain the holdfast would be ready when the queen mother and her children arrived.

Lyanna had offered her help. Catelyn’s first instinct had been to refuse. Too often she had overheard the smallfolk and even the guards call Lyanna “Lady Stark,” while she herself was named “Lady Tully.” It stung, though she kept her face serene. By rights, Catelyn was the Lady of Winterfell, wife to its lord, mother to his heir. Yet Lyanna had grown within these walls, knew every corner, every servant, every whisper of the hearths. In truth, it was she who seemed mistress here, and Catelyn the guest.

She had tried, these past years, to become part of Winterfell. She had learned the faces of the men and women who served them, had listened to their tales of the long winters past, had even bent her knees once in the godswood and pressed her palm to the heart tree’s face. She still prayed to the Seven, aye, but here in the North, she had come to believe the old gods heard too. She prayed often now — prayed for her husband, for Benjen, for their safe return. She prayed that Ned might live to see the babe growing within her.

Her thoughts were broken by laughter, shrill and bright. She leaned to the railing, looking down into the yard.

The children were at play. Sansa, hair bright as copper, ran in circles with Jeyne Poole at her side, their little hands clasped as they spun and squealed. Across the yard, Robb and Jon wrestled in the mud, both filthy and grinning, each trying to pin the other with childish ferocity. The sight softened her heart. For a moment, she smiled despite herself, imagining Ned standing beside her, watching his son and his sister’s boy tumbling together like pups from the same litter. If only he could see them now.

The thought turned quickly to ache. War had taken him south, as it always seemed to. Her fingers pressed against her belly, as if to hold the babe within safer.

“Sister.”

The word came from behind her. She turned.

Lyanna was there, dark hair loose about her shoulders, a wolf’s grin softened by the day’s work. Maester Luwin followed in her wake, parchment and wax in hand, ever patient.

Catelyn forced her smile to remain, though she felt the weight of the word sister as though it were both a kindness and a challenge.

“Lady Stark,” Maester Luwin said, bowing as he entered. His chain of office clinked softly with the motion. The man always seemed faintly dusty with parchment, his grey robes forever ink-stained at the cuffs, but there was a steadiness in his eyes Catelyn had come to rely upon.

Lyanna, by contrast, did not bow. She bounded forward with her usual restless energy, brushing a dark strand of hair from her face. “We’ve a full store of ale put aside,” she announced with the pride of a huntsman tallying his kill. “Enough to drown a hundred spears, and more still for Ned and Ben when they come home.”

Catelyn blinked at her. “Ale? We will not serve the queen mother barrels of ale.”

Lyanna shrugged, unbothered. “Better than letting it sour in the casks. She may be royal, but she’s still a woman. A cup now and then wouldn’t hurt her.”

Catelyn stiffened, her fingers tightening in the folds of her gown. “Rhaella Targaryen is no guest to be offered whatever comes to hand. She is a queen still, and it is our duty to honor her properly.”

Luwin cleared his throat before Lyanna could retort. “We have more than ale, my lady. The game from Lord Stark’s last hunt has been smoked and salted. The fishermen of White Harbor sent trout and lamprey upriver; they arrived fresh and in good order. And with the last harvest, we have bread, beans, and roots enough to see the royal household through half a year, should they tarry.”

Catelyn inclined her head, forcing her shoulders to ease. “That is well. I pray it will be enough.”

“It will,” Lyanna said firmly, as if daring doubt itself. “Rhaella is kind. She will not care if a pie is a touch too brown or a boar too lean. She will be glad enough to sit at your hearth.”

Catelyn bit her lip, wondering if that were true. In the South, a lady’s honor was measured in how well her household was ordered, how lavish her table, how polished her halls. And though Winterfell was vast, its grey stones were stark as its name, built for survival, not for splendor. She prayed that kindness outweighed judgment.

She exhaled softly. “The royal procession will be here by tomorrow’s end. Everything must be perfect.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes with a grin. “Seven hells, Cat, it’s not a tourney feast. They’re family. Not strangers sniffing about for flaws.”

“Family or not,” Catelyn said quietly, “I will not have Winterfell found wanting.”

Luwin folded his hands. “It will not be, my lady. I give you my word.”

Before Catelyn could answer, Lyanna leaned against the window, looking down into the yard. A smile tugged at her lips. “Well, two little lords down there will need a good scrubbing before they meet their royal kin.”

Catelyn followed her gaze. Below, Robb and Jon were rolling in the mud, shrieking with laughter as they tried to topple each other. Robb’s hair was plastered to his forehead, Jon’s tunic smeared dark with earth, and both were wild with glee.

Catelyn’s sternness softened despite herself. “Aye,” she said. “If they are to meet a queen, they cannot do it caked in dirt.”

Lyanna laughed. “Oh, let them be boys a little longer. The mud washes off.”

Catelyn watched her, torn as ever between fondness and frustration. Lyanna belonged to Winterfell in a way Catelyn feared she never would — yet there was no denying her warmth with the children, or the way their faces lit up when she laughed.

Still, Catelyn thought as she pressed her hand to her belly, a lady’s duty is more than laughter and mud. It is order. It is honor. And tomorrow, all the realm will judge Winterfell through me.

Winterfell’s courtyard thrummed with tension. Guards stood in their ranks along the walls, helms gleaming dully in the pale sun. The smallfolk pressed behind them, hushed, eager, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods and scarves. The air smelled of smoke and cold iron, but beneath it, a sharper scent of expectation.

Catelyn stood at the front of it all, her back straight, her children pressed close. Robb’s small hand was wrapped tight around hers, Sansa fidgeted at her side in a gown too fine for play, and Lyanna stood just beyond, Jon clutching her skirts. Even here, before half the castle, he clung to his mother like a shadow.

The gates creaked open.

First came Ser Oswell Whent, his white cloak snapping in the chill wind. He rode proudly, yet his eyes darted to the walls, as if weighing the measure of stone and men alike. Beside him came a youth with hair like pale silver-gold, cut fine to his shoulders, violet eyes bright against lean features that might have been chiseled from Rhaegar’s likeness.

Catelyn’s breath caught. For an instant she thought it was the king himself, riding unannounced to Winterfell. But no — this face was smoother, younger, handsome but untested. Viserys. The boy prince grown into a youth. He sat straight in the saddle, wearing a cloak too grand for his frame, as if the weight of it might make him topple.

Behind them rode a half-score of guards in Targaryen livery, helms polished, spears upright. And then came the litter.

The hush deepened as it halted before the steps. When the curtains were drawn aside, even the children fell still.

Queen Rhaella descended slowly, aided by a maid’s hand. She was tall still, graceful, her hair a spill of molten silver that caught the light, her eyes the deep violet of legend. The songs had not lied. Time had touched her, but lightly — there was majesty in her carriage, and something softer besides, something that tugged at the heart.

The smallfolk gasped as one. Some bent their knees, others simply stared, as if a goddess had stepped from the old tales into their yard.

A septa and nurse followed, and with them a little girl, clutching her mother’s skirts. A child of perhaps five, silver hair shining, violet eyes wide with fear at the sea of strangers. Princess Daenerys, Catelyn realized — the babe Rhaella had borne after the war, grown now into a shy little maid.

Rhaella advanced, the hush parting before her. When she reached the steps, she paused.

“Lady Stark,” she said, her voice clear, melodious, and weary all at once.

Catelyn dipped her head low. “Your Grace. Winterfell welcomes you and yours, with all honor. The king’s mother shall find no want within these walls.”

Rhaella’s eyes softened. “You do me courtesy, my lady.”

She turned then, her gaze falling upon the children. Robb bowed stiffly, his red hair bright as flame. Sansa curtsied, her little face solemn. Catelyn’s heart swelled with pride. “Your Grace,” she murmured, prompting them.

“Your Grace,” the children echoed, as they had been taught.

Rhaella smiled, nodding, but her eyes moved past them, drawn as if by fate itself.

She stopped when her gaze found Lyanna.

For a moment, the air itself seemed to still. Neither woman spoke. Lyanna’s chin lifted, her grey eyes steady, but there was a tightness in her mouth, a flicker of something — shame, pride, grief.

At last Rhaella said, softly, “It has been too long.”

Lyanna inclined her head. “Aye. Too long.”

Then Rhaella’s gaze fell lower, to the child clutching at Lyanna’s leg. Jon peered up, wary but curious, his dark hair tousled, his grey eyes so like his uncle’s. The queen’s expression softened, the majesty fading into something warmer. She bent her knees slowly, until her eyes were level with the boy’s.

“And this,” she whispered, voice trembling, “must be Jon.”

Jon shrank closer into Lyanna’s skirts. Lyanna stroked his hair, urging gently, “Go on, sweetling. Greet your grandmother. Properly.”

The boy hesitated, then took a tiny step forward. Rhaella opened her arms, and after a breath he went to her. She gathered him close, pressing his small body to her, her silver hair brushing his dark head.

For a long moment, there was no sound in the yard but the flutter of banners. When the queen rose again, her eyes glistened.

Catelyn’s heart tightened, watching them.

“Your Grace,” she said quickly, breaking the spell. “You and your household must rest. Chambers have been prepared for you, for the prince, and for the princess. Winterfell is yours.”

Rhaella looked to her and nodded, still holding Jon’s hand. “You are gracious, Lady Stark. We shall accept your kindness.”

And so the queen mother, with Viserys at her side and little Daenerys trailing shyly, passed through Winterfell’s gates, the hush of awe following her steps.

The weeks that followed the queen’s arrival passed more gently than Catelyn had feared. She had braced herself for hauteur, for veiled commands and sharp criticisms from the woman who had been Queen of Westeros. Instead, she found Rhaella Targaryen kind, gracious, even gentle. The queen mother carried herself with the dignity of a lady twice crowned, yet when she bent to kiss a child’s brow or laughed softly at their play, she was simply a grandmother, and nothing more.

As Lyanna had promised, Rhaella doted upon Jon. It surprised Catelyn at first, the way her gaze lingered on the boy, the way her hand stroked his hair as if to reassure herself he was truly there. Yet the queen did not confine her affections. She knelt to listen to Sansa’s halting songs and praised them with a smile, and she asked Robb eager questions about his pony, about the kennels, about the names of every hound in the yard.

And Daenerys — shy little Daenerys, who at first hid her face in her nurse’s skirts — soon grew bold enough to laugh when Robb tugged her hand, to follow Sansa into the godswood, to let Jon lead her down the winding steps to the crypts. Catelyn would catch glimpses of them together, their heads bent close, whispering some secret game only children could share. At first she fretted at their haunts — the silent tombs, the weirwood’s eerie face — but their laughter rang bright, and in time she found herself smiling instead.

Even Viserys, whom she had expected to be haughty or proud, proved quiet, courteous, almost distant. He shadowed Ser Oswell as a squire, learning his duties with grave attention, and though he seldom sought company, he bowed with politeness whenever their paths crossed. A fine boy, Catelyn thought more than once. The queen has raised him well.

For a time, Winterfell felt almost whole. The children’s laughter filled the yards, the kitchens smelled always of bread and roast, and the queen mother’s voice was often heard in the hall, soft but steady.

And then Maester Luwin came to her.

“My lady.” His voice was careful, his hands folded around a ribbon-tied roll of parchment. The wax glistened black.

Her heart lurched. Ned.

She took it from him quickly, breaking the seal with hands that trembled despite herself. The words swam before her eyes at first, then steadied, and she exhaled at last, long and slow.

“News from the war,” she murmured. Her voice was steadier than she felt.

She pressed the parchment closed, keeping its words tight against her chest for a heartbeat.

“Are the queen and my good-sister still in the hall?” she asked.

Luwin inclined his head. “Aye, my lady. They remain at table.”

Catelyn drew herself upright, tucking the raven’s letter into her sleeve. “Then I must go to them.”

She left the maester behind, her steps quick across the stone, the echo of her heartbeat loud as a drum in her ears.

The great hall was quieter than usual. Most of the household had already taken their evening meal, leaving only the queen mother at the high table, Lyanna beside her, and Ser Oswell Whent standing sentinel in his black-and-purple surcoat. At his shoulder lingered young Viserys, pale and straight-backed, his violet eyes following every movement in the room with wary pride.

Catelyn paused a moment at the threshold, smoothing her skirts before she advanced. She felt the weight of her news heavy in her sleeve.

“Your Grace. Sister,” she said, inclining her head. “I hope I do not disturb your talk.”

Lyanna waved a hand, her mouth quirking. “Not at all. We were only debating whether Jon should spend some time at Dragonstone in years to come.”

Catelyn stopped short, surprise pricking her. Lyanna, who bristled at the thought of any hand upon her son but her own, entertaining the notion of fostering? It was no small thing. “That would be… a great distance,” she said carefully.

Rhaella’s lips curved, faint and wistful. “Blood calls to blood, my lady. It is a thought only, not a command. But Dragonstone is his heritage too, whatever name he bears.”

Lyanna’s jaw set, though she did not argue. Catelyn wondered at that. For her even to hear it shows how time has softened her. Or perhaps how Jon has grown.

The queen’s violet eyes fixed on her then. “But you did not come only to speak of fostering, Lady Stark. What brings you here?”

Catelyn drew out the scroll, the wax already broken by her hand. “A raven, from the south. News from the war.” She placed it upon the table.

Lyanna leaned forward as Rhaella unrolled the parchment. Together they read. Catelyn’s voice carried the summary:

“The royal fleet, with the Redwyne ships, met the Ironborn near Fair Isle. It was a bloody battle. Many ships lost, but the raiders were driven back. Now the hosts are mustering to strike at the isles. The Arryns, Tullys, and Starks prepare to sail from Seagard. The Dornish, Reachmen, crownlanders, and westermen gather at Faircastle.”

Lyanna snorted, folding her arms. “It’ll be a miracle if they don’t kill one another before they reach Pyke. Dorne, the Reach, and the West on the same deck? They’ll be at each other’s throats before long.”

Catelyn found herself nodding, though she spoke with the calm of a hostess. “Perhaps loyalty to the king will triumph over old quarrels.”

At that, Rhaella gave a soft, bitter sound — not quite a laugh. “Loyalty to my son?” Her eyes were tired. “No, Lady Stark. It is not Rhaegar who leads them. Jon Connington commands in his stead.”

Catelyn blinked, startled. She had pictured the silver prince himself astride a warhorse, as in the songs. “But… the king? Surely he would lead his men in such a cause.”

“Aye,” Lyanna said sharply. “He was never one to hide behind another’s shield. What keeps him in the Red Keep?”

For a moment, silence stretched. The fire in the hearth crackled, throwing shadows across the high beams. Rhaella’s gaze lowered to the parchment, but her hands had stilled. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost to herself.

“He has changed, since he took the throne.” She explained “Since…” She looked at Lyanna “since you left. Something in him broke, he has not been whole again.” She paused, then “And… and King’s Landing grows more dangerous by the day.”

Her words trailed off, and her eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward Ser Oswell, ever watchful at his post.

It was subtle, but Catelyn saw it. Lyanna did too; she straightened, her mouth tight.

The queen mother fell silent. Whatever else she wished to say, she did not dare.

Catelyn’s heart stirred uneasily. Was this visit to Winterfell truly for Jon’s sake alone? Or did the queen flee something darker, something she could not name with ears so near?

Lyanna broke the silence at last, her tone brisk, almost too brisk. “Well, I care little for southern squabbles. I only want Eddard and Benjen home again, safe and sound.”

Rhaella inclined her head, and the talk turned back to lighter matters — Jon’s growing boldness, Daenerys’s new fondness for the kennels, Sansa’s endless songs.

But Catelyn watched the queen’s face as they spoke, and the thought lingered like a shadow. There was more she wished to tell us. More than she dared speak aloud.

The castle was hushed when Catelyn took her seat before the mirror. A single candle guttered on the table, throwing long, flickering shadows across the chamber walls. She drew the brush slowly through her hair, auburn strands catching the light. The simple rhythm soothed her, and for a moment she let her mind drift southward.

Ned’s voice seemed to echo in memory, soft but certain: I love your hair. He had said it more than once, as his fingers wound through it on quiet nights. She smiled faintly at the thought, though her chest tightened.

Her hand strayed to her belly, small still, yet certain. What will you be? she wondered. Robb and Sansa bore her coloring — auburn and blue, true to Tully. Would this babe carry the Stark look instead? Grey eyes, long face, black hair? Ned would be glad, she thought. A child of Winterfell in full.

The brush stilled as a knock came at the door.

“My lady?”

Catelyn set the brush aside, rising to pull her robe tighter. When she opened the door, she found Wylla standing there, head bowed. The girl was no longer the slip of a maid who had ridden north at Lyanna’s side six years ago; her face had filled out, her steps grown steadier, yet her eyes remained bright and loyal.

“Wylla,” Catelyn said. “Is aught amiss? The children—?”

“No, my lady,” Wylla answered quickly. “They sleep well. I came with a message. Lady Lyanna asks for you. In the godswood.”

Catelyn blinked. “At this hour?”

The girl only inclined her head.

For an instant, Catelyn thought to refuse. The godswood unsettled her by day, with its pale weirwood looming, and at night it felt stranger still. But Wylla’s eyes were earnest, and curiosity pricked. If Lyanna called her, it must be no small thing.

“Very well,” Catelyn said at last. She drew a cloak about her shoulders and followed Wylla into the corridor.

The castle slept around them. The stone halls echoed only with their footsteps. Here and there, a torch burned low, casting more shadow than light. Guards patrolled with slow strides; some leaned drowsy against the walls, and one Catelyn passed was already snoring soft. The air smelled of smoke and cold stone.

At the doors of the godswood, Wylla dipped a curtsy. “The lady waits within. Good night, my lady.”

Catelyn touched her arm in passing. “Good night, Wylla.”

Alone now, she pressed through the ironbound door.

The godswood was a world apart. The air grew colder, damp with earth and leaf. The whisper of the black pool reached her first, then the white loom of the heart tree, its carved face weeping red as if freshly wounded. The sight never failed to unsettle her. To her eyes, the face was cruel, its mouth twisted in an endless cry, its eyes following her steps. She crossed herself out of old habit, murmuring a prayer to the Seven, though she was not certain they could hear her here.

She drew closer, the grass damp beneath her feet, the air still as a held breath. And she knew — in her bones, she knew — that whatever words were to pass beneath these trees, they would not be for any courtly pleasantries.

The air in the godswood was still, the surface of the black pool like dark glass. The heart tree loomed white as bone, its carved face weeping red into the water. Beneath its branches sat Lyanna, grey cloak wrapped about her shoulders, her hair dark and loose. Beside her stood Queen Rhaella, regal even in plain wool, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight. Viserys lingered at her side, silent, his sharp eyes fixed on the weirwood as if it might speak to him. Catelyn’s breath caught. Whatever this was, it was no courtesy visit.

Catelyn dipped her head, though her pulse quickened. “Your Grace. Sister.”

“Lady Stark,” Rhaella said, her voice soft but carrying.

Lyanna rose to her feet. “You came. Good. We were waiting.”

Catelyn looked from one to the other. “Why here? Why summon me to the godswood at night?”

Rhaella’s expression tightened. “Because I could not speak freely before. I do not trust the walls of your keep. Nor Ser Oswell’s ears.”

Catelyn frowned, unsettled. “You mistrust your own sworn knight?”

The queen’s lips curved in something too sad to be a smile. “I mistrust the world, my lady. A queen learns to.” She glanced once at Viserys, then back to Catelyn. “Here, with him asleep, with no guards but my son  — I may speak. At last.”

Lyanna gestured to the heart tree. “It is safe. Only Starks may enter here without leave. The old gods hear, but they do not whisper to men.”

The queen inclined her head. “Then listen, both of you. For what I tell you cannot leave these branches.”

Catelyn nodded, unease coiling in her belly.

Rhaella drew a breath. “King’s Landing grows more dangerous by the day. The Red Keep itself seethes with spies. Factions sharpen their knives in every shadow. The Dornish, with Prince Oberyn whispering behind my granddaughter Rhaenys and the boy Aegon. The Lannisters, rallying around young Joffrey — Cersei’s son by Rhaegar, and by law heir after Aegon. But there are others still, moving in darkness… others I dare not yet name.”

Catelyn’s throat tightened. “But— the realm has answered the king’s call against the Ironborn. I thought…”

“That all was healed?” Rhaella’s voice turned bitter. “No, Lady Stark. The realm only pretends at peace when the swords are pointed outward.”

Lyanna crossed her arms. “Then who are these ‘others’?”

The queen shook her head. “Schemes upon schemes. Varys’s little birds are restless, more than ever. My own son—” she glanced at Viserys “—I have sent him as squire to Ser Oswell, to learn what he may. And already his ears bring me whispers: poison in the kitchens, plots in the brothels, gold changing hands in dark cellars. A cheesemonger of Pentos pouring coin into both the throne and the Dornish. Selling loyalty like curds at market.”

Lyanna’s brow furrowed. “A cheesemonger? Who in the seven hells is he?”

“No one knows,” Rhaella said, her hands clenching in her lap. “A Pentoshi of wealth beyond reason. He feeds coin to Aegon’s cause, and bends knee to the Iron Throne. Even the Lannisters gnash their teeth for want of his name. They know only that he buys sellswords for Dorne, and more besides.”

Catelyn’s heart raced. She had thought of rivalries, yes — Lannister pride, Dornish fury — but this… gold flowing from Essos, whispers of poison, rumors sown like salt. “And the king?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. “What does Rhaegar do against this?”

Silence fell. Only the pool lapped gently at the stones.

Rhaella’s eyes lowered. “He does nothing. He sits in the library, while his council and Jon Connington rule in his stead. When Lyanna left, he grew quieter, more solemn — but he was still Rhaegar. After Joffrey’s birth… he shut himself away. For two moons he spoke to no one. Now, he lives for his books, his harp, his prophecies.”

Lyanna’s mouth tightened. “Still waiting for his Visenya.”

The queen’s eyes shone with sorrow. “Yes. I fear it consumes him. Not cruel madness, not like his father… but another kind. A madness of prophecy, of chasing visions that blind him to the world before his eyes.”

Catelyn shivered. She remembered the whispers: that when Jon was born in King’s Landing, the prince had not once gone to see him. Could a man truly turn from his son because he was not the daughter he wanted? She wanted to say no — yet the grief in the queen’s face told her yes.

Lyanna’s voice cut the silence. “So. This cheesemonger, these whispers. Why tell us?”

“Because I did not come north only for Jon,” Rhaella said. Her gaze softened, then steeled. “I came to beg a favor. For my daughter.”

“Daenerys?” Catelyn asked, startled.

The queen nodded. “Cersei has demanded that she come to King’s Landing on her tenth nameday, to live there fully. And Rhaegar agreed.” The word dripped with disappointment. “But I will not see my daughter snared in this game. I want her safe. I ask you, Lyanna — write a letter, confirming that Daenerys shall be fostered here, in the North. If it is your hand, Rhaegar will agree. He will not gainsay you.”

Catelyn drew a sharp breath. Foster the last princess of the dragon kings, here in Winterfell? She thought of Daenerys’s silver hair among the dark stone halls, of Sansa’s songs twined with her voice, of Jon and Robb wrestling with her at their side. But she thought too of plots and poisons, of the simmering court, of Rhaegar lost in his visions.

The queen’s eyes pleaded. “I ask not for myself, but for her. I will not see her devoured.”

The godswood was silent save for the weirwood’s sigh. Lyanna’s face was hard to read, wolf and woman both, her eyes fixed on her queen.

And Catelyn thought, with a chill: I believed the realm was strong, bound by the king’s call. But it is not. It simmers like a cauldron, and when it boils over, the pot will break, and all of us with it.

Chapter Text

Lyanna

Winterfell was full of noise again. The smithy rang from dawn to dusk, servants hurried along the galleries with baskets of bread and wheels of cheese, the kennels barked ceaselessly. The war was over, and the men were coming home.

Lyanna walked the keep with a ledger clutched in her hand, muttering under her breath. She would have laughed once, to see herself in such a role — Lyanna Stark, running stores and counting barrels, scolding bakers and butchers. Once, she would have mocked Catelyn for fretting over how much grain to put by, how many kegs of ale to keep fresh. But now, with her good-sister lying abed pale and weak from her birthing, the task fell to her.

And she hated it.

She hated tallying, hated listening to three cooks bicker over spice, hated choosing how many casks of mead to crack open for the feast when Ned returned. Yet she did it, because it had to be done, and because she respected Catelyn now in ways she never had before. To tend a castle was no small work. She had thought once it was embroidery and courtesies. She knew better now.

She’s stronger than I ever gave her credit for.

She turned a corner in the covered gallery and paused. Three small shapes huddled by the nursery door — Robb with his mop of auburn hair, Sansa with her skirts bunched in her fists, and Jon pressed between them, looking guilty as a pup caught at the larder.

Lyanna raised an eyebrow. “And what are my little wolves doing here?”

They jumped, spinning round. All three looked down at their boots at once. Silence stretched, until Sansa, ever the tattletale, blurted out, “It was Robb’s idea!”

Robb gaped at her, betrayal writ plain across his face. “I— I only—” he began, floundering.

