Chapter Text

Chapter One

Six hours in the armor.

Rhaegar had stopped counting after that. The sun was lower now but the heat hadn't broken, and inside the great helm his breath came back at him hot and stale, tasting of metal and his own exhaustion. Sweat ran down his spine beneath the gambeson, the quilted linen soaked through hours ago. The arming cap under the helm was plastered to his skull. He could feel individual drops crawling down his temples, his neck, pooling where the gorget met flesh.

He wanted the helm off.

Couldn't. Not in Dornish territory. Not moving through lands that owed him nothing with a pregnant woman hidden in a silk-lined wagon and enough armed men to look like an invasion force.

The column stretched a quarter-mile, van to rear. Rhaegar knew because he'd planned it that way—close enough for command and control, spread enough that they didn't look like an army about to do something stupid. One hundred forty souls. Maybe two hundred animals. Moving through the Princes' Pass like a slow hemorrhage of steel and horseflesh while the mountains watched from the north and south.

At the head rode Arthur.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, white cloak brilliant against Dorne's dust and rock. Thirty-two years old and looked it—the kind of aging that came from competence, not decay. Broad through the shoulders in a way that spoke to decades of training, the specific build you got from learning swordwork at age four and never stopping. His armor caught the lowering sun and threw it back in shards. Polished steel, not enameled black like Rhaegar's. Practical. Dawn hung at his hip in its pale leather scabbard, the meteoric steel blade that had made House Dayne legend.

Arthur rode like a man who'd spent more of his life mounted than afoot. No conscious thought to it. Just sat his saddle with the kind of perfect balance that came from muscle memory older than deliberate skill.

Behind Arthur, the household knights rode two abreast. Ser Richard Lonmouth on the left—thirty years old, dark-haired, with the easy posture of a man comfortable in his own skin. Childhood friend. Trained together since they were boys. Richard had the look of minor nobility: good armor, well-maintained, but not the extravagant plate Rhaegar wore. He sat his horse well. Not Arthur-level, but competent.

Beside Richard rode Ser Jonothor Darry. Younger. Twenty-five, maybe. Still had that edge of belief in things—honor, glory, the idea that wars were won by the righteous. Good fighter. Rhaegar had seen him in the practice yard. Fast. Precise. Still thought tourneys meant something.

Behind them, Ser Myles Mooton. Solid. Unremarkable. The kind of knight who did his job and didn't philosophize about it.

Then Rhaegar himself.

The armor was a statement. Black plate from gorget to sabatons, every surface worked and chased and enameled to mirror-brightness despite the dust. Twelve rubies the size of quail eggs studded the three-headed dragon on his breastplate, set in red gold, catching light like frozen fire. The dragon's heads snarled at the world with mouths full of individually engraved scales.

Beautiful. Expensive. Impossible to miss.

That was the point. You didn't travel quietly and then dress like a mummer's version of a Targaryen prince unless you wanted people to know exactly who you were the moment you revealed yourself.

His destrier was a dark grey gelding, seventeen hands. Not Shadowmere—his warhorse was back in the baggage train, too aggressive for daily riding, too valuable to tire on a march. This was a palfrey, bred for endurance. Steady temperament. The kind of horse that didn't spook when armor clanked or men shouted.

Behind Rhaegar came the rest. Sixty-three knights and men-at-arms in varying qualities of plate and mail. Some could afford full harness. Most wore mail hauberks over leather, open-faced helms, steel caps. All carried weapons. All wore Targaryen colors somewhere—black and red, the three-headed dragon.

And in the column's heart, surrounded by twenty mounted knights who never left their positions: the wagon.

Purple silk curtains embroidered with silver stars. Reinforced oak frame. Iron-bound wheels with extra suspension because pregnant women and rough roads were a combination maesters warned against and Rhaegar ignored because there was no choice, there was never a choice, the prophecy demanded this and he'd already sacrificed too much to stop now.

Four matched horses pulled it. Their harness jingled with silver bells—too expensive, too noticeable, exactly the kind of detail that marked this as a prince's household, not a merchant convoy.

Lyanna was inside. Silent. Resting, he hoped.

Eight months pregnant. Moving through Dornish summer heat. Her face had been pale this morning, sheened with sweat before they'd even broken camp. She'd tried to hide it. Lyanna hid everything. Hated vulnerability the way Rhaegar hated the guilt that sat in his chest like a stone whenever he thought about—

No.

Don't think about that.

The prophecy. The child. The realm. Those were the things that mattered.

Three more days to the Tower of Joy. Then he'd leave her there with guards and midwives and ride north to Yronwood, gather what forces Dorne would give him, march to the Stormlands, break Robert Baratheon's war machine before it killed everyone he'd ever—

Stop.

Focus.

The column moved through afternoon heat that turned the air thick. Scrub and stunted pine clung to the foothills. The true mountains rose north and south like broken teeth. Rust-colored stone. No shade. Just heat and dust and the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth.

At the column's rear rode Ser Oswell Whent. Kingsguard. Forty-three years old, broad-shouldered, scarred. The look of a man who'd seen too many battles to romanticize them. Practical. Pragmatic. Followed orders because the alternative was chaos, not because he believed in divine right or prophecy or any of the things Rhaegar used to justify this.

"My prince."

Arthur's voice. Rhaegar turned his head—awkward in the tall helm, vision restricted to a narrow slit—and found the Sword of the Morning riding beside him.

Arthur's helm was strapped to his saddle. Of course. Arthur Dayne could ride through the Seven Hells in full plate and still look like he'd just stepped out of a song. No sweat. No visible discomfort. Just that aristocratic ease that came from being better than everyone at everything and knowing it without needing to prove it.

"Dornish outriders." Arthur's hand rested on Dawn's pommel. Casual. Ready. "Light cavalry. Two dozen. They've been pacing us along the north ridge for the past hour."

Rhaegar looked. Saw nothing but heat shimmer and red rocks.

"Whose banners?"

"None visible. Local levies. Manwoody or Fowler, given our position." Pause. "They've seen ours."

Of course they had. Hard to miss a hundred and forty men flying Targaryen dragons through Dornish territory. Harder still to miss the covered wagon surrounded by enough guards to protect a king's mistress.

Or a crown prince's pregnant lover, depending on which story you believed.

Rhaegar's hand tightened on the reins. Leather creaked. The destrier's ears flicked back—sensing tension, too well-trained to shy.

They'd send riders ahead. Report to their lord. Who'd report to Doran. Who already knew Rhaegar was here but would want to know why, would want details, would want to understand what exactly the Crown Prince thought he was doing moving through Dorne with his wife's family's bannermen watching.

The answer was complicated.

The answer was a sixteen-year-old girl eight months pregnant with a child prophecy said would save the realm from darkness.