Lyanna folded her arms. “Come to see your new sister, have you?”

The children shuffled. Robb looked ready to dig himself deeper, but Lyanna cut him off with a raised hand. “It’s all right. Just this once. But you mustn’t crowd her yet. She’s too small, and the maesters says babes are delicate in their first days. In time, she’ll be tumbling after you in the yard, and you’ll wish she’d give you a moment’s peace.”

That made them smile, Sansa’s eyes bright with the thought, Jon’s grin shy, Robb’s proud.

“Now off with you,” Lyanna said, shooing them gently. “Find mischief elsewhere. And try not to let Septa Mordane catch you at it.”

They scampered off, giggling, their quarrel forgotten as quickly as it had begun.

When they had gone, Lyanna lingered at the nursery door. She thought of her niece — Arya Stark. She had her brother’s grey eyes, Stark eyes, and hair dark as the direwolves of legend. Lyanna felt her heart beat faster at the thought.

She loved them all, Robb with his eager pride, sweet Sansa with her songs. But this one — this girl with Stark colors — she could not help but smile at the thought of her.

A true wolf, she thought. The North runs in her blood as fierce as the winter snows.

The bells of Winterfell rang clear and bright as Lyanna stood upon the steps of the great hall, the children clustered about her skirts. Guards lined the yard, the smallfolk pressed close to the walls, and above it all the banners stirred in the wind.

And then they saw them.

Dark shapes on the horizon, growing larger, until the grey direwolf of Stark unfurled in the breeze. Behind it rode men in column, their armor dented, their cloaks torn, yet their spines straight. At the head rode two figures in grey.

Ned and Benjen.

Her breath caught. Eddard looked leaner, harder than when he had left, but still whole. Beside him rode Benjen, his dark hair longer now, his jaw set. But it was his eyes that struck her — grey, cold, older than his years. The same eyes she had seen in Ned once, in the throne room at King’s Landing, after Rhaegar’s coronation. The eyes of a man hardened by war. No longer a boy, she thought, her chest tight. Never again a boy.

Around them rode familiar faces: Martyn Cassel, battered but unbowed, his son Jory riding proudly at his side; Ser Rodrik’s men; and towering Walder, straight as a spear, his broad shoulders unbent by the long campaign. They were home. All of them.

The gates yawned wide, and the company thundered through. As soon as the riders dismounted, the children broke from her side.

“Father!” Robb’s cry was a clarion call. He hurled himself into Ned’s arms, Sansa right behind him, clutching at her father’s leg as she smiled up through tears.

Jon, quieter, darted not to Ned but to Benjen, clinging to his leg with a boy’s fierce trust. Benjen dropped to a knee, gathering him close, his war-hardened face softening into something warmer.

Lyanna felt her heart swell and ache at once.

And then Ned was before her. He looked tired, road-worn, but the sight of him in grey wool and leather was as dear as the hearth in winter.

“Sister.” His voice was rough with travel.

“Brother,” she said, and smiled. “Welcome home.” She touched his arm, steadying him, steadying herself. “Come. You must see your daughter.”

Ned blinked, as if the words surprised him. Then the faintest smile touched his lips.

They went together — Ned, Benjen, and Lyanna — to the nursery. The air inside was warm, the shutters drawn to keep out the northern chill. The cradle stood near the fire, and within it slept the tiniest Stark of Winterfell. Arya.

She was dark-haired, grey-eyed, her fists balled at her cheeks as she breathed in soft, steady rhythm.

Ned stood over her, silent, his face unreadable. Lyanna watched him closely. He reached down at last, his hand brushing the babe’s small arm, as if afraid she might vanish at his touch.

“She looks like you,” Lyanna said softly. “The Stark look, this one.”

Ned’s lips pressed together, and he nodded once. His eyes lingered on the child, his shoulders easing just slightly, as if some invisible weight had shifted.

Behind them, Maester Luwin entered quietly. “Her condition is stable, my lord. The fever has broken. Lady Catelyn will recover swiftly now.”

Ned exhaled, long and low. “Good.” He glanced back to the cradle, then straightened. “I must see her.”

He left with quick steps, the children trailing behind, their laughter echoing down the hall.

Lyanna lingered a moment longer, gazing at the small face in the cradle, then at Benjen’s weary profile in the firelight. Her heart was full — with joy, with fear, with love that threatened to undo her.

Home, she thought. They are home. For now, that is enough.

The hall had grown quiet after the feasting. The men had gone to their beds, the children were long asleep, and even the hounds lay snoring before the hearth. Only a few candles burned low, their flames swaying in the draft, the scent of smoke and wine heavy in the air.

Lyanna poured herself a cup, then another, and slid it across the table to her brother. “So, Ben,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief, “tell me true. How many men did you kill? How many women did you bed? Should I be expecting some poor girl to come knocking at the gate with a bastard son of yours clinging to her skirts?”

Benjen barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Seven hells, Lya. You’ve a sharper tongue than ever.”

“And?” she pressed, grinning. “Was it five? Ten?”

He smirked. “Killed fewer than I’d like, bedded fewer than I might have. War leaves little time for either. And if there’s a Stark bastard running about, he’ll look nothing like me.”

She laughed then, the sound rich and free, like it had been when they were children racing through the Wolfswood. For a little while they traded jests, cups passing back and forth, the years of war falling away.

But then Benjen’s smile faded. His hand lingered on the cup, his eyes turning grave.

Lyanna cocked her head. “What is it? You look as though you swallowed a stone.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was low, heavy. “I’ll be leaving soon. For the Wall.”

Lyanna froze, the jest dying in her throat. She set her cup down sharply, the sound echoing in the empty hall. “What did you say?”

He did not repeat himself. He only looked at her, grey eyes full of sorrow.

“You can’t.” The words burst from her, raw. “You can’t, Ben. You’re needed here. I need you here. Ned will never allow it.”

Benjen’s mouth curved in a sad smile. “Ned knows. He agreed.”

Her breath caught. “No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said gently. “It’s decided. It’s an honor to —”              

She slammed her hand on the table, fury sparking in her chest. “Honor, is it? Always honor with the men of this family. You sound like Ned. Is that all we are, duty and honor until it kills us?”

Benjen sighed, and for a moment she glimpsed the boy he once was — the boy who had followed her into the stables, the boy who had begged to ride with Brandon, the boy who had laughed at her songs. But his voice was a man’s now.

“Since I was young, I wanted the black. Brandon was to inherit Winterfell, Ned his duty as second son. There was no place for me but the Wall, and I made my peace with it. When Brandon died, I stayed — for Ned, to help him learn his burden. And I stayed for you, too, Lya. Until Robb was born, until he was strong, until you found your feet again. But now…” He spread his hands. “Now my part here is done. Robb grows well. Jon too. And you… you’ve healed. You’re whole. You don’t need me any longer.”

“I do,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I do, Ben. You’re my little brother. You’re—”

But the words failed her. She wanted to forbid it, to order him as Lady Stark, as sister, as whatever she could be. But she saw it in his face: he was no longer her boy-brother, no longer the lad who had clung to her skirts. He was a man grown, and his choice was made.

Benjen rose from his chair and came around the table. He pulled her to her feet and into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.

“It will be all right, Lya,” he murmured into her hair. “The Wall is not an end. It’s a calling. I’ll be where I’m meant to be.”

She shook her head, choking on her tears. She clung to him as though her grip might keep him here, in this hall, in this moment. But her sobs came, hot and sharp, and at last she buried her face against him, weeping like the girl she had once been.

And he held her, strong and steady, until her tears soaked through his tunic, and the fire burned low.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The clang of steel rang across the yard, bright as bells. Catelyn stood in the gallery above, her cloak wrapped tight against the northern wind, watching the boys below.

Robb and Jon faced one another in the practice ring, wooden swords in hand, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the exertion. Martyn Cassel stood nearby, arms crossed, barking the occasional word of correction.

Robb pressed forward with all the strength of his eleven years, his blows heavy and sure. He would be a strong man, Catelyn thought, broad of shoulder like his father. Yet each time Robb swung, Jon turned the strike aside with quick wrists and quicker feet. He was lighter, swifter, his movements almost graceful.

“Again,” Martyn ordered.

The boys circled, their breath rising white in the air. Robb’s hair was auburn fire under the sun, Jon’s black as a raven’s wing. Brothers, near enough, yet so different.

Catelyn’s lips pressed thin. Robb had the strength. Yet Jon — Jon fought as though the sword was part of him. He did not have Robb’s weight, but he moved as if some inner flame guided him. She wondered — not for the first time — if it was his Targaryen blood that sang in him. The dragonlords had always birthed fierce warriors: Maegor the Cruel, Daemon Blackfyre, Brynden Rivers, the Young Dragon who conquered Dorne before his beard had sprouted.

Perhaps this boy carries some echo of that blood, she thought. Perhaps that is why the sword fits him so well.

She drew her cloak tighter. At the thought of dragons, her mind turned south — to the last raven from Queen Rhaella. The queen mother had written that she and her daughter Daenerys were on the road north, bound for Winterfell. My daughter will be safe with you, the words had said. Safer than in the Red Keep.

Catelyn remembered that night in the godswood five years past, when Rhaella had unburdened herself to her and Lyanna in whispers. The memory still sat in her chest like a stone. The rot of King’s Landing had been deeper than she had ever guessed: spies and plots in every corridor, Lannister red cloaks outnumbering the king’s own men, whispers that Aegon was not Rhaegar’s son.

They had told Ned what the queen confided. He had been surprised — as surprised as when, on the Iron Islands, he found Jon Connington leading the royal host in Rhaegar’s stead. “The king is unwell,” was all he had been told then. But none of them had known how far the king had drifted from his throne, or how deeply prophecy had claimed him.

Even so, when Rhaella begged, Ned agreed to foster Daenerys. And Lyanna had put her name to the letter, asking it of Rhaegar in her own hand. She had warned them not to expect a reply. But the reply had come, and it had borne his seal.

Catelyn still remembered Ned’s face when he broke the wax and read the words. Surprise, yes, and something else — a shadow of sorrow, perhaps, or of longing. Perhaps the king still loves her, Catelyn thought now, glancing across the yard to where Lyanna stood speaking with Walder near the stables. Perhaps that is why he agreed.

Below, the boys laughed as Robb at last managed to knock Jon sprawling in the snow. Both tumbled together, half-fighting, half-roughhousing, until Martyn dragged them apart with a gruff shake of his head.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. Boys will be boys.

The wind tugged at her hair, and she turned away. Soon there would be little time for watching boys at play. A queen and her daughter were coming north, and Winterfell must be ready to receive them.

She cast one last look over her shoulder, at Robb’s auburn head bent close to Jon’s black, at Sansa running from the hall to join them with a shriek of delight. Her heart ached, but she steadied it. Duty first, always.

And with that, Catelyn Stark went inside the keep to see to her charge.

The hall was warm with firelight. The smell of roast mutton and onions hung thick in the air, and laughter rose above the clatter of trenchers and spoons. Catelyn sat near the high hearth with her family about her, and for a little while the war and its shadows felt far away.

Robb and Jon were bent together over their meal, talking too quickly, interrupting each other, wooden swords and knightly tales spilling from their mouths in turn.

“I’ll be Ser Robb of Winterfell,” Robb declared, puffing his chest.

Jon snorted. “Not if you drop your guard like you did this morning.”

“I didn’t drop it!” Robb protested, but his grin betrayed him.

Sansa and Arya were listening raptly as Lyanna told one of her stories — a tale of a wild ride through the Wolfswood in her girlhood, her hair streaming behind her, hounds baying in her wake. Arya’s eyes were wide, shining with delight. Sansa’s hands were folded primly in her lap, but even she leaned forward, caught by the tale.

At her side, Ned ate with his usual quiet grace, Bran nestled against his arm, half-asleep with a crust of bread in his fist.

Catelyn looked around the table, at the faces lit by firelight, and her heart softened. My family.

When the meal slowed, Ned set down his cup. “A raven has come from White Harbor. Lord Wyman writes that the queen mother’s procession is on the road.”

All eyes turned to him. The hearth crackled, and even the children seemed to feel the weight of his words.

It was Lyanna who broke the silence, her mouth quirking. “So soon? How many days, Ned?”

“They will reach Winterfell within six or seven days — fewer, if the weather holds,” he responded.

Robb turned eagerly to Jon. “You’ll see your grandmother again!”

Arya frowned, her little brow furrowed. “Grandmother?” she echoed, puzzled. “She’s coming here?”

Ned chuckled, and Lyanna let out a bark of laughter, but Catelyn’s smile faltered. Of late, the girl had insisted that Jon was her brother and Lyanna her mother. “Because I look like them,” she had told her once, stubborn chin lifted. Catelyn had tried gently to remind her she bore her father’s look as well — but Arya would not hear it. “I look more like Jon and Aunt Lyanna than Robb and You,” she had said, and it was true enough.

The memory made Catelyn’s heart clench. Arya was wild and willful like her aunt, nothing like Sansa’s gentle grace. She was not at all like the lady she was meant to be. Ned had once spoken of the wolf’s blood that ran strong in their line. Catelyn had not understood it then, and she did not now. She only prayed it would pass.

Robb, earnest as ever, leaned to explain. “It’s Jon’s grandmother, Arya. Not ours. And his aunt Daenerys.”

Ned nodded gravely. “Princess Daenerys will live among us from now on. I expect you all to treat her with kindness and courtesy. She will be as a sister here.”

Jon said nothing, but Catelyn saw the eagerness in his eyes. The boy missed his grandmother keenly — the only kin of his father’s blood who had ever come north to see him. Once, when he was younger, he had longed for his father. He had asked often, in soft voices at his mother skirts, when he might meet him. Now, he never spoke of Rhaegar at all.

Perhaps he is right, Catelyn thought with sorrow. If a father does not come to his son, nor write, nor call him his own… what use is the longing?

Lyanna’s voice cut through her thoughts, sly and sharp. “When I passed through White Harbor, I heard whispers of a great tourney being readied at Casterly Rock. For Joffrey Targaryen’s nameday.” She gave a dry smile. “Lord Tywin must think very highly of his grandson, to host such pageantry. Almost as if he sees him as heir.”

Ned’s head turned, his grey eyes steady on his sister. A warning, silent but clear: not here.

Lyanna only shrugged, tearing another piece of bread.

Catelyn lowered her gaze, but her mind churned. She knew Lyanna spoke true. Lord Tywin wanted Joffrey raised high. That was his way — to shape the realm with gold and marriage, to twist the line of succession to his liking. The gods may have judged him innocent once, but in her heart Catelyn was not so sure.

She looked again at the table: Ned, solemn beside her; Lyanna with her wolfish smirk; Robb and Jon jostling elbows; Sansa listening wide-eyed; Arya smudged with stew; Bran asleep. Her family. Whole.

But the shadows from the south stretched long, even here. And she knew that when the queen mother crossed Winterfell’s gates, those shadows would lengthen still.

The yard of Winterfell filled with sound: the tramp of hooves on stone, the murmur of smallfolk gathered along the walls, the low call of horns from the gatehouse. Catelyn stood on the steps beside Ned and Lyanna, her children arrayed before her — Robb tall and proud, Sansa poised with her hands folded, Arya fidgeting, Bran blinking solemnly from her arms, and Jon a half-step apart, shifting with the eager impatience of a boy grown.

The banners appeared first: the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, rippling scarlet and black against the pale sky, though fewer than she remembered. The column that followed was smaller too, no more than a handful of mailed riders bearing the dragon, bolstered by men in sea-green cloaks with the merman of Manderly on their chests.

Catelyn frowned. So few, to bring a queen mother and her daughter through half the realm.

At their head rode Viserys Targaryen, no longer the pale, quiet boy who had lingered in her hall five years before. He rode straight in the saddle now, silver hair flowing, a knight’s sword at his side. Ser Oswell had knighted him himself, it was said, after a tourney where Viserys unhorsed Ser Jaime Lannister before all the court. A true knight, made so by steel and trial.

Catelyn’s gaze slid to Ned. She wondered if her husband thought what she did: that the Targaryen line still bred warriors, and that King’s Landing had not grown less dangerous.

And then the litter halted.

When the curtain was drawn, Queen Rhaella stepped forth, silver hair gleaming, violet eyes calm and grave. Age had not dimmed her beauty; she bore herself with the same serene strength that had unsettled Catelyn years before.

But it was the girl at her side who caught the court’s breath.

Daenerys Targaryen was no longer the shy child who had clutched her mother’s skirts. Her hair fell in long silver braids, her gown dyed deep crimson and black, her gaze bright as polished amethyst. She stood with poise, scanning the yard, and Catelyn thought with a pang of the little girl who once played at chasing wolves in the godswood. Now a princess, through and through.

The crowd hushed as Rhaella advanced. Ned stepped forward, solemn as stone.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “Winterfell bids you welcome. You honor us with your presence.”

Catelyn added her own curtsy. “The North is yours, my queen.”

Lyanna’s smile was smaller, more private. “Welcome”

The queen mother inclined her head, but when her eyes found Jon, her composure broke. She opened her arms, and the boy rushed forward, no longer shy as before but eager, certain. She drew him into her embrace, holding him as if she would never let go. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes.

“My sweet boy,” she murmured, kissing his dark hair. “How you’ve grown.”

Jon flushed with pride, standing taller, and Lyanna’s face softened at the sight.

Rhaella turned then, greeting the Stark children each in turn. Robb she called “handsome as his father,” Sansa she praised for her courtesy, Arya she bent to, though the girl only scowled at being fussed over. Bran, in Catelyn’s arms, she touched gently on the cheek.

At last, Ned spoke again, his voice edged with concern. “Your escort is light, Your Grace. Too light, for a journey so long. Why so few?”

The queen’s eyes lowered. “Lord Manderly was good enough to lend men from White Harbor. More would have drawn eyes, and I would not have risked it.”

A silence followed. Catelyn felt the weight of what went unsaid. Not from the king. Not from the court. No banners but her own, and so few of them.

Ned gave a curt nod, the line of his jaw hard. “You are safe now. Winterfell is yours.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.” Rhaella straightened, her voice serene once more. “You are most kind.”

Ned offered his arm, and she took it, ascending the steps. Lyanna fell into step beside Daenerys, speaking soft words. Jon lingered at their side, eyes shining, drinking in every moment with his grandmother, his kin.

Catelyn remained a pace behind, Bran heavy in her arms, watching as the procession entered the keep.

The queen mother returns to Winterfell with only a handful of swords. A dragon come north, not in fire and fury, but in exile and in need. And it falls to us to keep her safe.

The stones of Winterfell were cold beneath her feet as Catelyn made her way through the corridor, her steps echoing faintly against the high, arched ceiling. A torch sputtered in its iron sconce, casting long shadows across the walls.

Her mind was far from the keep. She kept turning over the sight of the queen’s arrival: so few men, no great banners, no roar of power. Rhaella Targaryen had ridden into Winterfell like a widow returning to kin, not like a queen mother of a realm. Did Rhaegar not care for her safety? Or worse — did he no longer command enough loyalty to send her north with strength?

The thought chilled her. What has happened in King’s Landing?

At the door to Ned’s solar, two figures stood. One was Walder, towering as always, his great bulk filling the stone archway. He bowed his head slightly as she approached, grey eyes calm, hand resting on the axe at his hip. Beside him was Viserys Targaryen, taller now, silver hair spilling loose over his shoulders, a knight’s sword at his side.

“Lady Stark,” Viserys said with a courtesy that surprised her. His voice had lost its boyish waver, though his violet eyes still held a restless gleam.

“My prince,” she returned with a nod.

Walder stepped forward and swung the heavy door open. The hinges groaned faintly, and warm light spilled into the hall.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of ink and wax. Lyanna stood by the fire, arms folded, while the queen mother sat poised in a high-backed chair, her face composed but weary. Behind the desk, Ned bent over a scatter of parchments and maps, quill in hand, his brow furrowed.

Lyanna looked up first. “Sister,” she said, her voice carrying both warmth and formality.

Catelyn drew in a breath, smoothed her skirts, and stepped inside. The door closed heavily behind her, muffling the sounds of the keep. For a heartbeat, only the crackle of the fire and the faint scratch of Ned’s quill filled the chamber.

She knew then, as she looked between them — Lyanna’s sharp eyes, Rhaella’s calm, Ned’s grim set jaw — that this would not be a simple courtesy meeting.

The fire snapped in the hearth, throwing shadows across the maps scattered over Ned’s desk. Lyanna stood at the window, arms folded, her eyes never leaving the queen mother. Ned leaned forward on his hands, face grim.

It was Rhaella who spoke first. Her voice was calm, but each word carried weight.

“Much has changed since the Greyjoys bent the knee. The war left scars, not only on the isles. In King’s Landing, the great houses scented weakness. The Tyrells most of all. They bled heavily for Rhaegar — ships, gold, good men — and they demand recompense. They press now for a marriage between young Margaery and Aegon.”

Lyanna snorted. “Typical. The Reach forever looking to wed their way to power.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “And Dorne? They would never stomach such a match.”

“At first, they opposed it,” Rhaella admitted, “but even Dorne tires of bleeding. In time, they began to welcome the idea.”

Lyanna’s mouth tightened, but she held her tongue.

Catelyn, watching, felt a pang. So the boy is bartered already, one way or another. A pawn before he is a man.

Rhaella went on. “Rhaegar had other notions. He thought to heal the realm with Robert’s house. He proposed a match between Aegon and Robert’s daughter, Argella. But Robert would not hear it. He still spits at the dragon name.”

Ned’s voice was flat. “Robert will never forgive. Not Rhaegar. Not the throne.”

Silence lingered a moment, heavy with truths no one wished to voice.

Rhaella sighed. “So the court sank deeper into factions. The Dornish, the Lannisters, the Tyrells — three camps now, circling one another like wolves about a carcass.”

“And the king?” Lyanna asked, her tone sharp. “What does Rhaegar do while his realm tears itself apart?”

Rhaella hesitated, then said softly, “For a long time… nothing. He drifted. But then Visenya was born.”

At the name, Lyanna stiffened. Ned’s gaze flicked to her, wary.

“When Visenya drew her first breath,” Rhaella continued, “Rhaegar seemed reborn himself. He dotes on her more than he ever did Aegon, Rhaenys or Joffrey. He attends council again, walks the yard with the boys, even smiled in the yard when he watched her in her cradle. For a time, all thought the king had returned to them.”

“And yet…” Ned prompted.

“And yet the balance shifted,” Rhaella said. “The Red Keep swells with Lannister men. Cersei at his side, whispering. Joffrey ever at his knee. Some even whisper that he will name Joffrey heir, not Aegon.”

Lyanna’s hand curled into a fist.

Rhaella’s eyes were bleak. “I see it. Joffrey is cruel. Not mad, as Aerys was, but cruel and spoiled. He toys with the servants, he strikes squires. All that he is, he learns from his mother. And yet Rhaegar… he looks upon Visenya, upon her mother, and he sees prophecy fulfilled.”

Lyanna’s laugh was harsh. “Prophecy. Always prophecy. That cursed word will be the death of us all.”

Ned shot her a look, as if to quiet her before the queen, but Rhaella only lowered her gaze. “You are not wrong, my dear.”

Catelyn felt a chill. She remembered the boy Jon’s face when asked about his father, the way he had looked away. So much hunger for one child, so much neglect for another. What kind of king is this?

Ned leaned back. “Connington, then. He still commands?”

“Yes,” Rhaella said. “And he bargains still. He woos the Tyrells for Aegon’s match, to counter the lions. But Rhaegar himself now courts the lions more openly. He offered Joffrey for Argella, if Robert would have it. Robert spat it back at him again.”

Ned’s mouth was grim. “Robert will never give his daughter to a dragon.”

Lyanna cut in. “And the great tourney? Was that Tywin’s scheme, or Rhaegar’s?”

Rhaella’s lips curved bitterly. “Tywin would have had it for Joffrey, but Rhaegar commanded it be for Visenya. All the realm rides to Casterly Rock to see a babe’s name day turned into pageantry.”

Lyanna shook her head. “The lion’s claws are sunk deep.”

The queen inclined her head. “Deeper still. Whispers grow in every hall — that Aegon is not Rhaegar’s son. Lies, sown by the Lannisters, yet they spread. Too many listen. Even some Dornish lords whisper it now.”

Ned’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“And Dorne?” Lyanna asked.

“Prince Doran knows his house weakens,” Rhaella said. “So he seeks new ties. He has sent word, offering matches. Daenerys to Dorne. Viserys to Dorne. Even the Reach presses for Daenerys’s hand. All of them seek to bind her, to bind us.”

Her gaze settled at last on Catelyn, and in those violet eyes Catelyn saw sorrow — and a plea.

“This is why I brought her north,” Rhaella said quietly. “Why I put her into your keeping. Because in King’s Landing, every smile hides a snare. They do not want my daughter for love. They want her for power. And I will not see her swallowed by their games.”

The solar was silent save for the crackle of the fire.

Lyanna’s voice was low, fierce. “You were right to bring her here.”

Ned’s eyes shifted to the queen. “And yet the storm will still break. Sooner or later, it will break.”