The answer was that Rhaegar had made choices he could barely justify to himself, let alone to Doran Martell, and now he was living with the consequences and praying they didn't kill everyone he'd left behind in King's Landing.

Elia. The children. Mother.

Don't think about them. You can't afford to think about them. Focus on what you can control.

"How long until they approach?" he asked.

Arthur glanced back toward the ridge. "Moving now. Truce banner. Eight men. One knight, from the look of him."

Eight men versus one hundred forty.

Not subtle.

Rhaegar raised his voice, pitched to carry. Years of singing had taught him projection—breath from the diaphragm, resonance in the chest, the trick of making sound travel without shouting. "Column halts! Defensive formation around the wagon!"

The order rippled backward. Knights reined in with the smooth coordination of men who'd drilled this. Turned mounts outward. Created a bristling wall. Men-at-arms dismounted—you didn't fight from horseback with polearms, any fool knew that—and formed a second rank.

In the center, the wagon stopped. Its escort tightened. Twenty armed men in full harness between the outside world and whatever was inside.

Good.

Rhaegar dismounted.

Awkward in full plate. Always was. You had to swing your leg high, drop with more weight than grace, land heavy and hope your squire was there to steady you if the sabatons skidded on loose stone.

His feet hit ground with a crash of steel on rock.

Edric appeared immediately. Fourteen years old. Rode the entire journey on a mule, never complained. Offered a leather flask with the kind of nervous efficiency that came from serving a prince who was either a prophetic genius or a madman, depending on who you asked.

Rhaegar took the flask. Tilted his helm back just enough to drink. Warm water. Tasted like leather and dust. He drank it anyway, felt it cut the dryness in his throat.

"My thanks, Edric."

The boy flushed. Pleased at being named. Bowed jerkily and retreated.

Arthur had dismounted beside him. Moved with that unconscious economy—thirty years of wearing armor had taught him exactly how much energy each movement cost, how to conserve it. He looked concerned.

Not afraid. Arthur didn't do fear. But concerned in that particular way that meant he was calculating odds and didn't like the mathematics.

"They want to talk," Rhaegar said.

"They want to know what we're doing in their lord's lands with a covered wagon and enough swords to start a war."

"We'll tell them what they need to know. Nothing more."

Arthur's expression suggested he had opinions about that but was too professional to voice them in front of the men.

The Dornish riders came slowly. White flag raised. Light cavalry—leather and mail, small round shields, short spears. Their horses were desert-bred. Smaller than northern destriers. Built for speed and endurance in heat that would kill a northern warhorse in a week.

The knight leading them was middle-aged. Weathered brown by sun and wind. His mail was polished but showed patched repairs—the kind of maintenance that spoke to long service on a limited budget. No helm. No device. But his sword's scabbard was quality work and his spurs were good steel.

Thirty yards out, he raised a hand. His men stopped.

He came forward alone.

Dismounted deliberately at twenty yards. Walked the rest of the way on foot.

Respect. Approaching a prince on foot, showing you weren't trying to intimidate.

Rhaegar appreciated that.

The man stopped six feet away. Inclined his head—not quite a bow. The nod you gave another warrior, not a subject to a king.

"My lords." His voice had the particular cadence of Dornish nobility—slightly musical, vowels shaped different from northern speech. "I am Ser Myles Sand, sworn to House Manwoody of Kingsgrave. I command the garrison patrols for this stretch of the Princes' Pass."

Sand. Bastard-born. Knighted anyway and given command of border security.

That spoke to competence over birth, which meant Lord Manwoody was either progressive or desperate or both.

"Ser Myles." Arthur's voice carried that aristocratic courtesy that could mean warmth or imminent violence depending on context. "Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall. My companion and I travel through your lord's lands on urgent business."

Ser Myles's eyes went to Rhaegar. Took in the black plate. The rubies. The three-headed dragon blazing in raised relief.

Took in the quality of the armor—the kind of craftsmanship that cost what a minor lord earned in five years.

Took in the fact that sixty knights had just formed defensive positions around a single covered wagon.

The man was no fool. Rhaegar watched understanding dawn in his weathered face even as his expression stayed carefully neutral.

"Ser Arthur." Carefully. Testing. "Lord Manwoody received no word from Sunspear regarding noble travelers in the Pass. Had we known to expect such a distinguished party, arrangements might have been made for proper welcome."

His gaze drifted to the wagon. Lingered.

He knows. Or he's guessed. And he's trying to decide whether to say it aloud or pretend he hasn't noticed that the Crown Prince is moving through Dorne with a wagon full of something he won't explain.

Time to end the pretense.

Rhaegar reached up. Removed his helm.

The rush of air on overheated skin was shocking. His hair was matted to his skull in damp silver curls. The arming cap beneath was grey with sweat. He wanted to shake his head like a dog shedding water but that would look undignified, so he just held the helm at his side and met Ser Myles's eyes directly.

Violet eyes. Valyrian features. The face that appeared on coins throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Let him see. Let him know exactly who's asking for his silence.

"I am Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone." His voice was quiet. Measured. The tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable instead of commanding. "Ser Arthur speaks true. We travel on urgent business and require discretion. I trust this will not be a difficulty?"

Ser Myles went very still.

Wind over stone. Harness jingling as horses shifted. Nothing else.

Then the Dornishman dropped to one knee. Smoothly. Without hesitation.

"Your Grace." Head bowed. "Forgive me. Had I known—"

"You could not have known. Nor should you have." Rhaegar let silence do the work for a moment. Then: "Rise, Ser Myles. I would speak with you as men of honor, not as prince and subject."

Ser Myles rose. Wary now. Calculating.

"You have questions." Rhaegar kept his voice level. "I cannot answer them all. But I will answer what I can, and I trust you will respect the answers I cannot give."

The knight's jaw worked. "Your Grace, my duty to Lord Manwoody—"

"Is to report unusual activity in his lands. I understand. You've sent riders ahead already, yes?"

Surprise flickered across Ser Myles's face. "I... yes, Your Grace. Two men. To Kingsgrave."

"Good." Rhaegar allowed himself a faint smile. "When Lord Manwoody receives that report, he will know that Prince Rhaegar travels through Dorne with armed escort and a covered wagon. He will draw conclusions. Some of those conclusions will be correct."

A careful truth. Technically accurate. Doran knew Rhaegar was coming to Dorne—he'd sent letters weeks ago. What Doran thought about that was a different question, and not one Rhaegar wanted to examine too closely.

"What matters," Rhaegar continued, "is that Lord Manwoody understand this journey is undertaken with Prince Doran's knowledge. Dorne is not ignorant of my presence."

Ser Myles absorbed this. "Prince Doran knows you are here."

"He knows I travel through Dorne. Yes."

"And the... cargo?" His eyes went to the wagon despite himself.