Catelyn folded her hands in her lap, her heart heavy. The queen mother brings her child into our hall for safety — yet she brings with her all the weight of the realm’s quarrels. How long before those shadows stretch even to Winterfell?

The fire popped in the silence, sending sparks up the chimney. Ned shifted in his chair, his fingers drumming once on the edge of the map before stilling.

“I have had ravens as well,” he said at last. His voice was low, careful. “From Dorne. From the Reach. Both spoke of… marriages. Proposals for my children. Robb. Sansa.” His eyes flicked to Lyanna. “Even Jon.”

Catelyn’s breath caught sharp in her throat. Robb and Jon were still boys. Sansa but a little girl with her dolls and her songs. The thought of lords whispering of them in bedchambers and alliances made her stomach twist.

“Already?” she said before she could stop herself. “They would have our children bartered before they’re grown?”

Rhaella’s violet eyes rested on her, full of weary understanding. “That is the way of kings and lords, my lady. And queens.” She looked at Ned “And from King’s Landing?”

“No,” Ned said after a pause. “No word from the Red Keep.”

The words hung, heavy. And before Catelyn could think, she heard her own voice break the silence.

“Of course not. They would never propose a match to the North. Not after what happened to Lord Rickard and Brandon.”

The moment the words left her mouth, regret seared her. She glanced at Lyanna and saw her good sister face falter, sorrow shadowing her eyes.

“I—” she began, but no words came.

It was Rhaella who spoke, her tone soft, almost gentle. “Do not regret it, Lady Stark. You speak true. In council, they spoke quietly of binding the North, yes. But always with fear in their voices. Not with trust.”

Ned’s head came up, frowning. “Fear? Why? The North has bent the knee. I have given no cause for doubt.”

Rhaella’s gaze met his, steady and unflinching. “Because they are afraid of the alliance you represent.”

Ned blinked. “Alliance? What alliance?”

“The North. The Vale. The Riverlands.”

Shock flickered across his face, quickly schooled to stone. “There is no such pact,” he said sharply. “No alliance.”

“I know,” Rhaella replied. “But perception rules in King’s Landing as much as truth. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands — all rose in rebellion together. All bled together. And all are bound by marriage now. Jon Arryn calls you son. Hoster Tully does the same. The court remembers. And they wonder, when the day comes, what side Lord Stark will choose.”

Ned leaned back, grey eyes hard. “There is no side to choose. My loyalty is to the crown. To the king.”

Lyanna’s mouth tightened. “And yet that is why they seek to bind Robert to them. Because of what lies between you two. The crown remembers the fallout, how the stag and the wolf stood apart in the throne room. They fear where Robert will turn, and where you might follow.”

Catelyn remembered it too, the story Ned had told her in halting words: Robert demanding Lyanna’s hand even after all, and Ned refusing him with a coldness that had nearly broken their bond. And the court had watched, she thought. They never forgot.

Rhaella folded her hands in her lap. “It is only a matter of time. Dorne clings to what remains of its blood on the throne. Tywin Lannister has ambition enough to fill the Red Keep. The Tyrells grasp for a piece as well. And Rhaegar…” She paused, her voice lowering. “Rhaegar is blind to all of it.”

The fire crackled. No one spoke.

Catelyn glanced at Ned — her husband’s face was unreadable, but his hands were fists on the desk. Lyanna’s eyes, by contrast, burned with anger, the wolf in her alive and fierce. And the queen mother, calm and poised, seemed suddenly the saddest woman Catelyn had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Eddard

The yard rang with laughter, the twang of bowstrings, the clatter of arrows against wood. Ned stood with Catelyn at his side, watching his sons.

Robb and Jon were at Bran’s shoulders, each guiding him with the patient gravity of boys who thought themselves men. Bran drew the bowstring back with all the strength of his small arms, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth. The arrow flew wide, striking the dirt well short of the target.

Bran’s cheeks burned red, but Robb clapped him on the back. “Closer this time. You’ll find your mark soon enough.”

Jon bent to retrieve the boy’s arrow, his dark hair falling forward. “Keep your elbow higher,” he instructed. “Like this. See?” He nocked the shaft with ease, and his arrow thudded into the target’s rim.

Ned’s mouth curved faintly. A poor marksman yet, but Bran tries with Stark stubbornness. That will serve him better than skill, in time.

Movement at the far side of the yard caught his eye. Sansa walked with Daenerys, Jeyne Poole, and Beth Cassel, their heads bent close, skirts gathered from the mud as they made their way toward the kitchens. Their voices were bright as bells.

Ned’s gaze lingered on the silver-haired girl among them. Daenerys had grown tall in the years she had spent beneath his roof, her braids neat, her laughter soft. She had taken to the North in truth — she and Sansa fast friends, and no less close to Robb and Jon. Good, Ned thought. Let her be as a sister to them. Better she grow here in Winterfell than be swallowed in the lion’s den or the viper’s nest.

The sound of hooves broke his reverie. Two riders swept through the gate: Lyanna on her great black mare, her hair streaming, and beside her Arya, astride the little pony he had given her at her last nameday. The girl’s dark hair was wild as her aunt’s, her cheeks flushed with wind and speed.

Arya slipped from the saddle with no grace at all, laughing, mud on her boots and leaves in her hair. Lyanna followed more lightly, her eyes bright.

“She grows wilder every day,” Ned murmured, half to himself.

Catelyn’s sigh was soft, resigned. “Her wolfsblood,” she said.

“Aye,” Ned agreed. “But she has Lyanna to curb her fire. Arya will not be tamed by needlework or courtesies. Only her aunt can keep her from running headlong into folly.”

Catelyn pressed her lips together, but did not argue. She had learned, as he had, that Arya would not bend to the spindle as Sansa did.

Ned watched them fondly, until a shadow fell behind him. Walder loomed there, vast as always, his axe across his back, his grey eyes solemn.

“My lord,” the giant-voiced man said, bowing his head. “They’ve caught a deserter from the Watch. Near the old well.”

Ned’s smile died. The yard’s warmth seemed to chill at once.

He nodded once. “Ready the men. Robb and Jon will ride with us.” His eyes flicked to Bran, still struggling with his bow.

Beside him, Catelyn stiffened. “He is but seven,” she said quickly, her voice low but sharp. “Too young to watch a man die.”

Ned looked at her, grey eyes steady. “He will not be a boy forever.” His hand brushed the hilt of Ice at his side, the weight of duty ever present. “Winter is coming.”

For a heartbeat Catelyn held his gaze, her lips parted as if to argue. Then she lowered her eyes and gave a small, reluctant nod.

Ned turned back to the yard. His children laughed still, unaware. Soon enough, Bran would ride with them. Soon enough, he would learn what it meant to bear the Stark name.

The wind bit sharp on the barrows beyond Winterfell. Snow lay in patches across the frozen earth, the trees black against a pale sky. They had ridden out with a dozen Stark guards, Lyanna at his side, Robb and Jon close behind, and Bran astride his pony.

Arya had wanted to come, wild-eyed and defiant. “If Bran can go, why can’t I?” she had demanded.
It was Lyanna who bent low and whispered something about a new knife trick she had learned from a hedge knight. Arya had pouted, then relented, her fire dimmed for the moment.

Now the deserter stood bound before them, a gaunt man in torn black, his eyes hollow. The guards shoved him to his knees before Ice.

Ned regarded him, cold breath rising in the still air. “You are a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch,” he said. “You have deserted your post. By law, that crime is death. Do you have any last words?”

The man’s voice cracked, thin and wild. “I saw them. Blue-eyed devils in the snow. Tall as men, cold as death. I should not have run, I should have warned the Wall. Gods forgive me. I am sorry.”

Murmurs rustled through the guards, but Ned’s face did not change. He drew Ice, the great Valyrian blade heavy in his hands, and lifted it high.

“In the name of King Rhaegar Targaryen,” he said, voice steady, “I, Eddard Stark of Winterfell, sentence you to die.”

The blade fell. The man’s head tumbled to the frost, blood steaming in the cold. Silence followed, heavy as the sky.

Robb was the first to speak, his young voice solemn. “It was a good death.”

Jon shook his head, his dark eyes lingering on the corpse. “He was afraid.”

Ned turned to them. “A man can only show true courage when he is afraid. Remember that.”

Robb nodded, chewing on the words. Jon said nothing, his gaze still on the body.

Then Bran spoke, his voice small. “What did he mean? About blue-eyed monsters?”

Before Ned could answer, Lyanna put on a mock-spooky tone. “The Others,” she said, widening her eyes. “Pale as ice, with giant spiders as big as hounds at their side. Old Nan says they ride through the dark when the snows fall deepest.”

Bran shivered, though half with delight. Robb snorted. “Those are only stories. Old Nan’s tales to scare Rickon”

Lyanna laughed. “I remember you crawling and weeping into my bed once after you heard one of those tales.”

Robb flushed red. “I did not weep.”

Ned let the moment hang, watching the laughter spark between them, before he said, “Enough.” His voice carried the weight of command. “Ready the horses. We ride for Winterfell.”

As the guards gathered their things, he drew Bran aside. The boy looked up at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks pink from the cold.

“Do you know why I did it?” Ned asked quietly.

“Because he was a deserter,” Bran said quickly. “He had to die.”

Ned inclined his head. “Yes. But do you know why I had to do it myself?”

Bran frowned. “Because… the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

Ned rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Just so. If you would take a man’s life, you must hear his last words. You must look into his eyes and know what you do. It is a hard way… but it is our way.”

Bran nodded slowly, the lesson sinking into him like the cold.

Ned squeezed his shoulder once, then released him. “Now go. And do not let your aunt’s tales trouble your sleep. She only seeks to scare you.”

Lyanna grinned when Bran hurried back to Robb and Jon, already protesting that he wasn’t frightened.

Ned sheathed Ice, the great sword whispering as it slid home.

The hooves of their horses beat a steady rhythm on the frozen earth, the long road stretching before them like a pale ribbon. Ahead, Robb and Jon rode abreast, their cloaks streaming, voices carrying back in bursts of laughter and challenge. Boys still, though their shoulders were broadening, and their talk was more often of swords than toys.

Lyanna rode at Ned’s side, her black hair half-unbound from the wind. She handled her mare with ease, posture loose, as if horse and rider were one. Ned watched her a moment before he spoke.

“You should not fill their heads with such terrors,” he said quietly. “Last time you set Rickon weeping with your tales of giants, he would not sleep for days.”

Lyanna only smiled, her grey eyes dancing. “What is childhood without a few good nightmares? They’ll thank me when they’re grown.”

Ned shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You were always too free with your fancies. I remember when you had me half-convinced the wildlings would snatch me from my bed.”

Her laugh was bright and unrepentant. “And Benjen had it worse. Do you recall the night he crawled into Brandon’s bed, sobbing from some tale I told?”

Ned did remember — and he found himself chuckling despite the years. “Aye. And Brandon thought it was some maid slipping under his furs, and then…”

Lyanna’s laughter broke loud against the trees. “And then he near wet himself, holding him! Gods, how I miss that.”

Their laughter ebbed, leaving only the sound of the horses. Lyanna’s smile lingered, but her voice turned softer. “I miss even the nightmares. The silly ones. Because now, when I dream… it is always Father. Burning. And Brandon choking, trying to save him.”

Silence settled heavy between them. Ned’s chest ached, memory pressing in: smoke and fire, the screams that never left him. He reached for words but found none.

It was Lyanna who broke the silence, her smile returning, softer this time. “Do you know Jon used to wake crying of dragons? When he was little. He dreamt of a dragon in the crypt.”

Ned raised a brow. “A dragon?”

She nodded. “In the dark, coiled among the kings of winter. He swore its eyes were on him.”

Ned’s mouth tightened. Strange dreams for a boy so young. He glanced at Jon riding ahead, dark hair flying in the wind as he leaned into his saddle beside Robb.

The two boys shouted then and spurred their horses, breaking into a sudden race down the road. Their laughter trailed behind them, swallowed by the trees. Ned felt a smile tug at his lips despite himself.

“Perhaps I should race them,” Lyanna said, a spark in her eye. “Humble them a little. Show them there’s always a better rider.”

“And who is better than you, little sister?” Ned asked dryly.

“No one,” she answered without hesitation — then her grin turned sly. “Though Arya is a finer rider than me, when I was her age.”

Ned let out a low laugh, pride and exasperation mingling. “Gods help me when that one is grown.”

The sound of laughter was cut short by shouts from the road ahead. A commotion, sharp and sudden, carried back on the cold air. Ned straightened in his saddle, hand going to the hilt of his sword. Lyanna was already spurring her mare forward, hair streaming like a banner.

Together, they urged their horses into a gallop, following the sound.

Shouts carried down the road as Ned spurred his horse forward, Bran clinging before him. Steel gleamed in the hands of his guards.

“Back, m’lady!” one cried. “Stand back!”

Then he saw it.

A great grey beast stood in the snow, larger than any hound, tall as a horse on all fours. Its eyes burned pale as moonlight, its fur ragged and bristling. Robb and Jon had dismounted, frozen in place, their young faces pale but resolute. And Lyanna — gods help him — Lyanna was walking toward the monster, one hand outstretched.

“Lyanna!” Ned swung down from his saddle. “Get back!”

She did not turn. The wolf’s breath steamed in the cold air, each exhale a plume. Its head lowered, ears flat, teeth bared. The guards circled tighter, blades raised, Walder looming like a mountain with his axes ready to fly.

“Hold!” Lyanna’s voice cut through the tension, sharp as a whip. “Do nothing!”

The men froze. Even Walder hesitated, his axes half-lifted, eyes flicking to Ned.

“Lyanna…” Ned started, Bran pressed to his side. Fear coiled tight in his chest. She is mad, fearless as ever. Does she mean to die?

“Mother,” Jon whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking. “Come back.”

But Lyanna only moved closer, step by step, her boots crunching in the frost. She held her hand open, palm forward. The great beast sniffed at it, the sound deep and heavy in the silence.

Then — impossibly — it lowered its head.

Lyanna’s fingers brushed the fur. The wolf’s pelt was thick and coarse, but the animal did not shy away. With slow, careful strokes, she ran her hand along its neck. Around them, the guards gasped as the beast — the direwolf — sat back on its haunches, docile beneath her touch.

“There now,” she murmured, her voice soft as snow. “Easy.” She turned her head slightly. “Jon. Come.”

The boy stepped forward, cautious but determined, and reached out with his hand. The wolf sniffed once, then allowed Jon’s fingers to press against its fur. Robb followed, emboldened, his cheeks flushed with wonder.

“A direwolf,” Martyn Cassel breathed, awe in his voice. “By the gods… they’ve not been seen south of the Wall for three hundred years.”

“Until now,” Lyanna said without looking back. Her smile was wild and proud, a wolf’s smile.

Walder rumbled, lowering his axe. “And she is not alone.”

Ned stepped closer, Bran clutched tight at his leg. He saw then what Lyanna had seen first — the great swell of the she-wolf’s belly, heavy with pups.

“She carries young,” Lyanna said, her hand still stroking the beast.

Ned knelt slowly, keeping Bran shielded behind him, and reached out. The fur beneath his fingers was thick with winter, warm despite the cold. The direwolf did not stir, only watched him with those pale, unblinking eyes.

“She is wounded,” Lyanna added. She brushed her hand lower, to the beast’s hind leg. Ned followed her gaze and saw it — a deep gash, half-healed, matted with dried blood. A wound no wolf should have survived. What manner of foe had struck her down?

“She should be left to die,” muttered Jory Cassel, voice uneasy. “What if she turns on us — or on the smallfolk? What if she tears into Winterfell’s hall itself?”

Lyanna rose in one fluid motion and faced him. “She will not. She seeks only a safe place to give birth.” She turned her head toward Jon, the boy still resting his hand against the wolf’s side. “A mother knows such things.”

Her words hung in the cold air, stronger than steel.

Ned looked from Lyanna to Jon, to the beast calm under their touch. His heart told him this was folly, danger and madness both. But another voice — older, deeper, the voice of the North itself — whispered that there was something fated here.

He straightened. “We will take her to Winterfell. She will be tended.”

The guards murmured, unease rippling through them, but none dared gainsay him.

Lyanna’s smile flashed, fierce with triumph. She stroked the direwolf’s muzzle once more, then stepped back as the men began to gather ropes and litters. Jon’s face glowed with wonder, Robb’s too, Bran peeking wide-eyed from behind his father’s cloak.

Ned laid a hand on his horse, watching the she-wolf rise slowly to her feet. He could feel the weight of omen pressing on the air. A direwolf returned to the Stark lands, after three hundred years.

The godswood was hushed but for the whisper of the leaves and the slow scrape of steel on stone. Ned sat beneath the heart tree, the pale weirwood looming over him with its red eyes and bleeding mouth, Ice stretched across his knees. The great sword caught the dappled light that filtered through the branches as he ran the oiled cloth along its rippling steel.

He thought of the past days — the deserter kneeling before him, wild-eyed with his talk of blue-eyed demons in the snow; the direwolf towering in the road, calm only at Lyanna’s hand; the whispers through the keep when they brought the beast within the gates.

Catelyn had nearly fainted at the sight. Arya had rushed to the wolf fearless, pressing her small hand into the thick grey fur. Sansa, timid at first, had inched forward and stroked it too, her face lit with wonder. Even Daenerys had come, reaching out to touch the beast’s flank. But not all were welcome. At times the wolf bared its teeth, and only when Lyanna stood near did it settle.

Ned drew the cloth down the blade and frowned. What does it mean, old gods? Why send such a creature south of the Wall, now of all times?

“Ned.”

He turned. Catelyn stood at the edge of the clearing, her cloak drawn close, the cold on her cheeks. He set Ice aside and rose.

“What brings you here, my lady? If this is about the wolf again—”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “In part. I do not always understand your sister… the things she does, the things she decides. But I hope she knows what she is about with that beast.”

Ned studied her face. She was weary from the babe, from the weight of the castle, from years of trying to shape herself to the North. He reached for her hand briefly, then let it go. “You need not fear it. The beast is no threat. She will be gone once her wound is healed, once her pups come.”

Catelyn’s lips tightened, but she nodded. Then she drew a scroll from within her cloak and held it out, a faint smile touching her face. “This came with the morning’s ravens. From Storm’s End.”

Ned took it. His breath caught as he read the seal. “Robert.”

“Aye,” she said. “After all these years. He asks to come north. He writes that it has been too long, and that it is time old friends spoke again.”

Ned felt a laugh rumble low in his chest, though it was touched with sadness. “I was never angry with him. Not truly. If Robert wishes to come north, he will be welcome.”

Catelyn’s smile lingered, then faded as worry returned to her eyes. “And what of King’s Landing? If word spreads that Robert rides to Winterfell, what will they think? That you and he plot together? The realm is fragile, and the whispers grow by the day. They speak already of betrothals — Rhaenys to Edmure, Visenya to little Robert Arryn. They imagine alliances to break where none exist. If they hear of Robert here…”

Ned turned his gaze up to the heart tree, its carved face watching him in silence. The red sap wept from its eyes like blood. The realm is a tinderbox, he thought. But a man cannot turn from an old friend forever.

“Let them whisper,” he said at last, his voice firm. “Robert and I are but two old friends. That is all. If they would make shadows out of it, let them. I will not shut my gates to him.”

Catelyn studied him a moment longer, then inclined her head. “I will tell Maester Luwin to send the reply.”

When she left, the godswood fell silent again. Ned sank back to the roots of the heart tree, Ice heavy across his knees, the blade gleaming darkly. He thought of Robert’s laughter, of Lyanna’s wolf, of the dead man’s words of blue-eyed monsters.

Winter was coming.

Chapter Text

Jon

The clang of dull iron rang through the yard, echoing off Winterfell’s grey stone. Jon gritted his teeth, sweat beading down his brow as Robb came at him, practice sword raised high. He met the blow with his own, the crack of wood and iron jarring his arms.

“Good!” Martyn Cassel’s voice carried. “Balance, both of you. Keep your feet steady!”

They circled each other, boots crunching on the packed snow, breathing hard. Around them, the yard bustled with life: squires fetching water, grooms leading horses, the ring of the smith’s hammer from the forges.

At the edge of the yard, his mother stood with little Rickon perched on her hip, her free arm wrapped around Arya. They cheered both boys on, Lyanna’s voice sharp as a hawk’s, Arya’s shrill with excitement.

“Faster, Robb!” Arya called.
“Break his guard, Jon!” Lyanna urged, smiling wolfishly.

Their voices spurred him on. Jon lunged, forcing Robb back a pace. But then new voices rose, lighter, softer, drawing his gaze.

Sansa, Jeyne Poole, and Beth Cassel entered the yard in a flutter of cloaks and giggles. With them walked Daenerys Targaryen, her silver hair braided down her back, violet eyes bright in the pale light.

Jon felt his stomach twist.

Robb saw them too. His stance shifted at once — cautious now, measured, as though suddenly aware that each swing and parry was being watched. Jon pressed, and pressed harder, noting the change. Robb’s strikes grew slower, defensive.

Jon forced himself to forget her eyes on him and drove in, shoulder low, blade cutting across. Robb’s guard faltered. Jon swept his leg and with a sharp shove sent his brother sprawling onto the hard ground.

The yard erupted in cheers.

“Well done, both of you,” Martyn said, his face stern but his eyes approving. “Good strength, Jon. And you, Robb — don’t let your head wander when your body’s in the fight.”

Jon reached down, offered Robb a hand. Robb clasped it, pulling himself up with a rueful grin. Both of them turned at once toward the place where the girls had stood. But Daenerys was gone, walking back into the keep with the others.

Jon wiped sweat from his brow, a smile tugging at his lips.

“You change your footing every time she looks at you,” he muttered low enough for only Robb to hear.

Robb’s ears reddened. “That’s not true.”

Jon smirked. “It is. If you want to impress her, you’ll need to fight better, not differently. You’re too easy to read.”

Robb scowled, though there was no true anger in it. “She’s like a sister to us.”

“Of course,” Jon said, grinning wider. “A sister.”

Before Robb could retort, Lyanna strode over, Arya skipping at her side. She beamed at them, pride flashing in her grey eyes.

“Well fought, both of you,” she said, her voice warm. Then she reached for Jon, tugging him close, and pressed a quick kiss to his brow.

Jon froze, mortified, as Arya burst out laughing and Robb grinned wickedly. Around them the guards chuckled, even Martyn’s stern mouth quirked.

“You’ve grown so much in so little time,” Lyanna said fondly, her arm around his shoulders. “But you’ll always be my little wolf, no matter how tall you stand.”

Jon squirmed, his cheeks aflame. “Mother…”

Lyanna only laughed, holding him tighter. Rickon gurgled in her other arm, tiny fists grasping at Jon’s hair.

Robb leaned in with a smirk. “Little wolf.”

Jon scowled, shoving him lightly, which only made Arya cackle louder.

Before Robb could tease him further, a shout carried across the yard.

“Ho, m’ lords! M’ lady!” It was Farlen, the kennelmaster, waving from the gates of the kennels, his voice urgent. “She’s going to whelp! The wolf — she’s giving birth!”

Arya’s eyes went wide as moons. She let out a squeal of delight and darted off at once, Rickon bouncing in Lyanna’s arms as he laughed at his sister’s mad dash.

Lyanna only smiled, her grey eyes glinting. “Go on,” she told Jon and Robb, giving them each a push. “Fetch the others. No Stark should miss this.”

Jon’s heart quickened as he glanced at Robb, then toward the kennels where Arya had already disappeared. The sound of the direwolf’s low, rumbling growl carried faintly on the air, mingling with Arya’s excited chatter.

He ran.

The kennels smelled of hay, old straw, and the sharp musk of hounds, but all of Winterfell seemed to crowd inside regardless. The torches cast long shadows across the timber walls as they pressed together in silence: Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn at the front, Sansa and Jeyne and Beth clinging to one another, Bran on tiptoe, Arya wriggling free of Nan’s hand, Daenerys pale-eyed beside them. Even Maester Luwin stood close, fingers laced, his breath quiet.

Walder loomed like a stone tower in the corner, arms folded, while Farlen crouched nearest the stall, murmuring soft words of comfort. The only sound was the low, throaty whimper of the she-wolf, her flanks heaving, her great body curled protectively in the straw.

Jon’s chest tightened as he watched. She seemed a thing half of this world, half of another — something older, wilder, a fragment of the First Men’s tales come to life.

A shudder rippled through her body, a keen broke from her throat — and then, at last, the first pup came.

A tiny bundle of grey fur, slick and trembling, wriggled into the straw with a pitiful squeak. Its cry cut through the silence, sharp and thin, until it nosed its way clumsily toward its mother. The she-wolf lifted her head and nudged it closer with her muzzle. When the pup found her teat, the squealing ceased, replaced by the faint sound of suckling.

A murmur went through the watching crowd. Even stern Walder’s eyes softened, though his face did not.

Another contraction came, and another pup followed, and another still. They lost count after the fourth, the fifth… until, near an hour later, the she-wolf lay exhausted but proud, her head resting on her paws, six tiny shapes squirming at her belly.

Jon’s mother knelt beside the stall, her dark hair falling loose as she reached out. “There now,” Lyanna whispered, voice gentler than he had ever heard it. The wolf stirred but did not bare her teeth, only lowered her head as Lyanna’s hand stroked her ear.

Arya surged forward, eyes alight, but Lyanna caught her by the arm before she could reach for a pup. “Not yet, little pup,” she said, smiling. “They are too small. A mother must keep her babes close, and so must you wait.”

Arya’s face crumpled in protest. She looked ready to argue, but when Lyanna kissed the top of her head and turned her gaze to Catelyn, the fight went out of her.

Lady Catelyn stood a little apart, but Jon caught the faintest smile softening her lips. She inclined her head once. Agreement. Acceptance.

Lyanna rose then, brushing straw from her skirts, and looked upon the six pups nestled against their mother’s belly. Her eyes lingered on each child in turn — Robb with his head high, Jon’s own heart hammering, Sansa clutching her sister’s hand, Arya wide-eyed, Bran leaning forward, Rickon in Aunt Catelyn’s arms. Then she looked to her brother, and smiled.

“Six,” she said simply.

The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Six children. Six wolves. His Uncle gave a grave nod, as if he too heard the echo of the old gods in that number.

One by one, the others drifted away — first the girls, Sansa pulling Arya with her, then the maester and Septa, then Ser Martyn and the guards. At last, even uncle Ned and aunt Catelyn left, Lyanna carrying Rickon close, her voice low as she hummed to soothe him.

But Jon lingered. Arya did too, slipping from her septa’s grip at the door to crouch at his side. Together they watched as the she-wolf’s ribs rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, her pups nestled like shadows in the straw.

“I cannot wait,” Arya whispered fiercely, her small fists tight. “I’ll hold mine and feed it scraps and teach it tricks. She’ll follow me everywhere, you’ll see.”

Jon shook his head. “We won’t keep them.”

Arya rounded on him, grey eyes flashing. “Why not? They’re ours. Six pups for six of us. It’s a sign.”

“They are direwolves,” Jon said quietly. “Not dogs, not cats. They belong to the wild, not to Winterfell’s hearths.”

Arya’s lips pressed tight. For a heartbeat he thought she would scream, or run, or strike him in her fury. But then she dropped her gaze, shoulders slumping. “It isn’t fair,” she muttered.

Jon said nothing more. He only looked at the she-wolf — great, scarred, ancient in her bearing — and the six small lives pressed to her side. Something stirred in his chest then, something older than words.

Not fair, Arya had said. But Jon thought, with a shiver, that it was not fairness they were watching — it was something else.

The hall was alive with firelight, torches burning in their sconces, shadows dancing along the high rafters. The smell of roasted venison and honeyed carrots lingered in the air, mingling with the tang of ale and the salt of smoked fish.

Jon sat between Robb and Daenerys, his trencher half-eaten, though his mind was elsewhere. He could not stop thinking of the wolf and her pups. Six small bundles of fur, blind and squeaking, pressed against their mother’s belly. He tried to imagine them grown, as tall as a horse, with jaws strong enough to tear a man apart — it seemed impossible. Yet the gods had sent them, and in his heart Jon felt it meant something.

His uncle’s voice drew him back.

“Word came from the south,” Lord Eddard said, his tone even, but carrying across the tables. “Robert Baratheon rides north. He will be here in less than a moon’s turn. He comes with his daughter and son, and his brothers Stannis and Renly.”

Jon glanced at his mother. Lyanna’s face was calm, but her silence spoke louder than words. He remembered the stories she had told him — how she was once promised to Robert, how her choice had led to the deaths of Uncle Brandon and Grandfather Rickard. She still blamed herself, even now.

When he was younger, Jon had often wondered why his mother and father did not live together. Why he was not raised in the Red Keep, in the shadow of a throne. But the older he grew, the less he cared. His father was a distant name. Winterfell was his home. Ned Stark was the man who raised him. Catelyn his stern but steady aunt. Robb, Sansa, Daenerys, Arya, Bran, and Rickon his pack.

He was so lost in thought that he startled when his name was spoken.

“Jon?” Lyanna leaned forward, her grey eyes fixed on him. “You’ve gone quiet. Is something wrong?”

Heat touched his cheeks. “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

From beside him came a soft laugh. Daenerys. She leaned slightly toward him, her silver hair catching the firelight, her violet eyes mischievous. “Then perhaps you are thinking of a girl?” she asked — but not in the Common Tongue. The flowing, lilting syllables of High Valyrian rolled from her tongue like a secret meant only for him.

Jon felt his ears burn. He answered in kind, his own High Valyrian rougher, less graceful, but steady. “Even if I were, I would not tell you.”

Before Daenerys could reply, Arya’s voice pierced the table. “No High Valyrian!” she cried, scowling fiercely. “I don’t understand a word when you do that!”

Laughter rippled around them.

Sansa smiled sweetly, seizing her chance. “They’re talking about a girl, Arya,” she said, her tone sing-song. “Jon is thinking of some girl, and he doesn’t want to tell us who.”

Daenerys laughed, light and quick, and even Robb chuckled into his cup. Jon shook his head, flustered. “It’s not like that!”

Lyanna reached across the table to ruffle his hair. “Your High Valyrian is improving, though. I’m proud of you.”

Jon ducked his head. “It’s easier to practice with someone to speak to.”

He remembered why he had begun in the first place — after Arya was born, he had begged Maester Luwin to teach him. Not for his father, not for dragons, but for his grandmother. He wanted to speak to Queen Rhaella in her own tongue. Robb had joined him at first, but grew restless and dropped away. Sansa had stayed the longest; she still spoke well enough, though never as fluidly as he or Daenerys.

He risked a glance at Daenerys now. She was laughing with Sansa, violet eyes bright, her hand resting gently on Bran’s shoulder.

For a moment Jon’s chest felt strange — warm and heavy all at once. He looked away, pushing the thought down.

The hall carried on in easy rhythm. Arya bickered with Sansa over some slight, Daenerys coaxed Rickon into eating his greens, and Lyanna told stories that made even Lord Stark smile faintly. Catelyn’s laughter joined the rest, lighter than it had been in many weeks.

Jon ate quietly, the voices of his family around him, and thought of the wolves. Six pups, six children. And Robert Baratheon riding north.

The world was shifting. He could feel it, like the stir of a cold wind before the snows came.

Jon dreamed of dragons.

At first, it was only wings — vast, black as shadow, beating the air. He was flying, the wind tearing through his hair, the world wheeling far below. Sometimes he thought he flew alone, his body soaring like a hawk. Sometimes he felt the hard scales of a beast beneath him, the hot rush of air as it roared.

He saw King’s Landing, the Red Keep glimmering red and gold in the sun. He saw Oldtown, with its tall grey tower stabbing the sky like a spear. Lannisport, its harbor shining with a thousand sails. Braavos, the Titan striding over the dark waters. Ashai, cloaked in shadow and whispers, its streets lit by a sickly green glow.

The cities blurred and fell away, and he was underground. The air grew cold, damp, heavy with the smell of earth. He was in the crypts of Winterfell. Stone kings stared down at him, their direwolves at their feet, their eyes full of shadow and judgement.

Jon walked among them, their gaze following his steps. He felt small beneath it. Ashamed. But he did not know why.

A sound rose in the dark behind him — soft at first, like the scrape of bone on stone. Then louder, a wail, a scream. Jon’s heart clenched. He ran. His feet slapped the cold stone, carrying him deeper into the crypt.

He came to two tombs. His uncle Brandon. His grandfather Rickard. Their faces were carved in stern relief, the stone eyes hard and pitiless. Jon felt their judgement heavy on him, pressing him down. He wanted to cry out, to beg them to stop staring, but his voice would not come.

A warmth touched him. Hands wrapped around him from behind, gentle but firm. A voice whispered in his ear, soft and familiar.

“I love you, my little wolf.”

His mother’s voice. Lyanna’s arms. For an instant he felt safe, a boy again.

Then the dream shifted. The warmth was gone.

A man stood before him. Pale hair, sharp face, violet eyes burning. Jon’s breath caught. He looked like Viserys.

“Viserys?” Jon asked, his voice echoing in the endless dark.

The man did not answer.

Jon’s mouth was dry. His heart thundered. At last he whispered, “Father?”

The man smiled.

Above them fire burst, terrible and green, rushing down like a storm. Jon heard screaming — not his own, but thousands of voices, shrieking in agony. He heard a voice, high and wild: “Burn them all! Burn them all!”

He saw chains, a pyre, his uncle Brandon thrashing, calling for his father as the fire took him. He smelled burning flesh.

Jon screamed.

He woke with a start, drenched in sweat, heart hammering in his chest. His chamber was dark but for the pale light of the moon through the shutters. His breath came ragged, too loud in the silence.

It had been years since he’d dreamed so darkly. When he was younger, the dreams came often — fire and shadow, wings in the dark. They had faded with time. But since the birth of the wolf pups, they had returned. Every night now.

He pressed his palms into his eyes.

Once, he told Daenerys of them. She only nodded softly and confessed she too dreamed of flying — of dragons soaring high above the world. Her dreams were full of light and wonder. His were fire and fear.

But this dream was different. It was not just flying, not just dragons. This was burning. He was burning. The world was burning with him.

Jon lay back, shivering though the room was not cold. Sleep would not come again.

The morning came grey and cold, and Jon felt the weight of it in his bones. His eyes stung with weariness, for he had not slept again after the dream. He rubbed at them as he walked the familiar path to the Great Hall, stomach hollow, hoping for bread and bacon to chase the shadows from his head.

The sound of voices stopped him. A low commotion rose from the yard near the kennels — servants whispering, guards craning their necks, laughter and a high-pitched bark. Curious, Jon turned his steps that way.

Daenerys stood at the edge of the crowd. She looked startled but not afraid, her eyes bright with wonder.

“What’s happened?” Jon asked, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“The wolf,” she said, turning to him. “She’s gone.”

Jon blinked, surprise stealing his breath. The great she-wolf had been healing well; her wound no longer bled, her strength had returned. He had thought she would linger at Winterfell until the moons end. Yet gone? Vanished in the night?

But then he heard it.

Not fear, not mourning. Laughter. The sound of small whimpers, the happy squeals of children, the yipping cries of pups. Jon pushed through the onlookers, his heart quickening.

In the straw of the yard, Robb knelt grinning, a grey pup clutched proudly in his hands. Sansa sat primly with hers in her lap, stroking its fur as if it were a silken cat. Arya all but smothered hers against her chest, holding the squirming creature so tightly Jon thought it might burst. Bran sat beside them, his eyes wide as he traced a finger over the soft muzzle of his own pup.

Jon’s breath caught. The pups.

His uncle stood nearby, stern-faced but smiling faintly as he watched Sansa press a kiss to her wolf’s head. Beside him, Lyanna looked on with wonder, her eyes shining, her lips parted as though she were seeing a vision. For a moment, Jon thought she looked younger — the wild girl of her songs, not the mother who carried such grief.

Something tugged at his boot. Jon glanced down.

A white shape nosed at his feet, its fur pale as snow, its eyes red as embers. The smallest of the litter. It yipped softly, pawing at his leg, then sat back on its haunches and looked up at him as though it had been waiting.

Jon bent, scooping the pup into his arms. It squirmed once, then settled, pressing its tiny head beneath his chin. He felt its warmth, its heartbeat racing against his own.

He looked up, uncertain, and found his mother’s gaze upon him. Lyanna gave the smallest of nods, her grey eyes steady.

“This one,” Jon thought. His fingers curled gently in the pup’s thick fur. “This one is mine.”

For the first time in many nights, Jon smiled.

Chapter Text

Eddard

The yard of Winterfell was hushed, though packed with guards, smallfolk, and banners snapping in the chill northern wind. Ned stood at the front of the host, Catelyn beside him with infant Rickon in her arms. To his right stood his children in a neat row, Robb tall and eager at fourteen, Sansa graceful already, Arya restless as a colt, Bran with eyes wide, Jon at Lyanna’s side with quiet watchfulness, Daenerys with her silver hair gleaming against her dark cloak. Behind them, the household stood arrayed, the direwolf banners of Stark flying high from the walls.

When the first rider bearing the stag of House Baratheon appeared at the gates, a murmur passed through the crowd.

They came with thunder of hooves and the jingle of mail. At their head rode a man astride a great black mare, tall in the saddle, his cloak a storm of black and gold. Robert Baratheon.

Ned’s breath caught.

Fourteen years had passed since he had last looked upon his foster brother, and yet the sight of him struck him like a hammer blow. Robert had not changed — not truly. He was still broad as a smith’s forge, his arms thick as oak branches, his stride full of power. He wore no beard now, his jaw bare and square, but Ned saw the first threads of grey in his cropped black hair. His eyes, blue as the summer sky, swept the yard with a conqueror’s confidence.

Behind him rode two others. One bald, with a severe mouth and eyes like hard stone — Stannis, grim as ever, Ned thought. At his side came a younger man, handsome and laughing-eyed, his dark hair falling to his shoulders, a boy’s beauty grown into manhood. Renly — Robert’s mirror in youth.

Another rider followed, a boy of perhaps ten, his jaw and nose cut sharp in the Baratheon mold, bearing his house colors. For a heartbeat Ned thought him Renly’s get, though he knew better; Renly was yet wed. Robert’s son, then. Argillac. The name had cut Ned like a knife when he’d first heard it years ago. Argella for the daughter, Argillac for the son — Robert had chosen to spit on the dragon still, naming his children for the last of the Storm Kings who had defied Aegon the Conqueror. Even here in the North, the insult rang clear.

Then she appeared, riding swift to join her father’s side. Argella Baratheon. She wore no gown, but trousers and a fine black-and-gold tunic, her long dark hair bound back from her face. She had the same strong cheekbones as her father, the same bold jaw, but her eyes were a softer blue, her lips small and set with determination. She looked every inch her father’s daughter, yet not without her own grace.

Robert’s gaze swept the yard until it found Ned.

“Ned!” he boomed, his voice rolling like thunder over the assembled. He swung down from his horse with surprising swiftness for a man of his size. His boots struck the earth, and in three strides he was before him.

Ned had half a breath to brace himself before Robert’s arms engulfed him in a crushing embrace. His ribs creaked under the force of it, the air driven from his lungs. Robert smelled of horse, leather, and the faint tang of wine.

Still so strong, Ned thought, half-winded, half-smiling despite himself.

“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said as he released him at last, still gripping his shoulders, eyes bright with mirth. “You’ve put on some weight since last I saw you. Tell me, do you still know how to hold a sword, or do you leave it to your son now?”

Ned let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His ribs still ached from the crushing embrace, but the jape brought a small smile to his lips. “I could ask the same of you, Robert. Last I saw, your hammer was always lost under a flagon of wine.”

Robert’s booming laugh filled the courtyard, echoing off the grey stone walls. The tension among the gathered crowd eased. Even Stannis’s grim face softened a fraction.

Robert turned then, his eyes falling on Catelyn. “Cat,” he said, bowing his great head with a rare show of courtesy. “You have my thanks for keeping this solemn wolf fed and warm all these years. I hope the gods grant you patience, for it cannot have been an easy task.”

Catelyn dipped her head gracefully. “Winterfell is his home, Robert. And mine.”

Robert’s smile grew, then his gaze shifted to the row of children. One by one he greeted them, clapping Robb on the shoulder with a force that nearly staggered the boy. “A strong lad,” Robert declared. “He has the look of you, Ned — gods help him.”

Sansa made a perfect curtsey, earning a fond chuckle from Robert. “Ah, she has the grace of her mother. A true lady.”

Arya, scowling at having to stand still, muttered her greeting low. Robert laughed louder still. “A wild one — good. The realm could use more wild Starks.”

Bran bowed stiffly, and Robert ruffled his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles.

Then his eyes found Lyanna.

Ned’s stomach tightened. Fourteen years had passed since that fateful time, and still he braced himself for Robert’s grief, for his fury, for the words that might spill.

But Robert only inclined his head, his voice lower, softer. “It is good to see you well, Lady Lyanna.”

Lyanna held his gaze. For a heartbeat Ned thought she might cut him with her tongue as she had in their youth. But her smile was faint, her reply measured. “And you, Lord Robert. Time has not taken your strength, at least.”

Robert looked past her then, his eyes falling on Jon. The boy stood quiet, stiff beside his mother, grey eyes bright beneath his dark hair. Ned felt Lyanna tense at his side.

Robert’s expression softened. “So the babe grew into a fine man.”

Ned blinked. That he had not expected. Nor had Lyanna, by the look in her eyes.

But she was never one to falter. “My son,” she said quickly, her lips quirking in a sly smile. “He will be the finest swordsman the realm has ever seen. You’ll see.”

Robert barked a laugh. “Will he now? We’ll judge that for ourselves before this visit is done.”

Jon shifted, color rising in his cheeks, but he stood straighter.

Ned exhaled quietly. Some old hurt had eased here, though he dared not hope it would last.

“There is much to say,” Ned began, “long years to mend—”

But Robert clapped his hands, cutting him off. “First, my blood.” He turned and called out, his voice rolling like thunder. “Argella! Argillac! To me!”

The two children stepped forward. Argella strode with a boldness that matched her father, though she wore trousers and a tunic fit for a knight, not a dress. Yet when she stopped before them, she offered a graceful lady’s greeting that surprised Ned. There was more to her than her father’s fire.

Argillac came next, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as a man thrice his age. He bowed stiffly, every inch a soldier in waiting. Ned wondered if he was truly Robert’s son; the boy bore the Baratheon look, but there was a hardness to him that Robert had never carried as a child.

“Winterfell welcomes you,” Ned said, his voice steady. “You will be given chambers to rest after your long journey. The North is yours to share in peace.”

“Rest?” Robert’s booming laugh cut him short. “Seven hells, Ned, I did not ride half the realm to sleep beneath cold grey stone. Wine! Ale! I will not wait fourteen years to drink with my brother again!”

Behind him Renly chuckled, Stannis’s mouth tightened, and Catelyn sighed softly, already dreading the casks that would be emptied before nightfall.

Robert clapped Ned’s shoulder once more, hard enough to make him stagger. “Come, Ned. Tonight we feast!”

And with that, the King of Storm’s End strode into the keep, his children and brothers at his side, his laughter echoing through Winterfell’s ancient walls.

The Great Hall of Winterfell had never seemed so alive. Torches blazed in the sconces, their smoke curling up into the rafters. Music poured from the high dais, pipes and fiddles keeping a merry tune. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison and spiced boar, with bread and honeyed mead, with the tang of ale spilled across the rushes.

Robert Baratheon laughed as he drank, the sound booming over all. He had thrown himself into the feast as if it were a battle. His goblet was never empty, and the hall roared to his humor.

Ned’s eyes wandered over the tables. Robb and Jon sat together, their heads bent toward Robert’s son Argillac. The boy carried himself like a youth grown old too soon, but he smiled at their jests, and the three spoke easily enough. Arya, ever fearless, had already dragged Argella into some game, the girls looked entirely at home as she wrestled for a crust of bread with Arya’s wolfish grin beside her.

Further down, Sansa sat with her friends. They giggled behind their hands, their eyes darting again and again toward Renly Baratheon. The young lord caught the glances and answered each with a grin bright as summer.

Stannis was a shadow amid all the noise. He sat stiffly, Selyse beside him, their daughter Shireen pressed close at her mother’s side. The child’s greyscale was plain upon her cheek in the torchlight, her eyes solemn. She did not join the other children, did not laugh, only watched, silent as stone.

“Where in the seven hells have you been hiding, Ned?”

Robert’s voice boomed beside him, loud enough to make him start. The king’s cheeks were flushed with drink, his smile wide.

“I have been here, Robert,” Ned said, his mouth twitching despite himself. “It is you who cannot stay still.”

Robert threw back his head and roared with laughter, sloshing wine over his beard. He clapped Ned’s shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones. “Aye, that’s true enough!”

Catelyn, seated between them, smiled politely before rising. “My lords,” she said, “if you’ll pardon me, I must see to the children.” She slipped away, her presence leaving the two men alone amidst the roar of the hall.

For a moment Robert only drank, his eyes sweeping the crowded room. But when he turned back, the merriment in his face had faded.

“I never meant it to be so long, Ned,” he said, voice lower now, meant for no one else’s ears. “Fourteen years… and not a word. Not to you. Not to Jon.”

Ned studied him. Robert’s face was heavier, lined where once it had been boyish, but the pain there was old, not new.

“I could have written,” Robert went on, shaking his head. “But every time I took quill to parchment, I thought of her. Of Lyanna. And of him.” His mouth twisted as if the name were ash on his tongue. “Rhaegar.”

The hall rang with laughter and song, but the words between them sat heavy.

“When I wed Sylva, I was still hers, in my heart. I was not a good husband or father. Not to Sylva. Not to Argella.” His eyes found his daughter across the hall, laughing as Arya tried to tug her into a bow. “When she died bringing Argillac into the world, I looked at my girl and realized she did not cry for her mother. Why would she? I had left her to wet nurses and servants, too lost in my cups, too lost in ghosts. I changed, Ned. Gods help me, I did. But by then it had been years, and I could not summon the courage to write you, to face Jon’s disappointment. It was easier to be silent.”

Ned’s throat tightened. He reached out, resting a hand on Robert’s arm. “You did what you could. You were young, and wounded. We all were.”

Robert drank deep, then let out a breath. “Aye. But it was wrong all the same.”

They sat in silence for a time, the music carrying over them. Finally Robert’s gaze shifted. His eyes followed Daenerys across the hall. She sat with Sansa, her silver hair shining in the torchlight, her laughter ringing clear as bells.

“That one,” Robert said softly. “Daenerys. I knew she was fostered here, but I did not think she’d grow to love the North. She’s as much a wolf as she is a dragon now.”

“She is a good girl,” Ned said. “Kind, clever. She has her mother’s heart.”

Robert nodded.

The words hung heavy between them.

Robert drained his cup, then slammed it down. “Come. I need air.”

Together they rose, leaving behind the laughter and music of the hall. Outside, the night air was cold and clean, the stars bright above Winterfell’s towers. Robert drew in a long breath, his laughter gone, his face set.

The night air was sharp and cold against Ned’s face, a welcome balm after the heat and clamor of the hall. Stars wheeled bright above Winterfell’s towers, the moon silvering the frost on the stones. Robert drew in a deep breath, let it out like a man tasting freedom.

“Seven hells, Ned,” he said, his voice quieter now, though no less rough. “Do you remember? The Vale, when we were boys. The mountain clans always skulking about, our swords never clean, our purses never full.”

Ned allowed himself a faint smile. “I remember.” He could almost see it again — two boys at Jon Arryn’s side, one solemn and lanky, the other broad and brash, eager for wine and glory.

Robert laughed, softer than in the hall. “We thought ourselves kings of the bloody Eyrie. Wine, women, fighting — every day an adventure.”

“For me it was only the wine,” Ned said dryly. “You were the one forever drowning in women.”

That earned him another booming laugh. For a heartbeat, it was as if no years had passed, as if they were boys again, trading japes in some Vale tavern.

“Aye,” Robert said at last, his smile fading into something wistful. “I miss those days. Before lordship and fatherhood, before grief.”

Ned said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Robert shifted his weight, his hand brushing the pommel of the sword at his side. “You know… after Sylva died, I brought Mya to Storm’s End.”

Ned turned to him, startled. “Mya Stone?”

Robert nodded. “Aye. I thought Argella would hate her. Bastard though she is, she’s mine, and I would not see her cast aside. But the girls took to each other. Became as sisters. I saw them laughing together, and for the first time since Sylva’s death, I thought… maybe I could do right by them. By all of them.”

Ned studied him in the moonlight. Robert’s face was heavier now, but in that moment, there was no mistaking the truth in his eyes. Perhaps Robert had changed. Perhaps grief had burned something into him at last.

“You surprise me,” Ned said quietly.

Robert grunted. “Good. It’s about time I surprised someone for the better.” He gave a crooked grin, then clapped Ned’s shoulder. “We should spar on the morrow. See if you can still stand on those skinny wolf’s legs of yours.”

Ned chuckled despite himself. “We will see.”

They fell silent for a time, listening to the muffled roar of the feast behind the walls. Robert’s gaze was fixed on the stars, but when he spoke again, his voice was low, threaded with sorrow.

“Do you remember, Ned? The times we called ourselves brothers. Drinking, fighting, swearing we’d be more than brothers in truth one day. I wanted it then. Gods help me, I want it still.”

Ned braced himself. He knew what was coming.

Robert turned, eyes hard, searching. “That dream is not over. You have a son. I have a daughter. Robb and Argella. It can still be done.”

The words hung heavy between them. Ned felt the weight of them settle on his shoulders like a mailed cloak. He thought of Robb — his boy, still laughing in the yard, still too young to think of marriage. He thought of Argella, bold and bright, a storm in girl’s skin. They could be a match. Perhaps even a good one.

But he thought too of the South, of King’s Landing, of Rhaella’s words whispered in the godswood: the realm was boiling, every house clawing for advantage. To bind his son to Robert’s daughter was to step into that storm.