Steel entered Rhaegar's voice. Gentle. Unmistakable. "Is under my personal protection and is no concern of House Manwoody's. I mean no disrespect to your lord, Ser Myles. But some matters remain private, even from loyal bannermen."

"Of course, Your Grace." The man's expression said he understood exactly what was being left unsaid. "And your destination?"

"A tower in the Red Mountains. Remote. Defensible." Rhaegar paused. "I do not believe Lord Manwoody will find my presence there troubling. We will remain out of sight."

"The Tower of Joy," Ser Myles said quietly.

Not a question.

Arthur's hand tightened on Dawn's grip.

Rhaegar held up a hand. Forestalled whatever his friend might say. "You know of it?"

"It's in our maps, Your Grace. Old fortification. Mostly abandoned. Foothills east of here, three days' ride." The knight hesitated. "If Your Grace intends to garrison it—"

"I intend to ensure the safety of my dependents. For a time." Rhaegar let the implication hang. "We will require supplies. Sent from Kingsgrave. Discreetly. I would pay well for such service."

Understanding lit in Ser Myles's eyes.

A prince. A covered wagon. Payment for silence.

The mathematics were simple: keep quiet, receive gold. Speak, and invite royal displeasure from a man who commanded dragons—or would have, if dragons still existed. Either way, not someone whose anger you wanted.

"I will convey your requirements to Lord Manwoody, Your Grace. I'm certain arrangements can be made."

"My thanks." Rhaegar inclined his head. Then, because a small gesture cost him nothing and might buy much: "Ser Arthur tells me you command the garrison patrols for this region. That speaks to your lord's trust. A man of competence and discretion both."

The compliment landed. Ser Myles straightened. Pride warring with wariness.

"You honor me, Your Grace."

"I honor capability." Rhaegar replaced his helm. The world narrowed to restricted vision and his own breathing. When he spoke again his voice was muffled but audible. "We continue to the Tower. I trust we will have no further interruptions?"

"You have my word, Your Grace. I will personally ensure your journey is untroubled."

"Then we are done here." Rhaegar turned toward his horse. Edric waited to help him mount—you couldn't mount in full plate without assistance, not gracefully, another indignity Rhaegar had learned to accept. Over his shoulder: "Safe travels, Ser Myles. My compliments to Lord Manwoody."

"And to you, Your Grace."

The Dornishman remounted. Signaled his men. Rode back up the slope at a measured pace—not hurried, not slow. Professional.

Rhaegar watched him go.

"Well?" Arthur asked quietly.

"He'll report everything to Manwoody. Who will report it to Sunspear." Rhaegar mounted with Edric's help, settled into the saddle with a crash of plate on leather. "Doran will do nothing. Not yet. He's cautious. He'll wait to see what I intend before committing."

"And if he decides your intentions threaten Dorne?"

"Then we deal with that when it comes." Rhaegar's hand found the reins. "For now we continue. Three more days to the Tower. Then everything changes."

Arthur's expression was unreadable. "You are certain it's a son."

Rhaegar was certain of many things. The prophecy. The dreams. The absolute necessity of this child, regardless of cost.

Whether that made him a prophet or a madman was a question he'd stopped asking months ago.

"I am certain," he said.

He didn't elaborate. How could he? Arthur knew about the prophecies. Knew Rhaegar had read every text, consulted every maester who'd study the old Valyrian scrolls. Knew about the dreams that woke him sweating in the night, visions of ice and darkness and a realm that froze while he played dutiful husband to a woman he respected but could never love the way prophecy demanded he love the mother of the prince that was promised.

Arthur thought him half-mad for it.

Perhaps he was.

But the alternative was watching the realm burn. Watching the darkness come. Watching everyone he'd ever cared about die because he'd been too cowardly to do what was necessary.

Elia would understand. Eventually. When this was over and he could explain. When he'd won the war and taken regency from his father and secured the realm and brought her and the children somewhere safe.

The children. Rhaenys and Aegon. His legitimate heirs. The ones he'd left in King's Landing with a mad king while he rode through Dorne with his pregnant mistress.

Don't think about them. You can't afford to think about them. They're safe. Barristan is there. Jaime is there. They'll protect them.

And when this is over you'll explain everything and somehow it will be all right.

It won't be all right. You know it won't be all right. You've destroyed your marriage and humiliated your wife and started a war and the only thing that makes it bearable is believing the prophecy makes it necessary.

No.

Stop.

The prophecy. Focus on the prophecy.

The column resumed its slow progress through the Pass. Horses. Men. Wagons. The rumble of wheels and the steady clop of hooves and the jingle of harness.

From the silk-lined wagon, no sound emerged.

Lyanna resting. Or awake and silent. Either way, enduring. The way she'd been enduring for months—the pregnancy, the heat, the knowledge that in three days he'd leave her in a tower with guards and ride north to face a war that would probably kill him.

She'd chosen this. They both had. Six months in Essos pretending the world outside didn't exist, and now the bill was coming due and they were both paying it, just in different ways.

Three more days.

Then the Tower. Then Yronwood. Then gathering what forces Dorne would give him. Then the Stormlands.

The sun touched the western peaks. The heat didn't break. Inside his armor Rhaegar sweated and prayed to gods he wasn't sure he believed in that the prophecy was real and the child would matter and that somehow, despite everything, this would all be worth it.

Three more days.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

She'd stopped counting days somewhere between Volantis and Lys.

Not because time didn't matter—it did, pregnancy made certain of that, the body keeping its own calendar regardless of whether you paid attention. But because counting meant thinking forward, and thinking forward meant acknowledging what came after the tower, after Rhaegar left, after she was alone with guards and midwives waiting to see if he came back or if Robert's warhammer found him first.

Better not to count.

Better to just... endure.

The wagon hit something. Rock, rut, the corpse of some animal stupid enough to die on the road—didn't matter. Her teeth clacked together. She tasted blood. Tongue. Again.

Fifth time this week? Sixth?

She'd stopped counting that too.

The curtains hung open because closed meant suffocating and open meant merely dying slowly. Purple silk, expensive, the kind of detail that announced "prince's household" to anyone with eyes. The fabric moved in wind that brought no relief. Just heat. Dornish summer turning the air thick enough to chew.

North of the Wall, she thought, they say winter lasts a generation.

But summer kills you too if you're sixteen and pregnant and stupid enough to cross a desert because the man you love needs to hide you somewhere his wife's family won't find you easily.

She shifted on the cushions. Silk over down, ridiculously soft, ridiculously expensive, uncomfortable after six hours on roads that weren't really roads—more like suggestions that people had traveled this way once and the stones had grudgingly accepted the traffic.

Lower back, right side. Persistent ache the midwives said was normal. The child pressing on something. Some internal architecture she'd never thought about before pregnancy made every organ a negotiation of space.

Five months, maybe six. Hard to know exactly. Her last bleeding had been in Lys—she remembered because they'd been staying in that villa near the Perfumed Garden and she'd been furious about ruining expensive sheets. Rhaegar had laughed. Actually laughed, said they could afford new sheets, pulled her into the bath and washed her hair while she'd called him ridiculous.

That had been... what? The second month in Essos? Third?

The mathematics were fuzzy. They'd spent six months total crossing the Narrow Sea, moving between Free Cities like wealthy expatriates with nothing better to do than spend money and avoid thinking about Westeros. Six months pretending they were other people. Rhael and Lya. No crowns, no duties, no realm burning behind them.

Then the pregnancy had become obvious. Not just "maybe" or "we should consult a midwife," but obvious—her belly rounding visibly, morning sickness giving way to constant exhaustion, the reality that they couldn't hide this anymore.

Rhaegar had made the decision to return. She'd seen it happen—watched him shift from the man who'd laughed about ruined sheets to the prince who spent three days locked in their villa's study with maps and letters, emerging with the look of someone who'd done calculations and accepted the cost.

Two months ago they'd left Essos. Landed somewhere in the Reach—she'd been below decks, seasick and miserable, hadn't paid attention to which port. Then overland, moving slowly because pregnant women and hard riding didn't mix, heading for Dorne because...

Because where else could they go?

Not King's Landing. Not with Aerys on the throne and Elia in the Red Keep and gods knew what reception Rhaegar would get showing up with his pregnant mistress after disappearing for eight months.

Not north. Not with Robert Baratheon gathering armies and her own brother commanding forces against the Crown.

Dorne. Doran's territory. Elia's homeland.

The irony was sharp enough to cut.

Don't think about Elia.

She thought about Elia anyway.

It happened like this—intrusive, unwanted, usually when she was tired or uncomfortable or had too much time alone with her thoughts. The image of a woman she'd never met: delicate, Dornish-beautiful in the way people described when they talked about Princess Elia Martell. Graceful despite fragility that made childbirth dangerous.

Mother of Rhaegar's legitimate children.

His wife.

The woman whose husband was in a wagon two hundred yards away while Lyanna sat here pregnant with his bastard.

Her hands twisted in her skirt. Grey linen, damp with sweat, clinging to her thighs. She wanted it off. Wanted to be wearing leather and wool, wanted to be riding instead of trapped in this box on wheels, wanted—

What?

To not be pregnant? To not have left Winterfell? To have married Robert like a dutiful daughter and spent her life breeding heirs for a man who'd fuck her drunk and never see her as anything but a prize he'd won?

No.

She'd choose this again.

Every time.

Even knowing—

Stop.

The child moved. Rolling, turning, the sensation of something alive inside her that still felt foreign despite months. Not kicking yet—too early, the midwives said. But movement. Constant small adjustments as the child settled into whatever position felt comfortable.

Daughter.

Let Rhaegar have his prophecy and his prince-that-was-promised. She knew what she carried the same way she'd known at Harrenhal he was going to crown her before he did it. Instinct. Wolf's blood. Whatever you wanted to call the feeling that settled in your bones and didn't leave.

Through the open curtain: rocks, scrub, mountains in the distance like broken teeth. Red stone baking under sun that never quit. Dorne.

Her good-sister's homeland.

Don't—

Too late.

Memory surfaced: Volantis, the terrace overlooking the Rhoyne, four months after they'd left Westeros. She'd been maybe two months pregnant then—barely showing, just enough that clothes fit differently and she'd needed to let out the waist on her favorite dress.

Rhaegar had been different in Volantis. Lighter. He'd smiled more, laughed more, stopped looking like he carried every prophecy and duty on his shoulders. They'd spent a week doing nothing. Reading. Swimming in the villa's pool. Making love in afternoon heat and sleeping tangled together while the city hummed below.

One night, lying in the dark, she'd asked: "Do you want to write to them? Your family. Let them know you're alive."

He'd gone very still beside her.

Then, quietly: "If I start writing letters, I'll have to think about what I'm doing to them. And if I think about that, I won't be able to breathe."

She'd understood. Had her own version of the same thing—thoughts about Father, Brandon, Ned, the life she'd abandoned. If she looked at it directly she'd shatter. So she didn't look. She looked at Rhaegar instead. At the child growing inside her. At the choice to be free rather than owned.

Compartments.

That's how you survived choices like theirs. You built walls inside your head and didn't let thoughts cross between them.

Brandon's face flashed behind her eyes—not laughing like she'd last seen him, but strangling. Father burning. Both dead because she'd left. Because Brandon had ridden south to "rescue" her from a kidnapping that had never happened.

Stop.

Don't.

Myr. Think about Myr instead.

White walls and blue tile, gardens cascading down the hillside in flowering terraces. They'd rented a villa for two weeks—absurdly expensive, the kind of money that made the steward's eyes go wide even though Rhaegar had smiled and paid in Westerosi gold without blinking.

She'd been three months pregnant then. Starting to show if you knew to look. They'd done nothing but exist—read in the garden, swim, make love, sleep. Rhaegar had taught her a Valyrian ballad. She'd taught him a northern drinking song. They'd laughed about the contrast.

It had been the happiest she'd ever been.

And every night, lying beside him, she'd thought: He has a wife. Children. They don't know where he is. Don't know if he's alive. And we're here pretending they don't exist.

She'd pushed the thought away. Had to. Because if she let herself think about Elia—about Rhaenys and Aegon, the daughter and son whose father was sleeping beside another woman—she'd have to ask herself what kind of person that made her.

The answer wasn't flattering.

But the alternative had been going back. Returning to Winterfell. Marrying Robert. Living a life she hadn't chosen.

And when she weighed her happiness against the happiness of a woman she'd never met...

She'd chosen herself.

Did that make her monstrous?

Probably.

Did she regret it?

No.

And that probably made her worse.

The wagon lurched again. Her hand went to her belly—automatic now, protective instinct developed over months. Shield the child from every jolt and impact even though the child was probably fine, probably better protected than she was, floating in its little sea of fluid while she suffered every rut in the road.

Outside, voices. Dornish-accented Common Tongue. The column slowing.

Finally.

She waited. No point trying to look out—she'd just see dust and horses and men in armor who'd look away the moment they noticed her noticing them. Better to wait for Ashara.

Footsteps. Then the voice she'd been expecting: "My lady? We stop for the night. How do you fare?"

Lyanna opened her eyes. Ashara Dayne looked in through the purple curtains, dark-haired and beautiful in that effortless Dornish way. Arthur's twin sister. Dornish nobility serving the woman who'd displaced a Dornish princess.

The irony was not lost on either of them, Lyanna suspected.