Robert must have seen his silence, for he raised a hand. “No answer now, Ned. Let the pups grow. Let them find each other first. By the end of this month, I swear it, your boy will be trailing after Argella like a hound on a leash. She is the daughter of the storm herself — fierce, wild, proud. She’ll break him or bind him, and gods, I’ll drink to either.”

Despite himself, Ned chuckled. “She is… strong.”

Robert grinned, his old swagger flickering. “Stronger than most knights I’ve met. A true Baratheon — no, a true Durrandon. I’ve half a mind to take back the name.”

“Durrandon?” Ned raised a brow.

Robert laughed, shaking his head. “I said as much, once. Stannis near shouted the roof down at me, lectured me on history, law, precedent — gods, you should have seen his face. I thought he might burst.”

Ned allowed himself another small smile. The image of Robert goading Stannis was easy enough to picture.

For a while longer they spoke of the past: of their boyhood battles in the Vale, of the bells at Gulltown, of nights lost to wine and the reckless certainty that they would live forever. The feast within the hall dwindled, one song after another falling silent, until only the faint murmur of servants cleaning remained.

At last the night grew quiet. The stars burned high and cold above Winterfell, and the laughter that had once bound two boys together was replaced by silence, and the weight of all that lay between them.

Chapter Text

The White Knight

The halls of the Red Keep were colder than he remembered. Stone and shadow, always shadow. Preston Greenfield moved in silence a half-step behind Prince Joffrey Targaryen, as was his duty. The white cloak weighed heavy on his shoulders, the honor heavier still. He had taken his vows after Ser Lewyn Martell fell during the trial of lord Tywin. He was a brother of the Kingsguard now, and most days his charge was not the king or the council, but the king’s second son.

The boy strode ahead with all the swagger of a man twice his age. Pale hair caught the sun from the windows and glimmered like spun silver, yet his eyes were not the deep violet of Valyria but a striking green. Every time Preston looked upon him, he was reminded how different he seemed from his sister. Princess Visenya had her mother’s golden hair but eyes the color of amethysts, soft and wide; she was sweet-natured, given to song and story. Prince Joffrey, though—there was little sweet in him.

Preston’s vows bound him to silence, but his memory was not bound. He had seen too much already: stableboys beaten for a stumble, dogs starved for sport, a maid whipped until she bled because she spilled wine on the prince’s sleeve. “A lion’s temper in a dragon’s skin,” the guards muttered when they thought the white brothers could not hear. Preston said nothing. His tongue was sworn to secrecy, his sword to service. And yet, every cruelty festered like a bruise in his mind.

“Preston,” the boy snapped without turning, as though he could sense his thoughts. “Keep pace.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” he answered, voice even.

They were joined before long by another youth. Theon Greyjoy came swaggering from a side passage, dressed in black and grey, a kraken stitched upon his doublet. He walked as if the castle were his, though every soul within its walls knew him for what he was: a hostage. His father’s last son, held as surety that Balon Greyjoy would never dare rise again. His sister was in Sunspear under Prince Doran’s gaze for the same purpose. Shackles in all but name.

Theon’s grin was sharp as he hailed the prince. “Joff. You’ll not go to the yard without me.”

Joffrey tilted his head, a flicker of approval in his golden eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Preston kept his silence. He remembered when the Greyjoy boy had first come to court, all nervous bluster and hungry eyes, desperate to belong. He had tried to win Aegon’s favor, and when that failed, Rhaenys’s, lingering by her harp. Both had turned away. It was Joffrey who welcomed him—or perhaps Theon welcomed the chance to share in the prince’s games. Now they were thick as thieves: drinking, chasing women, whispering cruel jests in corners.

Sometimes Preston wondered which one led the other astray. Did the kraken boy sour the prince, or was it Joffrey who drew Theon into his darkness? The question never left him.

They passed through the Keep, servants and courtiers shrinking to the sides as they went. Whispers stirred in their wake, low and wary.

He forced himself to ignore it, eyes fixed ahead. A Kingsguard did not heed gossip. He was a wall of white steel, sworn and silent.

The light grew brighter as they neared the courtyard, where the clang of steel rang sharp and steady. Aegon was training again, Preston knew, for the boy scarcely left the yard these days. The contrast could not be sharper: one prince striving for knighthood’s grace, another hunting cruelty in shadows.

Preston Greenfield walked on, the sound of whispers lingering in his ears.

The clang of steel carried across the yard as they entered. Sunlight struck golden off plate and brightened the polished marble galleries where a small crowd had gathered—ladies in pale silks whispering behind their hands, young lords craning to watch the crown prince spar.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the edge of the tiltyard, white cloak gleaming, arms folded. Beside him Ser Jonothor Darry leaned on the pommel of his sword. Both men inclined their heads as Preston arrived with Joffrey and his shadow, Greyjoy.

On the packed dirt below, Prince Aegon pressed forward, blade darting quick and sure. His opponent moved with lazy elegance, golden hair flashing—Ser Jaime Lannister. If the boy was quick, the knight was quicker. They circled, clashed, parted, clashed again. Cheers rippled as Jaime twisted his blade and sent the prince’s practice sword spinning from his hands.

The match ended as swiftly as it had begun. Jaime stepped back, lowering his sword in salute. “Well struck, Your Grace.”

Aegon bent his head, breathing hard but proud. “And well lost.”

From Preston’s side, Joffrey gave a sharp laugh. He stepped forward, ignoring his uncle’s offered praise. “You should have had him, brother. Seven save us, if this is the best the crown prince can do, we’re doomed when next the realm needs a sword.”

Theon smirked at his shoulder. “Aye. If Ser Jaime can take your steel so easy, imagine what a sellsword might do.”

Preston shifted uneasily. He had learned to know the tone: Joffrey’s voice, pitched just between jest and venom, enough to draw blood without quite giving offense. Around the yard he saw red lions and sunbursts glowering at one another, Lannister and Martell guards alike bristling. A breath of wind, and the whole place would burn.

Aegon only straightened, brushing dirt from his sleeve. His smile was thin. “You’re welcome to try me yourself, brother. Then we might judge who’s doomed and who’s not.”

“That would hardly be fair,” Joffrey said smoothly, golden eyes gleaming. “You’re older. But when the time comes, I’ll prove the better man. And the better prince.”

Theon barked laughter. “Best keep your crown tight, Aegon. Else Joff’ll snatch it right off your pretty head.”

Jaime stepped forward quickly, a hand raised. “Enough, both of you. Brothers should not quarrel before half the court.”

“Half the court’s already watching,” Theon muttered.

“Then give them a show worth seeing,” came a new voice. Loras Tyrell had entered from the opposite side, helm under one arm, his green-and-gold surcoat bright in the sun. He moved to Aegon’s side with the ease of an old companion. “If Prince Joffrey doubts his brother, why not settle it with swords?”

The ladies tittered; a murmur ran through the crowd. Aegon inclined his head. “I would welcome the chance.”

Preston’s gaze darted to Joffrey. For an instant he thought he saw hesitation flicker across the boy’s face. Then the gold returned, bright and cold. “Not today. My blade is for war, not mummer’s shows.”

Theon chuckled. “And mine’s too sharp for play.”

“A pity,” Loras said lightly. “I had hoped to teach Greyjoy how the roses of the Reach handle a kraken.”

That drew laughter from the watchers, a ripple like surf. Theon’s grin faltered, but Joffrey only lifted his chin, dismissive. “Another day. Come, Theon.”

They turned on their heels and strode off, cloaks snapping behind them. Preston followed at the proper distance, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, he heard Loras’s voice low to Aegon: “Do not let them sour your mood. Wolves bark loudest when they fear the lion’s teeth.”

Preston did not look back. His duty walked before him, green-eyed and smiling like a boy who had won a game. Yet in the yard he had left a prince disarmed, a crowd divided, and a realm that whispered.

The smell of roasted boar and honeyed wine drifted from the chamber, rich enough to make Preston’s stomach twist. He stood stiff as the white cloak demanded, though his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Oswell Whent had yielded his shift after much cajoling—he would take Preston’s night watch in return. That left him with one free evening, and he meant to spend it well. The draper’s wife had smiled at him the last time, all warm lips and knowing eyes. Oath or no, a man was flesh.

His daydreams broke at the sound of Tyrion Lannister’s voice, sharp as a whip across stone.

“What happened in the yard, nephew?”

At the table, Prince Joffrey sprawled with a cup in hand, pale hair shining like a coin in the candlelight. He did not look at his uncle. “Nothing worth telling. It’s not your business.”

Tyrion snorted into his wine. “It is my business when you make a fool of yourself before half the court. Jaime told me every detail. Do you think it wise, baiting your brother with Lannisters and Martells watching from the same gallery?”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, hard as emeralds. “You will not speak to a prince that way. You forget yourself, little brother. You are here as a guest. A tolerated one.”

The queen sat draped in red and gold, but what caught Preston’s eye was not her gown. It was the gleam at her throat: a ruby the size of a dove’s egg, pulsing faintly in the torchlight. A gift from that red woman. He knew little of her—only that she came with her riddles and her strange god, and that she had climbed swiftly into the Queen’s inner circle.

Joffrey laughed at his mother words, cruel and pleased with himself. But before the sound died, a softer voice cut through.

“I am glad you are here, Uncle,” Princess Visenya said. She leaned across the table, violet eyes wide and earnest. “It is better when you are here. You make the hall feel less heavy.”

The girl’s smile was shy, the way children smiled when they meant every word. Preston caught the flicker of warmth in Tyrion’s eyes before he reached to cup her cheek. “You’ll make me blush, little bird. Best stop, before your mother sets the dogs on me.”

Visenya giggled. Joffrey made a disgusted noise.

“Enough nonsense,” Tyrion said, turning back to his wine. “There are matters worth speaking of. Every hall in the castle hums with talk of betrothals. The Reach lords cry out for Margaery and Aegon. Lord Hoster Tully sends word of young Edmure, bound here to meet Rhaenys. And the Vale…” He swirled the cup. “The Vale prepares to send envoys, perhaps even the boy lord himself.”

Cersei scoffed. “Connnington will rot before I see my daughter given to that sickly fledgling. The boy cannot hold a falcon, let alone a Kingdom.” Her hand smoothed Visenya’s golden hair. “My sweet girl will not be buried in those cold peaks like Lysa Arryn. She deserves better than mountain graves and a half-dead husband.”

Visenya’s brows knit. “But I am curious. Uncle Jon says the Vale is beautiful. Mountains as high as the sky. I would like to see them.”

Cersei’s voice cut like a knife. “Curiosity is for fools. You are not a pawn for their sickly lord, nor a bird to be caged in some eyrie. You will have more.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “Like it or not, the ravens have already flown. Jon Connington is no fool. With the wolf and the stag rumored to meet in Winterfell, he moves quickly to chain the Vale and Riverlands to the Iron Throne. If Stark and Baratheon find common ground, it would leave King’s Landing isolated. You may despise him, Cersei, but the Hand sees what others do not.”

“Bah.” Cersei waved him off, though her jaw was tight. “Connington is a puffed-up steward. My children’s futures will not be his to command.”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion said mildly, “but the realm believes otherwise. To half the lords, he is the voice of the throne. If the Reach and the Vale and the Riverlands are bound to Aegon, the game is near won before it begins.”

Visenya tilted her head, thoughtful. “But does that mean I must wed a sick boy, Uncle?”

Tyrion gave her a wry smile. “Not if your mother keeps her claws sharp enough.”

Joffrey muttered into his cup, too low for Preston to catch the words. But the smirk on his face said enough: cruelty was its own language, and the boy was fluent.

Preston shifted in the shadows of the door, silent and still. He was sworn to hear nothing, see nothing. But he heard enough, and saw too much.

The white cloak lay folded in his chamber at the White Tower, clean and pressed, his sword beside it. Tonight he wore only a drab cloak and a roughspun tunic, the garb of a man of the streets. Better not to be recognized. Better not to shame the vows he had already broken in his heart.

The air of King’s Landing was thick with smoke and tallow, fish guts rotting by the river, the faint sweetness of wine casks split on cobbled stones. Preston pulled his hood low and walked briskly, boots scuffing through the grime.

His mind strayed to the keep he had left behind. He thought of Joffrey’s green eyes, so bright with spite; of Aegon’s measured courtesy, brittle as glass; of Lannister red and Martell orange glaring across the yard. A powder keg, all of it. A king who hid in his books, a Hand chasing schemes, soldiers who would as soon cut one another as stand side by side.

But not tonight. Tonight, he would not think of princes or factions or the heavy oaths that chained him. Tonight, he would think of her. The draper’s wife. Warm lips, soft hands, the perfume of lavender on her skin. Preston smiled to himself. He was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, meant for celibacy and honor, yet even vows frayed under hunger.

He turned down a narrower alley, the torches thinning here. That was when he felt it—a prickle at the nape of his neck, the whisper of footsteps too careful, too close. He stopped. Slowly, he drew the short sword he carried, a dull thing compared to the white steel he had left behind.

“Who’s there?” His voice was firm, but he heard the edge of unease in it.

No answer. Only the scrape of boots on stone.

Then they came. Two shadows leaping from the dark, steel glinting in the torchlight. Preston parried the first blow, the clang ringing in the narrow street. The second man lunged—Preston twisted, drove his blade into a belly, hot blood spilling over his hand. The man groaned and folded.

The second assailant pressed harder, their blades locking. Preston gritted his teeth and shoved him back, then swept low and cut him across the thigh. The man staggered, howling.

A third shape emerged from the shadows. Preston barely had time to curse before the arrow loosed. It struck him high in the shoulder, spinning him half around. Pain flared white. He stumbled, dropped to one knee, sword still clutched tight.

Another rush—the wounded man slashed wildly, steel cutting across Preston’s ribs. The strength went out of him. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering on the cobblestones.

He sank back against the wall, breath ragged, hot blood soaking his tunic. The men loomed above him, faces hidden by hoods. Bandits? Robbers? Or blades bought with gold, sent to snuff out one more witness to the rot festering in the Red Keep?

He would never know.

The world narrowed, dimming at the edges. The noise of the city grew faint—the shouting of the wounded man, the clatter of feet as they fled, even the echo of his own heartbeat.

All that remained was the thought of her. The curve of her smile, the promise of warmth, the soft whisper of her laugh. He had wanted one night away from vows, away from duty, away from the endless watching. One night.

The cobbles were cold beneath him. The stars above were hidden behind the haze of smoke.

Preston Greenfield died with her name unspoken on his lips, and no one to hear it.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

The solar smelled of sun and oranges. Whoever had dressed it had gone to pains to make a Dornish oasis in the Red Keep: copper lamps, saffron-dyed cushions, carafes of pomegranate wine beading with sweat, a bowl of blood oranges split and gleaming like jewels. Rhaenys sat cross-legged on a low divan, listening more than speaking as the men argued in the lazy heat.

Oberyn lounged like a cat in a window, boot on the table, a slice of orange between his fingers. Beside him, Nymeria Sand—cool, composed, every inch the viper in silk—sorted parchments with absent grace. Aegon had claimed the windowseat, hair damp from the yard, shirt unlaced at the throat; Loras Tyrell stood near him, as bright and careful as a polished blade.

They had been talking of Preston Greenfield since the wine was poured.

“Curfew, cordons, searches from the Street of Silk to the Fishmarket,” Nymeria said, tapping the parchment stack. “The Hand is in a fury. But no culprit, no blade, no face.”

“Only a corpse,” Oberyn murmured. He popped the orange into his mouth and sucked the juice from his fingers. “A Kingsguard dead in our own gutters. That is an omen. Or an invitation.”

Rhaenys toyed with the tassel of a cushion. And to whom is it addressed? “Preston was no one’s favorite, but he wore the white. That should mean safety.”

“In King’s Landing,” Nymeria said, dry as salt, “white is only another color to stain.”

Loras shifted his weight, jaw set. “Who profits? If this was the Lions—”

Oberyn snorted. “Tywin does not murder one of his own swords in the street like a footpad. Not when he can lift him like a standard. Preston’s death only weakens the white cloaks that already lean toward the Queen. It makes the rest look brittle.”

Rhaenys glanced to Aegon. “How many ‘lean toward’ the Queen now?”

Aegon’s eyes flicked to Loras before returning to her. “With Ser Gerold gone, the balance shifts. Father says he will name a new white cloak soon, but…” He trailed off with a little shrug.

“But the Queen did not wait,” Nymeria finished, crisp. “Ser Meryn Trant took the white within a fortnight of Gerold’s last breath.”

Oberyn’s smile showed a flash of teeth. “And Meryn is Cersei’s man to the marrow. Greenfield was, too. Two votes on one side of the board. Selmy, Dayne, Whent, Dary on the other—your father’s men still. That leaves the gilded question.”

Jaime Lannister. The name hung in the room like a bright coin no one wished to touch.

“Jaime is my uncle,” Aegon said carefully. “He trained me. He counsels me fairly. He… has never wronged me.”

“Yet,” Oberyn said.

Loras’ chin lifted a fraction. “Ser Jaime is a knight of renown. He honors the white.”

Nymeria’s eyes were amused. “He honors what suits him in the moment. He is a Lannister before he is anything else. And your queen has a talent for binding lions with golden thread.”

Rhaenys felt the heat rise in her cheeks and forced it down. “Even if Jaime tilts to Joffrey, there are still four for the King. If Father names another—”

“Names whom?” Oberyn spread his hands. “Half the court is at daggers drawn. Name a Dornishman and the Lions scream treason. Name a Westerlander and the vipers whisper poison. The white cloak is meant to sit above these games. This city drags it down into the mud.”

Silence touched the room. Outside, down in the mews, a hawk shrieked.

Loras broke it first, voice steady. “Then give the cloak to a man who means to keep it clean.” He turned from the window and, for the first time, met Rhaenys’s eyes before settling on Aegon’s. “Let me take the vows.”

Rhaenys’s fingers stilled on the tassel. She had seen the way Loras watched Aegon in the yard, the way his smile eased whenever the prince laughed; it was as plain as the sun on the tiles. She glanced at her brother. The light through the lattice painted his cheekbones gold; for once, the careful mask slipped, and something like surprise—then relief—crossed his face.

Aegon recovered quickly. “You would give up Highgarden? Your father’s favor? Your house?”

“My father’s favor rests where glory sits,” Loras said, and there was a softer note beneath the pride. “The cloak is glory enough. And it places a sword at your side that no lion can command.”

Oberyn looked delighted, the way men do when a dagger appears where they were only holding a goblet. “The Knight of Flowers, a white flower? Seven heavens, the songs will breed by the dozen.”

Nymeria was cooler. “It binds you to celibacy. To poverty. To obedience. Think on oaths before you make them to music.”

“I have thought on them,” Loras said, eyes never leaving Aegon. “I would swear.”

Aegon hesitated only a heartbeat. “It is not mine to grant. Father names the Kingsguard.”

“Father listens,” Rhaenys said softly, surprising herself. “And he needs loyal men.” She watched Loras as she spoke, and watched the way Aegon’s shoulders eased, as if a weight had shifted from one side to the other. Plain as day, she thought, not unkindly. Plain as sun on oranges.

Oberyn raised his cup. “Then we pray your father’s ears are open—and that the Queen’s claws are busy elsewhere.”

Rhaenys swallowed pomegranate wine and felt its tartness bloom on her tongue. Outside, the hawk shrieked again, and the sound made her think of white silk and red hands.

“Preston’s cloak will not hang empty long,” Nymeria said. “We had best see that whoever wears it doesn’t bare his teeth at us.”

The candles had burned lower, fat drops of wax congealing on the copper plates. The wine was nearly gone, though Oberyn kept worrying at the last slice of blood orange as if it were an enemy’s throat. The talk of cloaks had left the chamber taut, and it was Aegon who steered them elsewhere.

“The North,” he said simply, turning his cup in his hands. “Robert rides there even now. To Winterfell. To Lord Stark.”

The word hung heavy.

Rhaenys’s mind went at once to a face—grey eyes, long and solemn, framed by dark hair. Not her brother in law, not truly, but her blood all the same. She remembered the babe that Lyanna Stark had held in the Red Keep before she fled. She had only seen him once, red-faced and swaddled, but blood remembers. Jon, she thought. My little brother.

“They are family,” Aegon pressed, his voice steady. “Not in name, perhaps, but blood is blood. If Father cannot see it, we must. A hand extended north may keep wolves from snapping when lions roar. Lord Stark values kin above all things.”

Oberyn’s mouth quirked. “A wolf values its pack, yes. But that does not mean it lets in strays. You think Lyanna Stark will allow her son to be drawn south? She has not forgotten her father’s screams, or her brother’s choking. Nor should she.”

Ellaria, quiet until now, laid a hand on Oberyn’s arm. “Better he stays there. In Winterfell, he is safe. If he came to King’s Landing, even with his Stark name, he would be devoured by whispers and daggers. You know it as well as I.”

Rhaenys drew her knees up beneath her and hugged them, staring at the dark red wine in her cup. “I… I wonder what he is now. He was so small when I last saw him. Would he know me? Would he even want to?”

Oberyn’s eyes softened, though his tone did not. “You romanticize. The boy is a Stark. He knows nothing of dragons or Dornish fruit or southern games. He knows snow, cold stone, and wolves. Best he stay that way. If he comes south, he becomes another piece on the board. Another blade pointed at your heart.”

Aegon bristled. “And if he is a piece, better he be ours than theirs.”

“You sound like Connington,” Oberyn said with a sharp laugh. “Always counting, always tallying. It will sour your wine, boy.”

“It is not counting,” Aegon snapped, then checked himself, softer now. “It is remembering. He is my brother. Father’s son. If he stays in the North and we ignore him, one day some clever lion or another schemer will whisper in his ear and claim him for their own.”

Nymeria raised a brow. “Or perhaps he wants none of it. Perhaps he prefers Winterfell’s shadow to the Iron Throne’s light.”

Rhaenys found herself speaking before she thought. “If he ever comes, it must be by his will. Not by ours. Lyanna Stark swore never to set foot south of the Neck again. If we press too hard, she will turn her face from us, and the boy with her. And she is not wrong. The South killed her father and brother. Why should she trust us not to do the same?”

A silence fell. Even Oberyn seemed content to let it lie. The only sound was the pop of resin in the brazier.

At last Ellaria’s voice slipped through, soft as silk. “Then let him be a wolf. Better for him, better for us. If the day comes when he must choose, blood may yet draw him. But do not drag him into this storm before the thunder breaks.”

Rhaenys nodded, though her heart ached. I would like to see him once, she thought. Only once, to know if he has my father’s smile. To tell him that he was loved before he was even named.

Aegon drank the last of his wine and said nothing more. But his silence was louder than words.

The fire had sunk low, embers pulsing like coals beneath a thin veil of ash. The chamber smelled of orange peel and spiced wine, heady and warm, but the weight of their talk chilled Rhaenys more than any northern snow could.

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out, eyes half-lidded but sharp. “Enough of wolves in winter. Let us speak of the board as it is. Connington plays his game, scurrying like a fox between lions and vipers. He would mend what cannot be mended.”

“He means well,” Aegon said quietly.

Oberyn snorted. “So does a man who throws water on a fire. He only makes steam. Look around, boy. The lions fill the halls—your uncle’s banners are draped in every corridor, their gold shines brighter than your father’s crown. Even the Kingsguard wears red beneath their white. And yet the viper’s tail is coiled just as tight.”

Nymeria plucked a grape and rolled it between her fingers. “So, which coils tighter? Lion or viper?”

“Neither,” Oberyn said, his smile thin. “Both.”

Rhaenys shivered at the truth of it. She thought of the stares in the yard, Martell orange set against Lannister crimson, steel glances harder than any blade. This is not Father’s court, she thought. It is a pit, with lions pacing one side and vipers the other, and all of us waiting to see which will strike first.

Ellaria brushed her fingers along Oberyn’s arm, calming him. “And yet, as it stands, the balance tilts our way. Tyrell petals drift closer with every raven. Margeary for Aegon—it is not yet inked, but the Reach whispers as though it were law.”

Loras’s cheeks flushed, though he tried to hide it with a sip of wine. “My family sees sense. Binding the crown prince to Highgarden binds half the realm. The roses know where the sun shines brightest.” His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Aegon.

Oberyn caught it, smirked, but said nothing.

“And the Riverlands,” Nymeria added, tossing her grape aside. “Lord Hoster grows old, his son ripens. A betrothal to you, sweet sister, will bind Tully blood to dragon’s fire. They bled for your father once. They may yet again.”

Rhaenys lowered her gaze, fingers knotting in her lap. A husband I have never met. A fate sealed in ink and wax before I even learn the sound of his laughter. She forced a smile she did not feel. “Edmure Tully, then. So be it.”

Aegon leaned forward, fierce now. “With the Reach and Riverlands beside us, what can Tywin do? He may snarl, but he will not strike. Not with roses and trout on our side.”

“Do not be so sure,” Oberyn warned. “The Old Lion does not bare his teeth without reason. He has his claws in the Rock, in the city, in your father’s bed. And rumor runs quicker than truth. They whisper that you are not even Rhaegar’s son. That you are some bastard smuggled in, while Visenya is the trueborn light of House Targaryen.”