"Well enough." Lie. She was miserable. But what was the point of complaining? "How long until the tent is ready?"

"Soon. The men are quick about it." Ashara's expression revealed nothing. Professional. Neutral. The look of someone who'd perfected the art of serving without judging, or at least without showing judgment.

Lyanna wondered what she really thought. If she hated her. If she reported everything back to her brother, who reported to... whom? Doran Martell? Elia?

Can't control it. Don't think about it.

"My thanks."

Ashara withdrew.

Lyanna waited while camp sounds built outside. Men shouting. Horses being unhitched. The thunk of tent poles being driven into ground baked hard as stone.

She needed to piss. Again. Pregnancy had turned her bladder into something the size of a thimble, constantly full, constantly demanding attention.

The noise pattern changed—organized chaos shifting to organized completion. The tent was ready.

She called out. Merry appeared first, then Ashara. They helped her down without comment. Routine by now: hand on Ashara's shoulder, Merry supporting her other side, careful steps because balance was different now, center of gravity shifted forward by the weight she carried.

Feet on ground. Maybe thirty seconds before her bladder staged a full revolt.

"Tent. Now."

They understood.

Inside: purple and black canvas, carpets over dirt, the camp bed already assembled because Rhaegar had standards even in the wilderness. Chamber pot behind its screen.

She made it.

Barely.

Afterward, washing her hands in the basin Ashara had filled—water still warm from sitting in the sun all day, but wet was wet—Lyanna caught sight of herself in the small mirror propped on the folding table.

Sixteen. Pregnant. Thousand miles from home. Father dead, brother dead, another brother fighting a war she'd started.

The girl in the mirror looked tired. Hair limp with sweat and dust. Face thinner than it should be—she hadn't been eating well, the heat killed appetite and half the time food made her nauseous anyway. Belly visibly rounded now, impossible to hide even in the loose Dornish-style dresses Ashara had found for her.

She looked like exactly what she was: a girl who'd made choices too big for her and was living with consequences she only half-understood.

And she'd do it again.

That was the part that shamed her most—not the choices themselves, but knowing the cost and still not regretting. Still choosing Rhaegar. Still choosing six months in Essos where she'd been happy over a lifetime in Westeros being someone's broodmare.

She turned from the mirror.

Merry brought water. Lyanna drank—warm, tasted like leather, didn't care. She was thirsty enough that she'd drink anything that wasn't actively poisonous.

Then she sat in one of the camp chairs and closed her eyes.

Lys. The garden with night-blooming roses that opened after sunset and filled the air with scent like nothing she'd ever smelled in the North. They'd stayed up until dawn talking. She'd told him about Winterfell—the godswood in winter, the hot springs, riding through snow. He'd talked about the prophecies, the dreams, the weight of knowing the realm needed something from you that you weren't sure you could give.

"Do you ever wish," she'd asked, "that you could just be someone else? Not a prince. Just... a person."

He'd been quiet for a long time. Then: "Every day."

She'd understood. Had her own version—the wish to not be Lord Rickard's daughter, not Brandon's sister, not the she-wolf everyone expected to eventually settle down and breed heirs. Just Lyanna. Just herself.

In Essos they'd gotten close to that. Not all the way—you couldn't erase what you were, even with new names and foreign cities. But close enough.

And then the pregnancy had made decisions for them.

The tent flap opened.

She didn't open her eyes. Knew who it was from the sound—the particular way armor creaked and shifted when Rhaegar moved, familiar now after months.

"My lady." Formal. For the servants' benefit.

She opened her eyes.

He stood in the entrance, still mostly armored. Helm and gauntlets off, but the rest still on—black plate sheened with dust, the rubies on his chest catching the light filtering through purple canvas. His hair was dark with sweat, face flushed, but his eyes went to her immediately.

That look. The one that still made her—

No. Not using the forbidden phrases. Just... it affected her. The way he looked at her. Like she mattered more than prophecies or duties or anything else.

Maybe that was a lie they both told themselves.

Maybe it was true.

Hard to tell the difference sometimes.

"Leave us," he said to her women.

Ashara and Merry curtsied. Left without a word.

The moment they were alone he crossed to her. Knelt beside her chair despite the armor making it awkward. Took her face in his hands—bare now, callused from sword work, warm.

"Are you well?"

"Tired. Hot. Pregnant." She covered his hands with hers. His fingers were sticky with salt from dried sweat. "Otherwise fine. The child moves. No bleeding. The midwives would be pleased."

Something in his shoulders relaxed. "Good."

"You need to get out of that armor before you cook."

"I know." But he didn't move. Just stayed there, kneeling, foreheads touching, breathing her air. "We encountered Dornish scouts today."

Everything in her went still.

Carefully: "What happened?"

"I revealed myself. Told them enough. They'll report to their lord." His jaw tightened—she felt it against her palm. "I hate this. Hiding you like some—"

"I knew what I was choosing." She cut him off because she couldn't have this conversation. Couldn't examine what she was—mistress, secret, the thing he had to hide. If she looked at that too closely the compartments would break. "We both did."

"The cost—"

"—is paid." Sharp. Final. "How long until the tower?"

He pulled back enough to meet her eyes. "Three days."

Three days.

Then he'd install her in that tower. Leave her with guards and servants and midwives. Ride north to Yronwood, gather his army, march to war.

The thought made her want to—

Nothing. Made her want to do nothing. She did nothing. Just sat there and looked at him and chose not to think about it.

"Then we have three days," she said. "Let's not waste them."

He smiled. Tired but real. "You're right."

He stood—wincing as armor pinched and shifted. "I need to shed this steel before I melt. But I'll return. We'll have dinner. Just us."

"I'd like that."

She watched him leave, calling for his squire, and felt the now-familiar tangle of—

No. Not describing feelings directly.

She watched him leave. Sat in the chair. Put her hand on her belly where the child was moving again, rolling, settling.

Three days.

She'd survived worse.

Outside, the Dornish sun sank toward mountains and the camp settled into evening rhythms. Men who'd sworn to a crown prince were making fires, preparing food, doing whatever soldiers did when they weren't marching.

And inside the purple tent, Lyanna Stark sat and felt her daughter move and chose, again, not to regret.

The compartments held.

For now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Lamplight.

That's what she noticed first when he entered—the way it caught in his hair, still damp from washing, turning silver to something that looked like moonlight given form. He'd shed the armor. Wore plain clothes now: dark breeches, linen shirt unlaced at the throat, boots soft enough they didn't make sound on the carpets.

He looked younger without the steel. Human.

Lyanna sat in one of the camp chairs, one hand pressed to the small of her back where the ache had settled hours ago and refused to leave. The other hand held a cup of water—warm now, she'd been holding it too long—that she'd forgotten to drink.

"Better?" she asked.