The words struck like a lash. Rhaenys saw her brother’s jaw tighten, his knuckles whiten on the cup. She reached across and touched his wrist, steadying him. “Whispers,” she said softly. “Nothing more.”

“Whispers can kill as quick as swords,” Oberyn said, but his voice gentled, for once. “That is the game we play. Connington may strut and posture, but the truth is this: the lions dream of an heir with green in his eyes, the roses want their petals twined round dragon’s fire, and the vipers—” He raised his glass, smiling wickedly. “The vipers are patient. We wait. We strike. And when we do, no one forgets the venom.”

The room fell quiet. Rhaenys sipped her wine and let the silence stretch. In the distance, through the narrow window, she could hear the sounds of King’s Landing—dogs barking, drunks shouting, the ceaseless hum of the city. Beneath it all, though, was a tension she could not name, like a storm gathering just beyond the horizon.

We may be winning now, she thought, staring into the embers. But in this city, victory feels as fragile as glass.

The keep was restless tonight. Servants hurried with baskets of rushes and pitchers of wine, their whispers carrying down the vaulted halls. Somewhere, a dog barked. Rhaenys moved through the Red Keep’s familiar corridors, her slippers whispering against the stone. She liked to walk alone after these councils with her family —it cleared her mind, gave her the quiet to fit the pieces of the game together.

But tonight she did not have the hall to herself.

“The dragon princess,” a voice drawled.

Theon Greyjoy stepped from the shadows, all smirk and swagger. His doublet was half-unlaced, his hair tousled as though he had come straight from the bed of some whore. His eyes glinted as he moved to block her path.

Rhaenys arched a brow. “Lord Greyjoy.”

“Not a lord,” Theon said, mocking a bow. “Merely a ward. A hostage. A pawn. Call me what you like.” His smirk deepened. “I hear your brother broods over maps and banners, talking of alliances. But it isn’t too late, you know. You could still choose the better side. Joffrey’s side.”

Rhaenys laughed, a sharp little sound. “Joffrey? You mean the boy who sulks when Ser Jaime disarms him? The boy who struts and snarls but hides behind you when Aegon answers back? That side?”

Theon’s jaw twitched, but he kept smiling. “He will be king. That’s more than your brother will ever be.”

“Mm.” She tilted her head, studying him as one might a jester. “And what of you, Greyjoy? What are you to him? His shadow? His sword arm? His… bedmate?”

Theon stiffened. She pressed the point, sweetly venomous. “I hear things, you know. Whispers of the girls you visit. Olive skin, dark hair, violet eyes. Over and over again, the same look. From Lys, from Myr, from whatever brothel will have you. I wonder, Theon—are you buying them to look like me?”

His face flushed dark, his smirk slipping.

She laughed, low and delighted. “Dream of me all you like. Pay your coin, spill yourself on your whores. But you will never have me. Never.”

For a heartbeat, she saw it in his eyes—envy, hunger, a flicker of something uglier. He boiled behind his teeth but said nothing.

At last he ground out, “Your fish of a husband will never please you. What is a trout to a kraken?”

Her smile turned cold. “A trout that beat the kraken during your father’s folly.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Do not forget that.”

She stepped past him without waiting for an answer, her skirts brushing his arm as she went. She could feel his gaze burning into her back as she left, heavy with resentment and desire all knotted together.

Rhaenys did not look back. Instead, she laughed again, soft to herself. Let him stew. Let him dream. In the game they played, Theon Greyjoy was less than a pawn. And pawns were meant to be moved—and sacrificed.

The Red Keep at dusk always seemed to hum with secrets. Candles smoked in narrow alcoves, the stone corridors cooling after the day’s heat. Rhaenys found her little sister where she so often did—in a small alcove tucked away from the bustle, her septa at her side, a book unopened in her lap. On the bench beside her, curled and purring, was Balerion, the great black cat of the keep, his yellow eyes gleaming.

Visenya’s small fingers worked gently behind the beast’s ear, her pale gold hair falling forward as she bent to kiss his head. She looked up when Rhaenys entered, her violet eyes brightening.

“Rhae!” she chirped.

“Little dove,” Rhaenys said warmly. She crossed the floor, passing Ser Jaime Lannister, who stood at his post like a golden statue, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He inclined his head politely; his green eyes betrayed nothing, though she wondered what he thought of guarding one sweet princess while the rest of the castle whispered itself hoarse with schemes.

Rhaenys sat beside her sister, smoothing her skirts. “Talking to Balerion again?”

“He listens better than most.” Visenya smiled shyly. “Better than Septa Melara, anyway.”

The septa flushed but said nothing, her lips pressed together. Rhaenys chuckled and reached to stroke the cat. “A wise choice. Cats tell no secrets.”

For a moment, there was peace: two sisters, a purring cat, the candlelight soft on Visenya’s delicate face. But peace never lingered long in the Red Keep.

“Are you nervous?” Rhaenys asked gently.

Visenya’s hand stilled on the cat’s fur. “About what?”

“You know what,” Rhaenys said softly. “Your betrothal. The Arryn boy.”

Visenya’s mouth tightened. “Mother says he is sickly. That he will wither away in those cold mountains, and I will with him. She says the Vale is nothing but snow and rocks, and that I deserve better.” Her eyes flicked to Jaime, then back. “But uncle Jon says the Vale is noble. That House Arryn is old and honorable. That it is a match worthy of me.”

Rhaenys reached out, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her sister’s ear. “Connington is right. The Arryns are a proud house. The Vale has knights who could shame half the realm. And Robert Arryn…” She hesitated. “He is young, yes. But so are you. You will grow together.”

Visenya’s lip trembled. “I don’t know how to feel, Rhae. I haven’t even met him. How can I promise to be his wife?”

“Because it is what we must do,” Rhaenys said, her voice firmer than she felt. “For the throne. For Aegon. Every match binds us stronger, ties more banners to our cause. One day, our brother will wear the crown. And when he does, it will be because of the sacrifices we make now.”

Visenya looked down at her hands. “I understand. Truly, I do. It just… it feels less like my life, and more like I am a piece on a cyvasse board.”

Rhaenys pressed a kiss to her sister’s brow. “Then let us hope we are the winning pieces.”

They sat in silence a moment longer before Visenya whispered, almost guiltily, “Father asked to see me again tonight. In his solar.”

Rhaenys forced her face still, but jealousy pricked her heart. It was always Visenya. Father’s golden girl. She loved her sister, gods knew she did, but every look, every smile from Rhaegar weighed more when given to Visenya. And Joffrey—poor Joffrey—was left to gnaw on the scraps of attention he craved.

“What do you and Father speak of?” she asked, more sharply than she meant.

Visenya shrugged. “Sometimes dragons. I don’t understand half of it, but he talks about prophecies, about the dragon needing three heads. Other times… he doesn’t talk at all. He just reads. Books about dragons, always dragons. Or the North. The Wall. Battles long ago.”

Rhaenys studied her sister’s earnest face and glanced at Jaime, who was watching with a faint crease between his brows. Grandmother Rhaella’s warning echoed in her mind. Madness, not of fire and cruelty like Grandfather, but of obsession. Blindness. Was it happening again?

Before she could press further, a voice called down the hall.

“Princess Visenya.”

The red woman.

Melisandre glided forward, her scarlet robes whispering across the floor, her ruby gleaming like a drop of blood at her throat. The air itself seemed to bend around her. Rhaenys stiffened. She never liked the woman. Too many riddles, too many shadows. And the way Father and Cersei heeded her… it curdled the Faith, unsettled even the commons.

“Your lessons await,” Melisandre said, her voice low and melodic, her strange eyes fixed on Visenya. “And your brother waits.”

Visenya rose quickly, almost eagerly. She bent to kiss Balerion’s head, then turned and hugged Rhaenys tight. “I will see you later, Rhae.”

Rhaenys hugged her back, though her stomach knotted. “Be careful, little dove.”

Visenya smiled, oblivious, and went to the red woman’s side. Melisandre’s gaze lingered on Rhaenys a heartbeat longer, a measuring look, before she turned away. Jaime followed them, his white armor flashing in the torchlight.

The alcove was empty again, save for the cat in her lap. Rhaenys stroked Balerion absently, her mind churning. Lessons with the red woman. Secrets even Varys could not untangle. And her father’s eyes fixed always on Visenya.

She wondered if the true danger in the Red Keep was not lions or vipers, but fire in red robes.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The history of dragons was best read with wine. Tyrion lounged in his chambers with a book propped open on his knees, one hand holding a goblet, the other reaching idly for cheese. The book smelled of dust and ink, old vellum flaking at the edges—The Dance of the Dragons, by Grand Maester Munkun who had probably never seen a dragon in his life. He was halfway through a passage about Gaemon Palehair, that pitiful child-king with hair like snow, when the door creaked open.

“Still alive, little brother?” Jaime’s voice was a balm and a barb all at once.

Tyrion looked up over the rim of his cup. “Alive, yes. Bored, certainly. And reading of dead kings who burned the realm for pride. A useful education, given the times.”

Jaime stepped inside, white cloak swirling, his hand resting carelessly on the pommel of his sword. He looked every inch the knight the songs sang of, though Tyrion knew well enough how little songs said about the truths of men.

“The Dance of the Dragons?” Jaime arched a brow, taking in the cover.

“In a castle choking with schemes, why not read of a war where dragons themselves schemed and tore the realm apart? History, dear brother, has an unkind way of repeating itself.” Tyrion sipped his wine. “Best to know how the last dance ended, so we don’t step on the same toes.”

Jaime did not smile. That, Tyrion noted, was answer enough. He set the book aside and poured another cup, gesturing with the flagon. “Sit, and drink, before your dour face spoils my evening.”

Jaime sat, but waved the wine away. “They still haven’t found who killed Preston Greenfield.”

“Mm.” Tyrion chewed on a bit of sharp white cheese. “And here I thought Kingsguard were sworn to die gloriously defending princes, not skewered in alleys like drunk sellswords. How… ignoble.”

“Jon Connington is furious. He’s demanded the city be searched from top to bottom. Curfews. Patrols.” Jaime’s jaw tightened. “And in the midst of this, young Loras Tyrell has proposed himself for the Kingsguard.”

Tyrion raised both brows. “Has he now? Bold. Clever. A Tyrell white cloak would offend neither lion nor viper, and the boy swings a sword well enough. Not Dornish, not Westerlander—neutral ground, or as close to it as we’ll get.”

Jaime leaned back, eyes narrowing. “He is close to Aegon. Too close. You’ve seen the way he looks at him.”

Tyrion chuckled. “And I’ve seen the way half the court looks at Aegon. Half envy, half lust. Let the boy moon over him if it keeps him loyal. Better Loras at Aegon’s side than Meryn Trant at Joffrey’s, gods help us. Between the Knight of Flowers and Ser Meryn, I know who I’d rather trust with a sword.”

That won Jaime a reluctant grin, though fleeting.

The talk shifted, as it always did, to marriages. “The Vale lords are on their way,” Jaime said. “And Lord Hoster sends Edmure Tully as well. Visenya’s frightened. She should be—she’s nine, promised to a sickly boy she’s never met.”

“It is natural to fear the future,” Tyrion mused. “Less natural when the future of the realm sits squarely on your little shoulders. But necessary.”

Jaime’s gaze darkened. “And our king grows restless. Rhaegar attends council more often now, true, but half his days are still in the library. He lets Connington rule.”

Tyrion studied him. Jaime was ever loyal to Rhaegar—his white cloak demanded it—but Tyrion heard the doubt in his voice. He topped his goblet. “Books and prophecies, yes. That is Rhaegar’s feast. But you did not come here to lament the king’s reading habits. You came with shadows in your eyes. Out with it.”

Jaime hesitated, then exhaled. “Cersei.”

Tyrion snorted. “It is always Cersei.”

“She is changed.” Jaime’s voice was low. “Since the red woman came. Melisandre. She’s always near her now, whispering. And the ruby she wears—it pulses, brother. As if it breathes.”

“Rubies do not breathe,” Tyrion said dryly. “But go on.”

“The red woman. She calls me valonqar. Again and again. Always with that look. It… unsettles me.”

“Valonqar means little brother. Which, need I remind you, you are. To Cersei, at least. Do not tremble at shadows, Jaime.” He grinned.

Jaime’s mouth twisted, half relief, half unease. He said no more of it.

Instead, he asked, “What do you think Robert Baratheon wants with Stark? Fourteen years, no word, and now he rides north?”

“Ah.” Tyrion swirled his wine, watching the red cling to the cup. “Their last meeting was less than cordial, if memory serves. Shouts that shook the Red Keep. Some swore they’d cross steel. Perhaps Robert seeks to mend old wounds. Or perhaps he smells weakness. Twice Rhaegar tried to bind him to the throne. Twice Robert spat in his face. And no councilor has ever dared suggest a match to the North since Rickard and Brandon burned. Too much blood in the ashes.”

Jaime frowned. “So why now?”

“Because time turns, dear brother. Connington has the Vale bound, and the Riverlands near enough. That leaves the North—a lone piece still free to move. If Robert cannot be tied, perhaps Lord Stark can. Joffrey remains unbetrothed, does he not? And Lord Stark has a pretty daughter of age. Sansa, isn’t it?”

Jaime stiffened, puzzlement flickering into distaste.

“Imagine it,” Tyrion pressed, eyes gleaming. “A wolf girl at Joffrey’s side. Robert isolated. The North pulled into the fold. And when the Dance begins anew, the lions will not stand alone. Even the dutiful Stark would think twice before taking up arms against his daughter’s husband.”

Jaime did not answer. His silence was answer enough.

“Do not pretend the war is not coming,” Tyrion said softly, almost kindly. “Every man in this keep smells it. Father sharpens his claws. Doran plots in his sun-warmed halls. Tyrells weave their nets. All of us circling, waiting for the first blood to spill. Even you must see that”

Jaime’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

“So,” Tyrion went on, finishing his cup, “let the king read his books. Let Connington build his bridges. Let Cersei play with her fire-priestess. The game goes on, and we Lannisters would be fools not to play.”

Jaime broke the silence at last, voice low. “What of the other dragon? Lyanna’s son.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Father’s spies say he is happy enough as a Stark. No threat. Better he stay buried in snow and wolf’s blood than come south. The realm is crowded enough with dragons.”

He poured himself another cup, savoring the wine’s burn. And crowded enough with fools who think they can tame them, he thought.

The throne room of the Red Keep smelled of wax and sweat and too many perfumes battling for dominance. The great hall was swollen with lords and ladies, banners dripping from the pillars, silks clashing with steel.

Tyrion sat his small chair with a goblet of watered wine at his elbow, eyes darting, counting, weighing. It was a game board before him, though the pieces wore flesh and gold instead of painted wood.

To the east side of the hall clustered the Dornish and the Reach, bright oranges against vivid greens, the sun tangled with the golden rose. A fragile alliance, held together by the promise that Aegon might be bound to little Margaery Tyrell. Tyrion caught a whisper behind him—that the girl herself was already on the road, ready to be displayed like some treasured filly. So the game quickens. Flowers for dragons, suns for fire.

The Westerlands stood apart in crimson and gold, Lord Tywin’s men proud and stiff-backed, their eyes ever watchful. Crownlanders mingled uneasily with them, fewer in number, but loud in voice, clinging to scraps of royal favor where they could.

Six Kingsguard lined the throne, white cloaks gleaming. Jaime, golden and restless; Barristan, as immovable as marble; Dayne, pale-eyed and silent; Whent, older, greyer, his loyalty unreadable; Darry, dour as a septon; Meryn Trant, puffed up with self-importance. One cloak missing still. Preston Greenfield’s place stood empty, the air about it heavier for the vacancy. Who will wear white next? Tyrion wondered. And which faction will win the right to clothe him?

Near the steps of the Iron Throne stood Visenya. His sweet niece, golden-haired and violet-eyed, clutching her skirts and looking about with wide eyes as if the hall might swallow her whole. Beside her, of course, was her less-sweet brother Joffrey, smirking with Theon Greyjoy skulking at his side. And just behind them loomed the red woman, her ruby pulsing faintly in the torchlight, like a heart that beat for another god. There is a shadow there we do not name, Tyrion thought grimly.

Above them all, Rhaegar sat the Iron Throne, grave and distant, silver hair spilling over his shoulders. He did not look at his queen, though she sat to his left on a lesser throne, crimson and gold blazing about her like war banners. On the king’s right was Jon Connington, the Griffon Lord, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, every inch the hand that ruled in his king’s stead.

Below them, the rest of the council waited like vultures: Velaryon of Driftmark, ships etched into his rings, speaking more of sails than loyalty; Oberyn Martell, lean and dangerous, smiling too often to mean it; Lord Mooton of Maidenpool, gaudy in silks, forever counting coin; and Varys in his shadows, hands folded, eyes half-lidded.

Tyrion chuckled softly to himself, earning a sharp look from a Lannister guard. “All the players gathered,” he murmured, raising his cup. “All knowing the game ends with blood. But whose, I wonder?”

For a moment, he imagined Jon Arryn in his airy halls, quill scratching across parchment. Had the old falcon known what nest of vipers he sent his son into? Did he know, when he loosed the boy southward, that the Red Keep was already smoldering, only waiting for a spark?

The herald’s voice broke the hush.

“My lords, my ladies—the Vale of Arryn!”

The great doors opened, and in they came: banners fluttering, mail gleaming. Tyrion’s sharp little eyes darted from sigil to sigil, plucking each one from the air like a piece on a cyvasse board. The silver falcon of House Arryn soared proud upon its field of blue. Beside it, the black runes of House Royce, stern and immovable as the mountains. A red castle for Redfort, a broken wheel for Waynwood, a burning tower for Grafton of Gulltown. And then—one he did not know. A grey stone head with fiery eyes, glaring from a field of pale green.

But the little falcon himself was nowhere to be seen. No boy, no faltering step, no wheezing breath. Nor was there the hand that guided him.

Instead, a man came forward. Thin, with a common face easily forgotten, save for the sharp little mustache that clung to his lip. He bowed low, graceful as a cat.

“Your Grace,” he said smoothly, voice light and pleasant. “I am Petyr Baelish, Lord of House Baelish, first counselor to Lord Jon Arryn, and in his stead, I bear the voice of the Eyrie.”

The name tugged at Tyrion’s memory. Ah, yes. The upjumped lordling, once fostered in Riverrun, raised high by Lord Arryn’s indulgence. A gambler, a schemer, a man who turned coppers into gold until Gulltown itself fattened at his touch. “Littlefinger,” they called him. Petyr Baelish, who whispered in Lord Arryn’s ear. And here he stands now, bowing before a king. A common little ladder, climbing ever higher. Tyrion smiled into his wine.

The silence stretched. At last, Connington’s voice broke it. “We expected Lord Arryn himself. And young Lord Robert.” His tone was courteous, but sharp-edged.

The Vale men shifted uncomfortably. Baelish, though, did not flinch. If anything, his smile deepened, as though he relished the weight of so many eyes upon him.

“My lords,” he said silkily, “Lord Robert was struck with a fit and remains weak. Lord Arryn has taken to his bed with an illness, grave enough that he cannot leave his chambers. Lady Lysa bid me come in his stead, to bear the Eyrie’s voice before the throne.”

A murmur rustled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Tyrion’s keen gaze darted to Connington. The Hand masked it well, but the worry was plain enough in his eyes. An absent Arryn meant instability, and instability in the Vale meant cracks in the realm.

Jon Connington inclined his head. “We pray for their swift recovery, and for the health of young Robert.”

Baelish bowed again, perfectly shallow this time, as if to say he expected no less.

“The Eyrie welcomes Your Grace’s proposition,” he continued smoothly, “and accepts. But an alliance is more than marriages and betrothals alone. We are here to speak of compensation. Of binding ties that cannot be cut.”

There it was. Coins behind words, steel behind silk. Tyrion hid his grin in his cup. A man after my own heart. He dresses avarice in courtesy and makes it sound like duty. I must drink with him one day, before someone kills him.

His gaze flicked sideways to his sister. Cersei’s lip curled in disdain, as if the air stank merely from Baelish’s voice. She looked past him, at the Vale banners, at the empty space where the faltering boy should have stood. Disappointment curled in Visenya’s violet eyes, the child’s hands fidgeting at her skirts. She had wanted to meet her betrothed; instead she was given this sly little fox.

The king still had not spoken. His silver head was bowed, lost in thoughts no one else could see. It was left to Connington to incline his head once more. “We will speak further in council. For now, you and your company are welcome in King’s Landing.”

Baelish bowed low, smiling faintly, and stepped back.

The herald’s staff rang against the floor. Silence hung like a noose. The room prepared to leave as the king rose and descended the iron throne.

Then Cersei’s voice, sweet as honey and twice as cloying: “Love.”

Rhaegar stirred as if roused from a dream, turning slowly toward her. She leaned close, emeralds eyes flashing in the torchlight, and murmured a few words. Tyrion did not hear them, but he saw the queen’s ruby gleam—a red stone at her throat, pulsing faintly.

The hush in the hall was heavy as a shroud. All eyes turned upward, waiting for their king.

Rhaegar’s pale gaze swept the chamber as if seeing none of it, until Connington leaned close and murmured. Then, slowly, the king turned. His voice was soft, almost dreamy, yet it carried in the vastness of the hall.

“Though Ser Preston’s death is a tragedy… the Kingsguard must be whole. Seven.”

Tyrion’s eyes slid at once to the white-cloaked ranks. Barristan stood tall as an oak, serene and grave. Ser Arthur Dayne gleamed like dawn in his pale armor, Oswell Whent dour at his side. Trant, ever the lickspittle, shifted as though hoping to be noticed. Ser Jonothor Darry coughed into his fist. And Jaime… Jaime’s golden head was bowed, though Tyrion knew his brother well enough to see the tension in his shoulders.

The hush deepened. Even the banners seemed to sag, waiting. Tyrion’s gaze ticked to the youth standing near Aegon. Loras Tyrell. The boy looked carved of marble, beautiful and bright, and ready to step forward. He nearly did, as if his whole life had led to this moment. A good choice, if a sane one were making it, Tyrion thought. Not a Dornishman, not a lion. The Flower by the Dragon’s side… and close enough to sniff at the fruit he truly desires.

But the king’s words fell like stones in still water.

“Ser Gregor Clegane.”

The gasp that followed was sharp and sudden, a collective intake of breath. Tyrion’s brows shot up, his wine almost spilling. Oh, Seven save us. The Mountain?

From the shadowed edges of the hall, a great shape moved. Gregor Clegane stepped forward, taller than two men, armored in dark steel. His helm was tucked beneath one arm, his ruined face plain for all to see. His gaze was flat, cold, his bulk blotting out the torchlight. The hall seemed smaller for his presence.

“No wife. No land,” Rhaegar intoned, voice still distant. “Only the realm to serve. Will you swear, Ser Gregor?”

Gregor bowed, if the stiff dip of his shoulders could be called such. “Aye.” His voice was low and grinding, like stone dragged across stone.

“Then rise,” the king said. “Rise, Ser Gregor Clegane, sworn brother of the Kingsguard.”

The whispers erupted like a storm.

Tyrion’s eyes flicked quick as a raven’s. The Dornish burned with fury — Oberyn’s lips curled in a smile sharp as a blade, the Sand Snakes bristling at his side. He remembered Lewyn Martell’s white cloak, the crimson pool left in Elia’s bed, and thought: Ah. This will fester like a wound in summer.

Loras Tyrell stood stiff, face pale with rage and humiliation, his eyes fixed on the Mountain with naked loathing. His knuckles whitened on his sword’s pommel, and Tyrion half-expected the boy to challenge Gregor there and then.

Aegon himself sat still, lips pressed thin, violet eyes unreadable. Rhaenys’s mouth tightened, her fingers tapping against her skirts. Joffrey smirked openly, leaning close to Theon to mutter something that made the kraken’s son snicker.

And Cersei… Cersei smirked too, green eyes gleaming, the ruby at her throat pulsing in the torchlight. Her gaze lingered not on the Mountain, but on Oberyn and the Tyrell boy, as if she drank their fury like wine.

Tyrion sipped his own wine, slow and steady. Well, dear sister, you’ve done it. You’ve set fire to a hall already filled with oil. Let us see now who burns first.

The Mountain bent the knee before the Iron Throne, and the realm bent toward chaos.

And in Tyrion’s gut, the certainty hardened: the game was moving fast.

Chapter Text

Margaery

The litter swayed as it climbed the steep cobbles of Aegon’s High Hill, and the muffled clatter of hooves and wheels beat a rhythm beneath her. Through the carved lattice, Margaery glimpsed the streets of King’s Landing unfurling below.

The air was thick with the smell of fish, smoke, and too many bodies pressed too close. Shouts rose from the crowds that lined the route, voices crying out for coin, for bread, for a glimpse of the Tyrell banners snapping green and gold in the wind. The banners of Highgarden were bright as spring, yet the city they entered seemed grey and tired, its walls patched, its markets half-empty. Not the glorious jewel sung of in songs, Margaery thought. But a jewel cracked, with its gold dulled by fire and dust.