"I can move without sounding like a forge. So yes." He crossed to her, knelt beside the chair. His hands found her back without being asked, fingers pressing into the knots along her spine. "Here?"

"Yes—" The word came out half-gasp. "How do you always know where it hurts?"

"You were rubbing it when I came in."

"Was I?"

She'd stopped noticing. The ache was constant now, just part of existing, like being hot or thirsty or tired. Background noise.

His hands worked the muscles carefully. Pressure, release, small circles that made tension unwind despite her body's insistence on staying knotted.

"You're too good at this," she said after a moment. "Did you practice on someone—" She stopped. Stupid question. Of course he'd had practice. He had a wife. A wife who'd been pregnant twice.

Don't think about Elia.

Too late.

"Horses, actually," Rhaegar said, either not noticing her hesitation or choosing to ignore it. "Destriers get sore muscles. The principle's similar."

She laughed despite herself. "Are you comparing me to a horse?"

"A very beautiful horse. Noble. Spirited." Pause. "Prone to biting when annoyed."

"I don't bite."

"You would if I tried to carry you again."

"That's different. I'm not—" She caught herself before saying 'an invalid.' Stopped. Started again. "I'm pregnant, not broken. Northern women work their fields until labor. My mother rode until the day before I was born."

"The North sounds terrifying."

"The North is practical." She shifted so she could see his face. "We don't have the luxury of delicate. Winter comes. Everyone works or everyone starves."

His hands stilled on her back. "You're not in the North anymore."

"No." The word came out flatter than she'd intended. "I'm in Dorne. In a tent. Pregnant with a married man's bastard while his wife sits in King's Landing not knowing if he's alive."

Silence.

She hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to break the careful peace they'd built around not talking about certain things. But the words were out now, hanging between them like smoke.

Rhaegar's hands dropped from her back. He stood, moved to the other chair, sat. His face had gone carefully neutral—the look he got when emotions threatened and he needed to lock them away.

"Lyanna—"

"Don't." She set down the cup before she could throw it. "Don't tell me it's complicated. I know it's complicated. I'm living in the complication."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I don't know. Forget I said anything."

"I can't forget."

"Then lie. Tell me you can forget. Tell me—" Her voice cracked. "Tell me I'm not a terrible person."

"You're not—"

"I am." She dropped her hands, met his eyes. "I am, and you know it, and we're both pretending I'm not because if we admitted it out loud we'd have to do something about it and we can't, we're in too deep, so we just—we just keep going and don't look back."

Rhaegar leaned forward, elbows on knees. "What brought this on?"

"Ashara."

"What about her?"

"She served your wife. Before. In King's Landing. And now she serves me." Lyanna's laugh was bitter. "Do you think she hates me? She must hate me. I took her princess's husband and she's here helping me wash my hair and pretending everything's fine."

"Ashara chose to come."

"Because her brother asked. Because you asked. Because what else could she do, say no to the Crown Prince?" Lyanna shook her head. "Everyone around us is trapped. Your Kingsguard following you because they swore oaths. The men-at-arms following because they're paid to. My ladies serving because they have no choice. And we're—we're just—"

"We're in love," Rhaegar said quietly.

"Yes." She looked at him. "And that doesn't make it right."

"No." His voice was rough. "It doesn't."

The admission hung between them.

Outside, the camp was settling into evening rhythms: men talking in low voices, horses shifting in their lines, the crackle of fires. Normal sounds. The sounds of people who weren't having their entire moral foundation examined in a purple tent while dinner went cold.

Dinner.

Lyanna noticed it now—the small table that had been set up while she'd been washing, the covered dishes, the careful arrangement that screamed "someone's trying very hard."

"You had them prepare food," she said.

"I thought—" Rhaegar stopped. Started again. "I thought we should eat. Together. Before..." He didn't finish.

Before he left her at the Tower. Before he rode north to gather armies. Before whatever came next.

Three days.

Lyanna stood—awkward, ungraceful, but she managed—and crossed to the table. Lifted one of the covers. Roasted quail, still warm, seasoned with something that smelled like summer. Another dish: flatbread, cheese, dates.

"This isn't camp food," she said.

"I asked them to make an effort."

"Why?"

"Because you barely ate today. Because—" His voice softened. "Because I wanted to give you something good. Is that allowed?"

She didn't answer. Just sat at the table and started eating because if she didn't do something with her hands she'd start crying and she'd done enough of that already today.

The food was good. Excellent, even. The quail fell off the bone. The bread was warm. The cheese was something she'd never tasted before—soft, tangy, mixed with herbs.

Rhaegar sat across from her. Poured himself wine. Didn't drink it.

They ate in silence.

Finally, when she'd cleared half her plate and the knot in her chest had loosened enough to speak: "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For..." She gestured vaguely. "All of that. I don't know where it came from."

"Yes, you do." He was watching her with those impossible violet eyes. "You're scared. I'm scared. We're both scared and pretending we're not."

"I'm not scared."

"Liar."

She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. "Fine. I'm terrified. Happy?"

"No." He reached across the table, found her hand. "But at least we're being honest."

His hand was warm. Callused from sword work. She remembered the first time he'd touched her—at Harrenhal, when he'd placed that crown of winter roses in her lap and the entire tourney ground had gone silent.

She'd been fifteen. Stupid. In love with the idea of being in love.

She was sixteen now. Still stupid. Still in love, but with the reality instead of the idea, which was somehow worse because reality came with costs she hadn't anticipated.

"In three days," she said slowly, "you're leaving me at that tower."

"Yes."

"And riding north."

"Yes."

"To fight." Not a question.

"Eventually. First I gather forces. Make alliances. Hope Dorne commits more than token support." His mouth twisted. "Then, yes. I fight."

"Against Robert."

"Among others."

"But mostly Robert."

Rhaegar was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes. Mostly Robert."

"Will you win?"

"I have to."

"That's not what I asked."

He withdrew his hand. Picked up his wine cup. Drank. Set it down. "I don't know."

The admission cost him—she could see it in the way his shoulders tightened, the way his jaw set. Rhaegar didn't like admitting uncertainty. Liked it even less when the uncertainty involved his ability to protect people he cared about.

"But you're going anyway," she said.

"What choice do I have?"

"You could—" She stopped. Could what? Run? Hide? They'd been running and hiding for eight months and it had solved nothing. "Never mind."

"Say it."

"There's nothing to say."

"Lyanna." He leaned forward. "Say what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking that I don't want you to die." The words came out sharper than intended. "I'm thinking that you're going to ride north and fight and maybe you'll win and maybe you won't and I'll be stuck in that tower waiting for news that might never come. I'm thinking—" Her voice broke. "I'm thinking I made you leave everyone you loved and now you're going to leave me and I'll be alone and it's exactly what I deserve."