Opposite her, her grandmother sat like some ancient oracle in her nest of cushions, sharp eyes darting through the lattice. Lady Olenna had cast aside her veil in the heat, and the torchlight caught the gleam of her rings as she drummed one finger on her cane.

“Lord Arryn sick in his bed,” Olenna muttered, as if reciting a tally of misfortunes. “The boy Robert too weak to ride south. And in their stead, that sly little man of Baelish. I knew him once, a boy with a nose for coin and a taste for pretty things. He’s grown into both.”

Margaery folded her hands in her lap, careful to keep her voice calm. “They say he charmed the court of Gulltown into his pocket and doubled its trade. If he serves Lord Arryn now, perhaps he can do the same here.”

Her grandmother snorted. “Charm is a coin that spends well enough until it doesn’t. I trust Baelish no more than I trust a Dornishman at a feast. Still, watch him. Men like that bite when they smile.”

The litter jolted as it turned, and the red walls of the Red Keep rose above them, stern against the setting sun. Margaery smoothed her skirts, Tyrell green with golden roses embroidered at the hem, and thought of the letter Loras had sent her only a fortnight past.

“He wrote that the king listens more to his wife than to his council,” she said softly. “That the queen’s words carry weight beyond measure.”

“Cersei,” Olenna said, sourly. “That ruby-throated harpy. It smells of her, naming Tywin’s brute dog to the Kingsguard. What was Rhaegar thinking? If he was thinking at all.”

Margaery hesitated. “Then it must be her plan?”

“Of course it is,” Olenna snapped. Then, more measured: “The queen may wear silks, but beneath them she’s all claws. We do not yet know what her game is, but we’ll not underestimate her. A lioness never shows her teeth until it’s too late.”

Outside, the cheers thinned as the procession left the markets for the narrow streets winding toward the hilltop. Soldiers pressed the crowd back with poles, their voices ringing against the stones.

“And yet,” Olenna went on, tapping her cane once for emphasis, “for the moment we are not without teeth of our own. Dorne is at our side. Imagine that. I never thought in all my years to call a viper an ally. But here we are.”

“You don’t trust them?” Margaery asked.

“Only a fool would trust a Dornishman,” Olenna replied crisply. “But for now they are useful. And when you sit the throne, with Aegon’s crown upon your brow and his babe in your belly, then we can throw away both vipers and lions. Roses have thorns enough of their own.”

Margaery nodded, though unease prickled beneath her composure. Since girlhood she had been told her duty: a crown for her, a crown for Highgarden. Twice she had met Aegon, the boy who would be king. He was charming, with the silver hair of his line and a smile that came easily. And Loras liked him. That, more than anything, had eased her heart.

The litter slowed as they neared the gates of the Red Keep. Margaery peered once more through the lattice, at the sprawling city laid below, banners of dragon and lion and falcon scattered among the roofs, all waiting, all watching.

She smoothed her gown again, took a breath, and lifted her chin.

I was born for this.

The Red Keep smelled of stone and smoke, and of the sea beyond its walls. The long corridors were loud with echoing steps and hushed with whispers at once, like a hive too restless to sleep.

Loras was waiting for them in the outer hall, resplendent even without his helm, his cloak a cascade of roses worked in gold. He bowed low before Olenna, then kissed his sister’s hand lightly.

“Welcome to the keep,” he said, though the warmth in his eyes was for her alone. “Though I would have liked you had come at a gentler hour. The castle is in unrest.”

“Unrest?” Olenna snorted, adjusting the folds of her wimple. “The Red Keep has been in unrest since Aerys sat the throne. Fourteen years, and I have yet to hear it called otherwise.”

Loras smiled faintly but did not argue. “The Hand of the King will receive you in his tower later. Until then, chambers have been prepared.” He gestured, and a handmaid stepped forward.

Olenna leaned close to Margaery, her breath sharp in her ear. “Savour these happy moments, child. Soon enough, there will be none.” With that she allowed herself to be led away, cane tapping on the stones, leaving Margaery alone with her brother.

Loras lingered only long enough to see their grandmother gone. Then he turned to Margaery, softer now. “If you wish it… Aegon will see you. He is in the yard.”

Margaery’s heart stuttered once, a bird in a snare. She nodded. “Yes. I wish it.”

They walked together through a gallery that opened onto the training yard, their steps hushed beneath the banners overhead. Loras spoke as they went.

“He prepares in all things. The maester drills him in history and accounts, the septon in law and faith. He learns the sword under Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime, the spear with Oberyn. He will make a fine king… and a fine husband.”

Margaery heard the pride in his voice, but beneath it was something quieter, a thread of sadness she had not noticed before. She turned to look at him, but Loras kept his gaze ahead, fixed on the archway spilling sunlight into the yard.

He speaks of Aegon as if he were the Conqueror reborn, she thought. And yet his eyes betray him. My brother loves him—perhaps more than a brother in arms should.

They stepped out into the brightness of the yard. The clang of steel rang sharp, sparking off stone. Margaery’s gaze swept the field. She had half-expected to see both princes at practice, but only one silver head gleamed in the sun.

“Where is Joffrey?” she asked, unable to keep the note of surprise from her voice.

Loras’s mouth tightened. “Joffrey does not train. He prefers the company of his Greyjoy pup. The boy from Pyke.” There was disdain in every word. “Yet he struts as though he were already king. Visenya spends much time with His Grace, and Joffrey follows her like a shadow. It makes him bold—bold enough to provoke Aegon, even in plain sight.”

Margaery’s lips pressed together.

Loras lowered his voice. “We will speak more later. Here is not safe.”

And then she saw him.

Aegon.

He moved with the grace of a dancer, silver hair loose, violet eyes flashing, his olive skin gleaming with sweat. Tall already, lean but strong, he pressed his attack against Ser Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning. The clash of steel filled the yard, drawing a small crowd of courtiers and squires to watch.

Margaery could not look away. Each step, each cut and parry, seemed carved for her gaze alone. He was beautiful, and in that moment she understood why her father and grandmother had bound her fate to his before she could even walk.

But beauty was not enough.

She forced herself to study him as her grandmother had taught: his balance, his poise, the measure of his breath when he struck. He was good—better than she expected. Yet not enough for Dayne. With a deft twist, Arthur disarmed him, sending his blade spinning across the sand.

The crowd murmured, half impressed, half disappointed. But Aegon only smiled, bowed to his master, and turned—straight toward her.

Their eyes met.

“Margaery Tyrell,” he said, striding across the yard, swordless but radiant. “Welcome to King’s Landing.”

Her heart leapt, and for a moment she feared he would hear it in her voice.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying low, though her eyes never left his.

Aegon’s violet eyes lingered on her as he crossed the sand, the sunlight catching in his hair so that it seemed to glow pale gold at the edges. Ser Arthur retrieved the disarmed blade in silence, but his faint smile betrayed his pride in his pupil.

“The road from Highgarden is long,” Aegon said as he reached her. “Was the journey kind to you, my lady?”

Margaery lowered her gaze demurely, though her voice was steady. “Yes, Your Grace. The roads were clear, and the king’s men diligent in their duty. It was a fairer welcome than I feared, after so many leagues. And… you spar well. Few men can stand so long against Ser Arthur Dayne.”

That drew a laugh from him, warm and unguarded. “So long as ‘long’ is measured in breaths before he knocks the sword from my hand. I am leagues away from besting Ser Arthur—or Ser Jaime.”

“Leagues?” Ser Arthur’s voice was quiet but carried, as if meant for all in the yard. “You shorten that distance each day, my prince. You have the makings of a swordsman to rival any I have taught.”

Aegon bowed his head in thanks, though he laughed again as if embarrassed. “You see how they spoil me, Lady Margaery? One day I may start to believe them.”

“It would not be spoiling if it were true,” she said softly.

His eyes lingered on her at that, the laughter fading into something steadier. Then he looked to Loras. “Your brother speaks highly of you, my lady. So often, I feel I already know you. But I am pleased beyond measure that the match between our houses may bind us closer still.”

Margaery’s heart skipped, though she had rehearsed such words a hundred times. “I am pleased as well, Your Grace. My lord father and grandmother will meet with Lord Connington later to speak further of the betrothal.”

At that, a shadow crossed his face, fleeting but sharp. He hesitated, then said, “It should be my father you speak with. These matters… they are not the Hand’s to decide.”

The shift in tone tightened the air between them. Margaery sensed it and answered carefully, the way Olenna had taught her. “A king is burdened with duties too many to count, Your Grace. That is why the Hand rules in his stead. To ease the weight.”

Aegon smiled faintly, though there was a bitterness in it. “Your concern does you credit. But all in the realm know what my father does each day—buried in his books while Lord Connington sits his council. The songs do not speak of maesters and accounts, yet that is the throne we have.”

The words hung heavy for a moment. Then he lifted his chin, as though casting them aside. “But enough of duty. Tonight there will be feasting—dornish peppers, Reach wines, fish from the Blackwater itself. It is not every day that the viper and the rose speak of peace. That, at least, is worth celebrating.”

He reached for her hand then, his fingers cool against her skin, and bent low to brush her knuckles with his lips. “Later, perhaps, we might find a quieter hall to speak in private. About crowns, or… something else.” His smile was sudden again, boyish and disarming.

Before she could answer, he had turned, calling for Ser Arthur to follow him. “Another lesson waits. Old Pycelle means to teach me to count coins. A skill no king can lack, he says. I pray he has casks of wine enough to make numbers interesting.” His laughter trailed behind him as he strode toward the archway.

Margaery’s pulse had not yet settled when Loras stepped closer. His voice was hushed, almost reverent. “You see, sister? A true prince. He will be a better king than any the realm has known.”

Margaery kept her eyes on Aegon’s retreating figure. Beautiful, proud, uncertain, yet eager to please. A prince for certain… and perhaps, one day, a husband worthy of both crown and rose.

She only said, “Yes, Loras. I think you are right.”

The corridors of the Red Keep still hummed faintly with laughter and music, but here in their chambers all was hushed save for the crackle of a fire and the rustle of Olenna’s skirts as she settled onto a cushioned chair. Margaery stood by the window for a time, gazing out into the night. The city glittered faintly below, torches winking along the walls and winding streets. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spiced wine that clung even after the feast.

She thought of the Dornish table they had shared. Of Oberyn Martell, smiling too sharply. Of Ellaria, all grace and wit, and of the Sand Snakes—bright-eyed, laughing, bold. Not what she had expected. They were loud, but not unwelcoming. And Rhaenys… her new good-sister, if all went as planned. Margaery had measured her in every glance, every careful word. Rhaenys was warm enough, but cautious. As she should be, Margaery thought. We are weighing each other, both of us imagining crowns, children, alliances that will bind or break us.

Her grandmother’s voice broke her reverie. “Too much pepper in the stew,” Olenna grumbled, fanning herself with her hand. “My tongue is still aflame. The Dornish laugh too loud, their princes preen too much, and the queen glared at me from start to finish as if I’d stolen her best jewels.”

Margaery turned, smiling faintly. “You only wish to find something to complain of, Grandmother.”

Olenna’s eyes glinted, sharp even in the soft firelight. Then she let out a low laugh. “Perhaps. A woman grows old, she must amuse herself somehow.”

Margaery crossed the chamber, kneeling by her chair. “How went the meeting?”

The mirth faded from Olenna’s tone. “Well enough, on the surface. They spoke sweetly of Reach grains, of trade flowing up the Blackwater. Your father prattled about ships and harvests. Connington listened politely and promised the Tyrell name would have its place at court. Your father was near giddy. The thought of a seat in the council hall has him halfway to the clouds.”

“And the betrothal?”

“It will be announced in the coming days,” Olenna said, her voice brisk. “Your father is already planning feasts upon feasts. He sees your crown as if it were already set upon your head. In that, at least, he is not wrong.”

Margaery felt her heart lift, though she kept her voice measured. “Then all goes well.”

But Olenna’s gaze sharpened. “After Mace bumbled off, I had a true conversation with the Hand.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice though no ears lingered in the chamber. “Connington sees lions everywhere. He is consumed by the thought of Tywin’s rise. He swore to me he’s tried every road to curb their power, but still they creep closer to the throne. Binding the Reach to Aegon, he said, is the surest way to check them.”

Margaery absorbed that in silence.

Her grandmother’s mouth pursed. “I asked him of the girl—the princess Visenya, and her match with the Vale. He told me it was necessary. Necessary, to counter the wolf.” She sniffed. “Counter the wolf! As if Eddard Stark is some lurking beast waiting to tear the realm apart. The man is as dutiful and stiff as the Wall itself. He’ll never rise against the crown without cause. And the boy the wolf girl’s son, he’s no threat so long as he stays north.”

“Then why—”

“Because in Connington’s mind,” Olenna cut across her, “the Rebellion is still yesterday’s wound. Every shadow hides Robert’s hammer, every whisper is Stark steel. So he throws the Arryns at the problem, hoping to stitch up a scar that never was.”

Margaery was silent. She thought of Visenya, sweet and timid, terrified at the thought of the Eyrie. Sacrificed for a phantom fear, she thought.

Olenna went on, softer now. “The truth, child, is simpler. The lions and the stag are the true dangers. Robert in the north, Tywin here at the heart. Connington plays at mending old wounds while new ones gape before his eyes.”

“And what of the red woman?” Margaery asked before she thought better of it.

Her grandmother’s mouth thinned. “A shadow at Cersei’s side. A trick of fire and riddles, nothing more. But useful women are dangerous women. Best keep your eyes on her.”

The fire popped, and for a moment neither spoke. Then Olenna’s hand, gnarled but steady, reached for Margaery’s. “The plan is simple. The betrothal will be sealed. You will give the realm a crown and, soon enough, an heir. A boy, bright and silver-haired. That babe will be your true power. With it, we need neither viper nor trout. They will tear each other to pieces while you sit secure with your dragon.”

Margaery swallowed, hearing the certainty in her grandmother’s tone. A crown, a husband, an heir. She had known it since she was a girl, but now the weight of it pressed down like never before.

Olenna smiled faintly, though her eyes stayed sharp. “Enjoy these days, child. The dancing, the flattery, the wide eyes of your brother singing Aegon’s praises. Savor them. Because soon enough, the knives will be out, and there will be no more happy moments. Only the game.”

Margaery turned back toward the window. The torches still glimmered below, and for an instant she imagined them as stars scattered across the dark. Everything is going smoothly, she told herself. A strong alliance. A crown within reach. Nothing will tilt the board now.

But in her heart, she wondered if that was ever truly so in the Red Keep.

Chapter Text

Eddard

The clang of steel rang across Winterfell’s yard, sharp and bright against the grey of morning. Eddard Stark’s breath misted in the chill air as he brought his practice sword —a blunted longsword—up to meet the descending crash of Robert’s warhammer. The shock of it shuddered down his arms, forcing him back a step across the packed earth. Gods, but the man had lost none of his strength.

It had been a month since Robert came north, a month of feasts and laughter, a month where the halls of Winterfell echoed with song until Catelyn’s eyes grew shadowed from weariness. Yet she smiled all the same, for Robert and Ned had found one another again after long, bitter years. That bond of youth reforged was worth her tiredness.

Now, in the yard, that friendship took the shape of blows. Robert had badgered him near every day since his arrival—“Come, Ned, let us spar! Let me see if the wolf has grown fat and slow.” At last, Ned had relented. And so the castle gathered.

He felt their eyes upon him even as he moved: his son, straight-backed and intent, Robb gripping the hilt of his own practice sword, Jon’s grey eyes fixed and solemn, Bran with his mouth half open in awe. Sansa stood near her mother, the girls clutching each other’s hands, Daenerys between them with her silver hair gleaming. Lyanna lingered at the edge of the crowd, Arya’s pony forgotten beside her, her gaze sharp as it had been in their youth. Even Benjen had come from the Wall.

And beyond his own blood, others: Martyn Cassel and old Rodrik, each measuring his steps with a master’s eye. The Baratheon brood, golden Argella standing proudly, young Argilac chewing at his lip as he stared. Renly laughed and clapped as the blows rang, his cheer bright as summer. Even Stannis was there, arms crossed, lips pressed in that stern line, as though he had come only to find fault.

Robert pressed him hard, as he always had. Warhammer swung in great arcs, each blow meant to break bone. Ned parried, turned, ducked, but Robert’s sheer force drove him back, back again. Robert laughed as he came, the booming sound rolling across the yard.

“Seven hells, Ned, is this all the wolf has left? My grandmother could strike harder!”

Ned’s answering breath came harsh but steady. “Your grandmother never had to keep Winterfell through long winters.” He caught the next blow barely, his arm jarring to the shoulder. Gods, the man was a storm given flesh.

The crowd roared with each clash, boys calling for one, men for the other. The ring of steel, the crunch of Robert’s boots in the earth, the grunt of Ned’s breath—it all blurred into the rhythm of combat, old and familiar. He remembered the Vale, when they were boys and dreamed themselves invincible.

In the end, strength told. Robert’s hammer struck Ned’s blade aside with a ringing crack. The longsword spun from his hand, skittering across the dirt. Ned stood bare-handed as Robert leveled the warhammer to his chest, sweat running down his broad brow.

“Yield, wolf,” Robert crowed, grinning through his beard.

Ned bowed his head, lips twitching despite himself. “Aye. You have me, Robert.”

The yard erupted in cheers. Robert threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming against the old stone. He lowered the hammer and clapped Ned upon the shoulder with enough force to stagger him.

“Rusty, Ned! You’ve grown soft in your hall of snow. Gods, I thought you’d have me once or twice, but you lost your edge. A pity. A bloody pity!”

Ned bent, retrieved his sword, and allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “If I have grown soft, it is because I have not spent my years breaking skulls. Not all of us needed war to fill our bellies.”

That drew another laugh, deep and fond. Slowly, the crowd began to disperse—men back to duties, children off to chatter of the fight, ladies to their chambers. Only three remained when the yard was quiet again: Robert, still grinning as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand; Lyanna, sharp-eyed and silent; and Ned himself, the weight of the past month pressing heavy on his shoulders as the echoes of laughter faded into the grey morning air.

“You’ve grown slow, brother,” Lyanna teased, lips curving in that wolf’s grin of hers. “When we were children, you would have lasted longer against him. But today? You barely stood a chance. My Jon would have knocked Robert down flat.”

Ned felt his face heat, though the corners of his mouth twitched. Robert roared, the laughter echoing like thunder against the stone. He clutched at his belly as though the mirth pained him.

“Your Jon, eh? Gods, the boy has a fine blade, I’ll grant him that. Swift, and sharp as a whip. But he hasn’t yet tasted a true battle. Steel sings sweeter when death stands behind it. Let him try me once he’s blooded, and we’ll see if he can topple a storm.”

Lyanna smirked, unbothered. “Keep telling yourself that, Robert. It will make the day sweeter when he does.”

Ned could not help himself; the smile came unbidden, tugging at his lips. To see them like this—Robert and Lyanna trading japes like brother and sister—it loosened something tight in his chest. For years, he had feared the old wounds might gape open if they ever stood together again. Instead, Robert laughed at his own follies, even his old love, as though the weight of it had finally slipped from his shoulders.

Ned thought of their youth in the Vale, of Jon Arryn’s stern gaze watching over them. He remembered the Rebellion, and Robert’s grief after. The man before him was older, greyer, lined with care, but perhaps—at last—he was free.

Lyanna’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Oh Ned I almost forgot, Benjen waits for you in the godswood. He asked for you. Looked serious as I’ve ever seen him.”

Ned frowned. “The godswood? Why not come to the hall?”

She shrugged, a loose roll of her shoulders. “Ask him yourself. I only know his face was grave.”

Ned was about to nod when movement caught his eye. Catelyn approached, her steps measured, Rickon’s nurse trailing behind her. In her hands one sealed scroll, the wax still unbroken. Her face was pale, lips pressed tight.

The laughter died between them like a snuffed flame.

“What news, my lady?” Ned asked, his voice low.

Catelyn stopped before them, eyes flickering between her husband and the king. “From the south.” She swallowed, then lifted one of the scrolls. “From the Eyrie. Lysa writes… her lord husband has taken ill. Gravely. Jon Arryn has been abed for weeks now, and the maester holds little hope.”

Ned felt the words strike him like a mailed fist to the gut. Jon Arryn, his foster-father, his second sire. The man who had made him, shaped him, kept him safe when the world burned around them. For a moment, Ned could not speak. His eyes sought Robert’s, and there he saw the same pain writ plain.

Robert’s booming voice was quieter now, thickened by grief. “Gods… Jon. I should have written sooner. I wanted him to see Argella grown, Argilac a man. To sit with him again, like we once did. And now—now it may be too late.”

“You could go to him still,” Ned said, though his throat was tight.

Robert shook his head, then set his jaw. “Not could, Ned. Should. We both should. He was father to us both. If he goes to his grave without us at his side, I’ll never forgive myself.” He raised his chin, eyes burning. “Come with me. To the Eyrie. One last time, to show him that old wounds have healed. That he was right to bind us as brothers.”

Ned hesitated. Winterfell needed him. His children needed him. The thought of leaving weighed heavy, like a millstone about his neck. “The North is my duty,” he murmured.

“Duty?” Lyanna’s voice was sharp as a whip. She stepped forward, her grey eyes blazing. “Jon Arryn was like a father to you Ned. If you do not go, who will? You cannot let him slip away with no farewell.”

He looked at her, and for once saw no jest, no mischief. Only truth.

Catelyn’s hand found his arm. “She is right, my lord. Winterfell will stand. Robb is near a man grown—let him learn to bear the weight for a time. It will be good for him. And it is only for a while. The keep is safe, and Lyanna will be here.”

Ned closed his eyes, weighing love against duty, memory against need. At last, he looked to Robert. “If I go, will you?”

Robert barked a laugh, though it rang hollow. “Aye. I’ll send Stannis back to Storm’s End with Argillac at his side. He’ll brood and scowl, but he’ll keep the castle. Argella, though—” He grinned, some spark of his old self flaring. “She stays here. She and your Robb. For the wedding.”

Ned huffed a soft laugh despite himself. “It is not yet certain, Robert.”

“Oh, it will be.” Robert clapped him on the shoulder with a force that nearly staggered him. “You’ll see. By the end of it, you’ll be begging me to take her off your hands.”

Lyanna snorted, and even Catelyn allowed herself a small, weary smile. The shadow of grief still lingered, but for a moment, laughter rose among them once more—thin, fragile, yet real.

The godswood lay quiet, its ancient stillness undisturbed save for the soft ripple of the pool beneath the heart tree. The carved face of the weirwood stared out with blind red eyes, its tears of sap running into the dark water. Ned stepped lightly over the moss-soft ground, his breath misting in the cold air. He found his brother as Lyanna had said: Benjen stood at the water’s edge, hands clasped behind his back, his cloak stirring faintly in the breeze.

Without turning, Benjen spoke. “It’s calm here. Always has been. You’d scarce believe what lies beyond these stones when you stand beneath these branches.”

Ned came to stand beside him, gazing at the reflection of the carved face on the rippling pool. “Calm, yes. But you didn’t call me here for calm, Ben. Lyanna was worried. What is it? Has something befallen the Watch?”

Benjen exhaled slowly, a cloud of white drifting from his lips. “Not befallen. Not yet. But something stirs, Ned. Strange days at the Wall. Stranger nights.”

Ned’s brow furrowed. “Strange how?”

“The rangers ride, but they return with nothing. No wildling bands sighted south of Whitetree. None by the Milkwater. None near the Frostfangs. Only silence. Too much silence.” Benjen’s eyes, dark and weary, fixed on the heart tree. “Victarion Greyjoy himself swore it—no fires in the hills, no camps, no raids. The wildlings are gone, scattered like chaff.”

Ned remembered the Greyjoy’s face: hard as the Iron Islands stone, a man forged in rebellion and bound to the Wall by grace of Connington’s justice. “And the ones they’ve taken?”

Benjen’s jaw tightened. “The wildlings we caught speak only of death. They whisper of a king. A name.” His lips thinned. “Mance Rayder. A crow once, a ranger. Now a king beyond the Wall, if their tales are true.”

Ned frowned, uneasy. “A king of ghosts, perhaps. What does Mormont make of it?”

“The Old Bear prepares for a great ranging. He means to march deep into the haunted forest, further north than men have gone in living memory. He says we must know what lies behind this silence.” Benjen’s voice was steady, but there was weight beneath it. “Victarion will lead the vanguard, Jorah the rear. I will stay at Mormont’s side.”

Ned’s thoughts flickered to each name. Victarion Greyjoy, spared the sword yet risen to First Ranger. Jorah Mormont, once heir of Bear Island, now an oathbreaker who had sold men into chains. When Ned himself came to bring justice, Jorah had chosen black over death. Bear Island passed to Maege and her daughters, loyal as winter. Strange fates, strange men, all bound to the Wall.

“You’ll ride with them then” Ned said.

Benjen nodded. “Aye. And so I came south. To see you. To see Lyanna. To… to speak with the children.” He hesitated, then turned at last, his eyes somber. “Ned, I don’t know what waits beyond the Wall. But if I don’t return—”

Ned cut him off, the words like ice in his throat. “Don’t.”

Benjen’s mouth quirked in a ghost of a smile. “—then let not this be our last talk. But let it be plain. I want Jon to come north. To meet someone before it’s too late.”

Ned blinked. “Meet who?”

“Maester Aemon. He’s old, older than any man should be, and his bones ache too much for travel. But he asked me. Asked for Jon. And for Daenerys.”

Ned felt his heart hitch. “Why?”

Benjen shrugged, though his eyes betrayed more. “Ask him, not me. Perhaps he sees something in them. Perhaps he only wishes to know his kin while he yet breathes. But he cannot come south. If they would know him, they must come north.”

Ned’s mind raced. Jon… Daenerys. Two children raised beneath his roof, but blood not his own. He thought of Lyanna’s fierce protection, of Rhaella’s trust, of Rhaegar’s shadow stretching from King’s Landing even here. “Jon…” He shook his head. “Jon is Lyanna’s to decide. If she consents, then so be it. As for Daenerys—she is fostered here by the king’s will. I cannot force her hand, but if she agrees, I will see her escorted north. Winterfell’s best men, sworn steel.”

Benjen nodded, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Good. That is all I ask.”

Silence lingered then, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the murmur of the pool. The brothers stood side by side, their shadows long in the fading light.

Ned studied Benjen’s face—the same boy who once clung to Brandon’s back, who laughed too loud and drank too deep, who dreamed of black cloaks and snow. But the man beside him was no boy. He was a brother of the Night’s Watch now, bound for a road that might end in darkness.

“You’ll come back,” Ned said at last, though it sounded less like a promise and more like a prayer.

Benjen smiled faintly, his eyes fixed on the face of the heart tree. “The gods willing. But if not… remember this night, Ned. And keep them safe.”

Ned’s hand tightened on the hilt of Ice at his side. “Always.”

They stood that way a while longer, two brothers beneath the red leaves, sharing the silence of the godswood—perhaps for the last time.

The morning air carried the bite of autumn, sharp in his lungs, though the sky was clear and pale as glass. The yard outside Winterfell’s gates bustled with men and horses, the creak of saddles, the clatter of harness, the barked orders of serjeants forming ranks. Banners stirred in the breeze: the stag of Baratheon beside the direwolf of Stark, and further off, the three-headed dragon, its scarlet heads snapping against the northern wind.

Ned stood before the gates, as farewells rippled through the crowd. Two columns of riders were ready: one bound south with him and Robert, the other turning north with Lyanna and Benjen. The parting pulled at him like a weight on his chest.

Robert was all eagerness, striding amongst his men, laughing, thumping shoulders with mailed fists, his warhammer already slung at his back as if they rode to battle rather than a sick man’s bedside. Renly was at his side, bright and smiling, while Stannis stood apart with Argillac, grim as a cliff face, already speaking of tides and sailings from White Harbor.

By the northern column, Lyanna adjusted her gloves with quick, impatient fingers, a wolfish glint in her eyes as she checked on Jon and Daenerys. Arya stood by her aunt’s side, face dark with sulk and muttered protests. She had near screamed when told she could not go. Now she crossed her arms and kicked at the mud, glowering at the men who dared bar her way. Ned smiled faintly; his daughter had her aunt’s fire, for good or ill.

He turned to Robb. The boy stood tall at the head of Winterfell’s men, his jaw set, his auburn hair catching the light. He looked older than his years. Ned laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You are the Stark of Winterfell until my return,” he said. His voice was steady, but he felt the weight of it as much as Robb did. “Hold fast to your duty. Guard your mother, your brothers, and your sisters. Winterfell is yours to keep.”

Robb’s blue eyes met his, earnest and proud. “I will not fail you, Father.”

Ned squeezed his shoulder, seeing in that moment both the boy he was and the lord he would become. He had no doubt Robb would do well.

Next he went to Lyanna, Jon, and Daenerys. Lyanna stood close to her son, her arm brushing his shoulder protectively. Daenerys lingered a step behind, her violet eyes solemn, her pale hair braided with care for the road.

Ned allowed himself a rare jape. “Try not to do anything rash at the Wall, sister. The Old Bear has troubles enough without you turning the place on its head.”

Benjen gave a snort, half smile, half grimace. Lyanna’s mouth curved. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” she said, though the glint in her eyes belied it. “The Wall won’t know what to make of me.”

Ned chuckled, though unease lingered beneath. He turned to the children. “Jon, Daenerys. You ride north to meet a man of great wisdom and greater age. Treat your great-uncle with the respect he deserves.”

They both nodded solemnly. Jon’s wolf, Ghost, sat silently at his heel, pale as snow, red eyes unblinking. Smallest of the litter, yet the fiercest. Ned still could not decide if the beast was a blessing or a warning.

Finally, he faced Walder. The great man loomed beside them, axe strapped to his back, his scarred face as unyielding as stone. “Keep them safe,” Ned said quietly, the words as heavy as oaths.

Walder bowed his head. “With my life, my lord.”

Ned believed him.

The time for farewells had come. He turned last to Catelyn, who cradled Rickon in her arms. The babe clutched at her hair, gurgling, unaware of the gravity in the air. She met Ned’s gaze, and for a moment all the noise around them seemed to fade. He bent to kiss her softly, tasting the salt of unshed tears.

“I’ll be back before the leaves turn,” he promised, though he knew better than to make promises to the gods.

“You’d best,” she whispered, her hand lingering in his.

With that, Ned swung into the saddle, taking his place beside Robert. His old friend bellowed for the gates to open, his booming voice rolling over the yard like thunder. The great oak doors creaked wide, and the two columns began to move, one south, one north.

Ned glanced back once. He saw the split of banners—stag and wolf turning south, dragon and wolf turning north. Ghost padded silently at Jon’s stirrup, a shadow of snow in the morning light.

Robert’s booming laugh jolted him back. “Forward, Stark! The Vale awaits, and old ghosts with it!”

Ned drew in a breath, set his eyes on the road ahead, and urged his horse on.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

It had been days since they had ridden out from Winterfell, days of hooves drumming across frozen earth, of banners snapping in the wind. The land itself seemed to change with every mile they covered. Forest gave way to long empty stretches of tundra, where the wind cut sharper, and the air seemed to grow thinner, purer, and more merciless all at once.

Daenerys kept her cloak wrapped tight about her shoulders, though she hardly minded the cold. She found herself drinking in the vastness. Winterfell’s grey walls and the little bustle of Wintertown had been her world for years, with only quiet rides into the Wolfswood, or the occasional journey to Barrowton when Lyanna took her to call upon Lord Dustin and his boy. But this… this was different. Open road, endless sky, nothing hemming her in. She felt freer than she ever had in her life.

At first she had been startled by how much freedom the North gave its women. Here she could ride with her hair streaming loose beneath her hood, could laugh with Jon or Robb at the campfire without half a court whispering behind their hands. No septa scolded her for her posture, no sly courtiers measured her smile. Slowly, she had let herself embrace it.

She was glad for it too—glad to be here, and not in King’s Landing between Aegon’s anxious courtesy and Joffrey’s sharp green eyes. She did not dislike her nephews, not truly, but neither did she enjoy how they stared at her. Joffrey especially. She could still feel the weight of his gaze, sly and appraising, as if she were a prize hawk to be bought and caged.

Here, it was different. Yes, sometimes Robb Stark’s eyes lingered too, in a way that made her cheeks warm, but lately even that had begun to fade. Not long after Argella Baratheon had walked into Winterfell, bright as sunlight and fierce as a storm. Argella was wild like Arya yet could wear courtesy like Sansa when she chose. A girl of fire and wind both, Daenerys thought—like something out of the songs. She had been a breath of fresh air for them all, and Daenerys found herself smiling at the thought of her.

She shifted in the saddle and lifted her eyes northward, to what waited. They rode to meet Maester Aemon Targaryen, her great-uncle, the oldest man in the realm. When Lord Eddard had asked her if she wished to go, her tongue had stilled in her mouth. What could she say? She had not known him beyond stories and shadows, and this man was nearer myth than flesh. But when Lyanna had insisted she would go, and Jon too, Daenerys had surprised herself by nodding. Yes, she would go. Yes, she would meet him.

And so she rode, toward the end of the world.

When the first glimpse came, it stole the breath from her chest.

She heard Jon’s gasp, sharp with wonder, and Lyanna’s low laugh beside him. “It always takes you so,” she said, voice light with mirth. “The Wall never shrinks, no matter how often you look upon it.”

Daenerys swallowed, her eyes wide. The Wall rose like a dream against the horizon—no, not a dream, a nightmare wrought in blue and white. A mountain made by men, sheer and unnatural, glimmering faintly in the sun’s low light. It seemed to stretch across the world, a line that no army could hope to cross.

“It’s…” The words failed her, breath frosting in the air. “It’s—”

“Impressive?” Lyanna finished for her with a crooked grin. “That’s the word I used too, the first time.”

“Yes,” Daenerys whispered. “Impressive.” And terrible, she thought, though she did not say it aloud.

“Are we near?” she asked instead, her voice rising against the wind.

Benjen Stark, riding ahead, turned in his saddle. The chill had weathered him hard, but his smile was wry. “Near?” He gave a short laugh. “We’ve days yet, girl. The Wall’s no castle. You’ll learn what size truly means when you stand at its foot.”

Daenerys nodded, chastened but still staring north, her eyes fixed upon that endless slab of ice. It looked like the edge of the world. And some part of her whispered that beyond it lay only death.

The Wall loomed higher with every step, until it blotted out the sun. When at last they rode through the gates of Castle Black, Daenerys could not keep her eyes from it. It rose above them like a frozen god, a mountain of ice carved by no hand of nature. Yet as her wonder faded, her gaze lowered to the life clustered at its base—and her heart sank.

Winterfell had filled her with stories of the Night’s Watch, of noble brothers in black who stood sentinel against all that lay beyond. She had imagined an order of heroes, knights without crowns or lords, bound by oath and honor alone.

But what she saw was different.

The yard was crowded with men in black cloaks patched with rough stitching, swords rusted at the hilt, boots split at the seams. War-weary veterans with beards gone white, boys no older than Arya struggling beneath helms too heavy for them, hard-eyed men whose looks spoke of a past better left unspoken. They were no shining knights from Old Nan’s tales. They were only men—tired, wary, and desperate.

Daenerys felt the sting of disappointment in her chest. It was mirrored in Jon’s eyes when he looked about the yard. He had always carried a secret fire in him, she thought, a hunger for stories of valor and destiny. Now she saw it gutter.

And then she felt it.

The eyes.

Men turned from their chores, from their sparring, from the muck they shoveled. Their gazes clung to her, hungry, lingering in ways that made her skin crawl beneath her cloak. She stiffened in the saddle, her fingers tightening on the reins.

Lyanna must have seen it. She rode closer, her voice pitched low, calm and steady. “Don’t let it trouble you. These men…” She gave a little shrug. “Most have not seen a woman in years. And never one like you.” A half-smile tugged her mouth. “Or me.”

Daenerys swallowed, heat rising to her cheeks.

Lyanna leaned closer. “But you are safe here. They’d lose their hands before they ever laid a finger on you. I promise it.”

Something in her  tone—steel beneath the jest—eased the knot in Daenerys’s chest. She forced herself to breathe, to sit straighter. She was no frightened girl. She was a dragon.

The sound of heavy boots on stone drew her eyes forward. A bear of a man stood waiting for them, thick-shouldered and broad, his beard a black tangle, his face lined by years of cold. He bowed stiffly to Benjen Stark.

Words passed between them, half-swallowed by the wind. She caught enough. Jorah Mormont.

The name was familiar—spoken in Winterfell’s halls when lords gathered. A man who had sold slaves, who had brought shame upon Bear Island and bent the knee to the Wall to escape Lord Stark’s justice. So this was him. Daenerys studied the man with wide violet eyes, wondering how a lord could fall so far.

Benjen turned at last. “The King’s Tower is made ready. You may rest there until you’ve had your fill of the road. Later, I’ll see you to the Wall itself.”

Lyanna reached for Daenerys’s hand, her grip firm and reassuring. “Come,” she said, and pulled her down from the saddle with the easy strength of one used to horses and blades. “We’ll see our chambers before nightfall.”

Daenerys let herself be led toward the dark stone tower, the looming Wall casting its endless shadow over them. Behind, she heard Benjen call Jon by name, bidding him follow.

Jon’s answer was lost to her in the wind.

The clang of steel rang through the yard, sharp as winter air. Daenerys leaned on the cold stone of the parapet, her cloak wrapped tight, watching the men below spar. Jorah Mormont barked orders in his rough bear’s voice, striding among them with all the sternness of a knight, though his black cloak now bore no lordly grace.

Her eyes sought Jon. He was in the circle, moving with the quiet grace she had always noticed—stronger than most, quicker too, his feet light in the snow. His practice blade clashed against another’s, the sound shuddering up into her bones. Sweat slicked his brow, his dark hair falling loose around his face. She smiled despite herself, warmth stirring low in her belly. She pulled her gaze away, cheeks warming against the cold. Do not think on it, she told herself.

She tried instead to summon the memory of their first meeting with Maester Aemon. The old man was bent, blind, his skin paper-thin, yet his presence had filled the chamber as though the Wall itself bowed to him. She recalled how his withered fingers traced her face, so gentle, so knowing, and how his clouded eyes brightened at her name.

“Daella…,” he had whispered. “And you, boy—” His hand had brushed Jon’s cheek. “—you carry my brother’s nose. Egg’s nose.”

They had spoken long, of Winterfell and its wolves, of the Wall’s long history, of battles forgotten by men but not by the Watch. Daenerys had been astonished—at the weight of knowledge held by this frail old man, at how his mind wandered through centuries even as his body failed him.

A voice broke her reverie.

“Princess… forgive me.”

She turned. A boy stood awkwardly before her, plump and pale, his cheeks flushed from the cold and the effort of climbing the steps. He was perhaps her age, perhaps a year older, wrapped in the black of a steward. His hands twisted in his cloak as he dipped his head.

“You are Samwell Tarly,” she said, recognition dawning.

His eyes widened. “Y-you remember me?”

Daenerys tilted her head. “You came to the Red Keep once, years ago. With your father. I remember… you hid behind your maester half the time.”

Sam’s ears went pink. “Aye. That was me. I didn’t think… I didn’t think anyone would have remembered.”

“I do,” Daenerys said softly. “You were kind, then. You looked as though you wanted to be anywhere else but in court.”

A nervous laugh escaped him. “That hasn’t changed. I never wanted to be here either. My lord father—” He hesitated, shame clouding his features. “He made me take the black. Said I’d never be fit to inherit Horn Hill. Not when there was a younger son he liked better.”

Her heart tightened. “Your father forced you?”

Sam nodded, gaze fixed on the ground. “He brought me here with hounds and swords. Said I’d take the vows, or… or die like a pig. So here I am.”

Daenerys’s chest ached. She thought of her brother Rhaegar, of the stories of his songs and his books. She thought of Jon beside her, how he still ached from the distance of a father who had never come north to see him. And she wondered—what would my father have done to me? Would he have looked at me with love, or with cruelty? Would he have been like Lord Stark, whose every glance at his children was laced with quiet pride, or like the shadows in her mother’s stories—madness and fire?

“I am sorry, Samwell,” she whispered. “It is a hard thing, to be cast aside by one who should protect you.”

Sam looked up, surprised by the gentleness in her tone. His eyes glistened, and for a moment he seemed about to weep. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Maester Aemon asked me to find you, Princess. He would speak with you—and with Jon—tonight. In his chambers.”

Daenerys inclined her head. “We will come.”

Sam dipped into a clumsy bow, nearly tripping on his cloak as he turned to leave. She watched him go, her heart heavy.

When she looked down at the yard again, the sparring was ended. Jon wiped sweat from his brow as he left the circle, his hair damp, his chest rising with quick breaths. Daenerys bit her lip, watching him until he vanished into the tower.

She pressed a hand to her breast, willing her heart to slow. Dragons are fire made flesh, her mother had once told her. But fire can burn, even the hand that holds it.

The door was plain oak, blackened by smoke and years of cold drafts. Jon lifted his hand to knock, but before his knuckles touched the wood, a voice came from within.

“Jagōñ tolī.”

High Valyrian.

Daenerys froze. The old man had not spoken a word of it when first they met. That night, he had used only the Common Tongue, slow and cracked with age. She looked to Jon, wide-eyed, and saw her own surprise mirrored in him.

The door creaked open on its own weight, and they stepped inside.

The chamber was dim, warmed only by a scatter of low candles, their flames dancing in the draft from a narrow arrow slit. The air smelled of wax and parchment. By the table, hunched near a stub of tallow, sat Maester Aemon. His blind eyes stared at the flame as though he could see it, the heat painting his skin with a faint glow.

On the table before him lay two things: a small, heavy box of dark oak bound in iron, and beside it a bundle wrapped in old linen, long and narrow. Daenerys’s breath caught at the shape.

Aemon’s head tilted as if he heard her thought. “Do you know,” he said again in Valyrian, his voice rasping like dry parchment, “of Brynden Rivers?”

Jon answered without thinking, in the Common Tongue. “The kinslayer, the sorcerer, Bloodraven. He—”

The old man’s head snapped toward him. Though blind, his milky eyes fixed on Jon with sudden force.

“Valyrio,” Aemon said sharply. “Not the trader’s tongue. Not here.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. Slowly, awkwardly, he shifted back into Valyrian, his words halting but true. “Brynden Rivers. Bastard of Aegon the Fourth. He served as Hand, then vanished north. It is said he died beyond the Wall.”

Aemon inclined his head. His lined mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “Good. You remember.”

Daenerys felt her heart stir at the sound of the old tongue. It had been her cradle-song once, taught in hushed tones by her mother. Hearing it now, in this frozen tower at the end of the world, was like hearing a ghost whisper from the past.

She moved closer, her eyes drawn to the candle, to the box, to the wrapped bundle. Her fingers itched with questions, but the old man’s presence was heavy, like a septon in prayer.

The chamber was silent save for the hiss of wax and the soft rasp of Aemon’s breath, and Daenerys felt the weight of something beginning — old and solemn, as if they had stepped into a story written long before they were born.

Aemon’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for the candle, not to touch the flame but to hold the warmth on his palm. His blind eyes closed, and he spoke as if the fire itself carried his memory back across the years.

“I was but a boy when Brynden Rivers left us,” he said in High Valyrian, each syllable slow, deliberate. “A man half-mage, half-shadow. They named him kinslayer, spymaster, Hand, sorcerer. Yet before he vanished into the snow, he placed something in my hands. ‘Wait,’ he told me. ‘Wait, until one comes to claim it.’”

Aemon was silent for a long time, listening perhaps to the crackle of the candle or the beat of their breaths. Then his voice lowered, and she felt the weight of sorrow in it.

“For years, I thought it must be Aerys.” His jaw tightened; even blind, his face twisted with remembered pain. “But the king fell into madness. I sent no word to him. He was lost before he ever looked north.”

Daenerys felt a cold ache stir inside her. To hear her father spoken of thus, stripped of the veil of kingly reverence — she wanted to protest, but she could not. Too many tales whispered through Winterfell and Dragonstone’s halls matched those words.

“Then I thought,” Aemon continued, “it must be Rhaegar. We wrote letters, once. He promised he would come. Promised he would see the Wall, that he would seek what was hidden. But he never came. His harp was sweeter than his duty.”

Jon shifted uneasily at her side. She saw his throat work as if he swallowed back words. His hands were tight at his belt, and for once he did not meet Aemon’s blind eyes.

The old maester’s voice cracked like old timber. “So I waited. Ravens I sent, to Rhaegar, to Aegon. No reply. Only silence. But still I waited.”

He leaned back, the lines of his face etched by candlelight, as though every year of his life had been carved there by grief and patience.

“Now I am old. My bones are brittle as dry twigs. My breath rattles like dead leaves. I do not think I shall live past the next winter. If I am wrong again, let the snows bury me and be done. But if I am right…”

His hand lifted toward the bundle, hovering above it but not touching, as though even now the weight was too great for him.

“…then it is time.”

Daenerys felt her heart hammer. Her gaze darted to the bundle, then to the box beside it, and she could not breathe. She sensed Jon stiffen beside her, his grey eyes dark with questions.

Something ancient stirred in the room, heavier than the Wall itself — as if the candle flame burned on secrets older than them all.

The silence in the chamber thickened until Daenerys felt as if even her breath might shatter it. Then Aemon’s hand trembled forward, touching the linen-wrapped bundle.

“Come forward, Jon.” His voice was iron wrapped in frailty. “I hear your name sung in the yard. They say no youth of your age carries the sword as you do. That is no accident. Brynden told me a day would come when one would be ready.”

Jon hesitated, his boots scraping the stone floor. Daenerys saw the way his chest rose, tight with doubt. For a heartbeat he looked almost younger, the boy of Winterfell staring out through the man he was becoming.

Still, he stepped closer.

Aemon lifted the bundle with surprising steadiness for a man so old and laid it across Jon’s arms. The weight nearly pulled him down, and for an instant his eyes widened — not only at the heft, but at the sense of something alive beneath the cloth.

Jon pulled at the wrappings. Linen fell away to reveal dark steel that shimmered with smoke and shadow, the pommel set with a ruby that caught the candle’s glow, the crossguard wrought into twin dragons roaring in defiance.

Daenerys’s breath caught.

Jon’s lips parted. “Dark Sister,” he whispered, the name carrying across the chamber like a prayer.

Aemon inclined his head, blind eyes fixed on nothing yet seeming to see everything. “Not lost. Not broken. Hidden. Waiting. And now… claimed.”

Jon turned the blade in his hand, testing the balance, the light glinting on the ripples of Valyrian steel. It felt wrong, Daenerys thought — wrong and right all at once — that such a sword should now belong to him.

But Aemon’s voice cut into her thoughts. “And you, Daenerys. Come.”

She obeyed, stepping forward to the box on the table. Her fingers shook as she lifted the lid.

Inside lay a stone the size of her two hands, silver as her hair streaked with veins of gold. A dragon’s egg.

The sight stole her breath.

“When a Targaryen is born,” Aemon said, “an egg is placed in the cradle. Yours were empty, I think. The dragonless heirs. But this one…” He paused, his frail voice trembling. “This was mine, long ago. It never stirred. For years, only cold stone. Yet three or four moons past, I felt warmth in it. As if fire woke in its heart.”

Daenerys reached down. Her palms met rough, ridged stone. And warmth. Not imagined — real, pulsing through her skin. Her lips parted with wonder.

“It lives,” she whispered.

Jon’s eyes met hers, wide and searching, as if he felt it too in her voice.

“Perhaps it will hatch,” Aemon said. “Perhaps not in your time. Perhaps in your children’s, or their children’s. But I believe it will. And when it does, the world will change.”

The candle crackled. Outside, the wind howled against the Wall. Inside, Daenerys clutched the egg as if her very blood answered it.

Jon still held Dark Sister, the black blade glimmering like smoke in firelight. Daenerys cradled the egg as if it were her own heart. The two relics filled the chamber, making it seem smaller, heavier, as though the air itself bowed beneath their weight.

Aemon leaned back against his chair, breath ragged. Yet his voice, when it came, was steady as stone.

“Listen well, both of you. Since the last dragon died, every king of our line has dreamed of bringing them back. Every dream ended in ashes, or madness, or both. The more they grasped for fire, the quicker it burned them.”

Jon frowned. “If that is so, why give these to us? Why now?”

The old maester’s blind gaze seemed to pierce him. “Because I am dying. Because the egg stirs and I cannot tend it. Because the sword chose long before I was born. I have no more years to guard them, and no one else I dare trust. Brynden told me once: the right hands will come, when the Wall is weakest. When I touched you both, I knew.”

Daenerys swallowed hard, clutching the egg closer. “And what if we fail? What if the fire consumes us, as it did my father?”

Aemon’s mouth twisted in sorrow. “Then the world will pay the price. That is the burden of dragons. But I look at you, child, and I see your mother’s kindness. I hear Jon’s voice, and I hear Eddard Stark’s steadiness. You are not your father. You need not be.”

Jon lowered the sword, the weight heavy in his arms. “What would you have us do?”

“Guard them,” Aemon whispered. “Guard them as you would guard each other. Do not chase fire for its own sake. Do not seek crowns, or thrones, or glory. If the egg hatches, if the sword is needed, the realm will show you when. Until then — wait. Watch. Be strong. The day will come when every choice matters, and you must not make them in haste.”

For a long moment, only the crackle of the candle filled the room.

Daenerys bowed her head. “We swear it.”

Jon echoed, his voice rougher, but true.

Aemon exhaled, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “Good. Then my watch is nearly done.”

The old man turned his face toward the flame, sightless eyes reflecting its glow. For the first time since she entered, Daenerys thought he looked at peace, as if he had finally laid down a burden carried for near a century.

She looked to Jon. He still held the blade, but his eyes were on her — and for an instant, with Dark Sister in his hand and the egg in hers, it was as though the world tilted, as though a new age stirred awake in the dark.