"You're not—"

"Don't tell me I'm not alone. I am alone. I've been alone since I left Winterfell. The only time I'm not alone is when I'm with you and you're leaving."

Silence.

Then Rhaegar stood. Came around the table. Knelt beside her chair and took her face in his hands.

"Listen to me," he said, and his voice had gone rough. "You are not alone. You will never be alone. When I leave you at that tower, you'll have guards, servants, midwives—"

"That's not the same."

"I know." His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. "I know it's not the same. But it's what I can give you. Safety. Protection. A place to have our child without fear of—" He stopped. Started again. "A place where you'll be safe."

"I don't want safe. I want you."

"You can't have both."

The bluntness of it stole her breath.

Rhaegar's face was anguished. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could stay with you, if I could—but I can't. The realm is burning and it's burning because of choices I made and I have to—I have to fix it. Or try to. Even if..." He didn't finish.

Even if he failed. Even if he died trying.

Lyanna pulled his hands from her face. Held them between her own. "Then promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll fight. Not for prophecy or duty or any of that. Promise me you'll fight because you want to come back. To me. To our child." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Promise me this wasn't for nothing."

His eyes were too bright. "I promise."

"Say it properly."

"I, Rhaegar Targaryen, swear by the old gods and the new that I will fight to return to you. That I will do everything in my power to survive this war and come back to you and our child. That—" His voice cracked. "That I love you more than I've ever loved anything in this world and I will not let Robert Baratheon or anyone else take that from us."

"Even if it costs everything?"

"Even then."

She kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Trying to memorize the taste of him—wine and honey and something uniquely Rhaegar.

When they broke apart they were both breathing hard.

"I love you," she said.

"I know."

"Then come back."

"I will."

Lies. Maybe. Probably.

But right now she needed the lie more than the truth.

He helped her to the bed—more carrying than helping, but she didn't argue. The mattress was thin but better than the chair. She sank into it, exhausted.

Rhaegar sat on the edge. "May I stay?"

"Do you really think I'd send you away?"

"Your ladies—"

"Can bite their tongues if they have opinions." She shifted to make room. "Stay."

He stripped off his boots. Lay down beside her, careful not to jostle. The bed was narrow—they had to press close to fit—but she didn't mind. Liked the warmth of him, the solid reality.

His hand found hers in the dark. Their fingers intertwined.

"Sleep," he said against her hair.

"Can't. Too much in my head."

"Then rest. I'll stay awake."

"You need sleep more than I do."

"I need you safe more than I need sleep."

She started to argue. Stopped. Wasn't worth it.

Outside, the camp was settling into quiet. Guard change. Fires burning low. The sounds of men preparing for another day of hard travel.

Three more days.

Then the Tower. Then goodbye. Then waiting.

Lyanna closed her eyes and tried not to think about it.

Rhaegar held her until her breathing evened out into sleep.

Then he lay awake in the dark and tried not to think about everything waiting north of here.

Failed.

The thoughts came anyway: Rhaenys. Four years old now. Did she remember him? Or had he become just a story, the father who left and never came back?

Aegon. One year old when Rhaegar had left King's Landing. Walking by now. Talking, maybe. Learning words.

What was his first word?

Mother, probably. Elia would be with him every day while his father was—

Stop.

Don't think about it.

Don't think about Elia sitting alone in chambers built for two. Don't think about your mother enduring Aerys with no one to protect her. Don't think about the fact that you've been gone eight months and sent no word and they probably think you're dead or mad or both.

Don't think—

He stopped the spiral before it could fully form. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

This was familiar territory. The guilt rose often—in quiet moments, in spaces between action and necessity—and he'd learned to shove it down. Lock it away. Refuse to let it overwhelm.

Because if he started thinking—really thinking—about what he'd done, about the family he'd left in his father's care, about the cost of choosing Lyanna over duty—

He would break.

And he couldn't afford to break.

Too many people depended on him holding together: the men in this camp, the lords who'd committed to the loyalist cause, Lyanna and the child she carried, and yes—even the family he'd left behind.

The plan was sound. Win the war. Remove Aerys from power. Secure the throne. Then bring Elia and the children back to safety.

Make it right.

Somehow.

Later.

Everything was later.

Lyanna stirred in her sleep. Her hand tightened on his.

Rhaegar pulled her closer and closed his eyes and made himself stop thinking.

Three more days.

He'd survived worse.

The lie was comforting.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

The camp settled into evening routines as the last light bled from the western sky.

Cookfires dotted the perimeter—perhaps thirty scattered across the encampment, each surrounded by men seeking warmth against the desert's sudden cold. Servants moved between the fires with practiced efficiency, distributing bowls of stew and flatbread, refilling waterskins and wine jugs. The smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke hung in the air, familiar and comforting.

Horses shifted in their picket lines, exhaling clouds of steam into the cooling air. Grooms moved among them with buckets of grain and water, checking hooves and harnesses with the steady competence of men who'd done this a thousand times before. The animals were settled for the night, their work done until dawn.

The wagon circle in the camp's center formed a protective barrier around the purple tent where Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna had retired an hour ago. Twenty knights maintained watch in rotating shifts, their armor removed but weapons close at hand. The tent glowed faintly from within—lamplight filtering through silk, suggesting someone was still awake. But no sound emerged, and the guards knew better than to disturb their prince's privacy.

Beyond the inner circle, the camp sprawled in organized chaos. Tents of varying sizes housed knights, men-at-arms, servants. Supply wagons were drawn up in neat rows. Sentries walked the outer perimeter, spears on shoulders, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the firelight.

It was a small army—not enough to conquer kingdoms, but more than sufficient to discourage bandits or minor lords with delusions of capturing a prince for ransom. Professional. Disciplined. And tonight, relaxed in the way soldiers could only be when they knew the next battle was still days away.

Ser Arthur Dayne sat on a camp stool near one of the larger fires, legs stretched out, a wooden plate balanced on his knee. The remains of his dinner—flatbread, goat cheese, strips of salt pork—lay half-finished. A cup of watered wine rested in the dirt by his boot.

Dawn leaned against his stool within easy reach, the greatsword still sheathed in pale leather, but Arthur's hand was nowhere near the hilt. Tonight he looked almost relaxed: loose linen shirt the color of sand, sleeves rolled to the elbows, leather breeches, boots unlaced. His white cloak was folded away in his tent. Without armor, he looked younger than his thirty-two years—lean and tall, sun-bronzed, with the pale violet eyes of House Dayne watching the fire with absent focus.

Across from him sat Ser Oswell Whent, another of the Seven. Oswell was older—forty-three—broad-shouldered and scarred, with a face that had seen too many battles and not enough rest. He was working his way through a bowl of stew, sopping up the last of it with bread, and drinking ale from a leather jack. His weathered features held an expression of contentment that came from a full belly and good company.

Ser Richard Lonmouth sprawled on the ground nearby, propped on one elbow, chewing on a piece of dried meat. He wasn't Kingsguard—just a sworn knight of the prince's household—but Rhaegar trusted him, and that was enough. Richard was thirty, dark-haired, with the build of a man who'd spent his life in the saddle and the easy manner of someone comfortable in his own skin.

Two other household knights sat at a neighboring fire, close enough to hear but far enough to give the Kingsguard their space—Ser Myles Mooton and Ser Jonothor Darry, both young men sworn to Prince Rhaegar's service. The low murmur of their conversation blended with the crackle of flames and the distant sound of servants finishing their work.

"Pass the wine," Oswell rumbled, setting aside his empty bowl.

Richard tossed him the skin. Oswell caught it one-handed, took a long pull, and sighed with satisfaction. "Dornish red. Say what you will about this godsforsaken desert, but they know how to make wine."

"They know how to make a lot of things," Richard observed. "Poison, for instance."

"Cheerful thought."

"Just saying. If I were Doran Martell and my sister's husband showed up in my territory with his pregnant mistress, I might be tempted to slip something into the wine."

Arthur snorted softly. "Doran's more subtle than that. If he wanted Rhaegar dead, we'd never see it coming. Wouldn't be poison—too obvious. Would be an accident. A fall from a horse. Bandits in the night. Something deniable."

"Even more cheerful."

Oswell took another drink and passed the skin to Arthur. "You think he'll help? Doran?"

"He'll help." Arthur's tone held certainty. "He has to. Elia and the children are in King's Landing. If the rebels win..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

They all knew what Robert Baratheon would do to Rhaegar's Dornish wife and half-Dornish children if given the chance.

"Still," Richard said quietly, "it's a shit position for Doran. Damned if he helps, damned if he doesn't."

"War makes shit positions for everyone," Oswell observed philosophically. "That's why we fight it—so the lords can stay comfortable while we bleed."

"We're lords too," Richard pointed out.

"Minor ones. Doesn't count."

A comfortable silence settled. The fire popped and crackled. Somewhere across camp, someone was singing—a Dornish song, low and rhythmic. The melody was unfamiliar but pleasant.

After a moment, Myles Mooton called over from the neighboring fire: "Arthur, your sister coming back tonight? Or did she decide to stay at Starfall?"

Arthur glanced up. "She'll be back. Went with the message detail to my uncle's keep—couldn't resist visiting home. But she knows we move soon. She won't tarry."

"Shame. Camp's dull without her."

"Camp's supposed to be dull," Oswell said. "Excitement gets you killed."

Richard grinned. "Spoken like a man who's survived too many battles to enjoy them anymore."

"Damn right. You young idiots still think war's glorious. Wait until you've seen enough friends die that you stop remembering their names."

The levity dimmed slightly. Richard's grin faded.

Oswell noticed and waved a dismissive hand. "Don't mind me. Old man's pessimism. You'll get your chance to be heroes soon enough. Once we reach the Trident and face Robert's host."

"Looking forward to it," Jonothor Darry said from the other fire. He was young—barely twenty-five—and eager in the way men were before their first real battle. "I've been playing at war for months. Escorting supply wagons, guarding camps. I want to actually fight."

"You'll get your wish," Arthur said. "Robert Baratheon doesn't strike me as a man who runs from confrontation."

"Good." Jonothor's hand went to his sword hilt unconsciously. "I owe him for Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark. What he did to them—burning them alive, strangling—it was barbaric."

"That was Aerys," Richard corrected. "Not Robert."

"Robert's rebelling because of it. He's using their deaths as justification."

"Is he wrong to?" The question came from Myles, quiet but pointed. "I mean, objectively—Aerys murdered two lords without trial. Burned one alive. That's... that's not justice."

A pause.

Arthur took a drink of wine, considering his words carefully. "Aerys is mad. We all know it. The things he's done—burning men, the wildfire obsession, the paranoia—it's indefensible."

"But?" Richard prompted.

"But Robert's not fighting to remove a mad king and install a regency. He's fighting to destroy the entire Targaryen dynasty and crown himself. That's not justice. That's ambition dressed in righteous anger."

"And his claim about Lyanna?" Myles asked. "That Rhaegar abducted her?"

Oswell snorted into his ale. "We're sitting thirty yards from the tent where Rhaegar and Lyanna are sleeping together, probably quite happily. Does that look like an abduction to you?"

"No. But it makes Robert's claim awkward to counter. How do you tell the realm 'actually, the prince's mistress came willingly'? That just makes Rhaegar look worse."

"Does it matter?" Jonothor asked. "I mean, from a military standpoint? We're not fighting a debate. We're fighting a war. Right and wrong don't change the fact that we need to kill Robert before he kills us."

"Cheerful," Richard muttered again.

Arthur leaned back, watching the stars emerge overhead. "Eddard Stark bothers me more than Robert."

That got everyone's attention.

"Why?" Oswell asked.

"Because Ned's not fighting for a crown or glory or even really for his sister. He's fighting because his father and brother were murdered and the king who murdered them is still sitting the Iron Throne. That's... that's just. I can't fault his logic."

"You saying we're on the wrong side?" Jonothor's tone held challenge.

"I'm saying there are no clean sides in this war. Aerys is mad and deserves to be removed. Robert's a rebel and oath-breaker who deserves to hang. Rhaegar's..." Arthur paused, choosing words. "...made choices that complicate everything. And Eddard Stark's fighting for reasons that would be admirable in any other context."

"So what do we do?" Richard asked.

"We serve our prince. We do our duty. And we let the gods sort out who was right when it's all over."

Oswell raised his cup. "I'll drink to that."

They did.

Arthur stared into his wine, not seeing it.

The words came easily enough—he'd been saying them for weeks now, to others and to himself. Serve the prince. Do your duty. Let the gods decide.

But duty was a convenient word for things that felt wrong when examined too closely.

Thirty yards away, behind silk and guards, Rhaegar held the woman he'd risked everything for. The love was genuine—Arthur had seen enough to know that. But love didn't absolve all sins. Didn't make the abandoned family cease to exist.

He thought of Elia. Gentle Elia, who'd smiled when he'd sworn his oath as Kingsguard and told him Dorne was proud. She'd never been strong—the maesters had warned after Aegon's difficult birth—but she'd been gracious. Dignified. She'd played her role as Crown Princess with quiet competence while her husband grew distant and strange.

And now she sat in King's Landing with two small children and a mad king, while her husband's pregnant mistress traveled in luxury through Dornish territory.

Arthur's jaw tightened.

He'd sworn to protect the royal family. All of them. Elia was as much his charge as Rhaegar. But here he was, organizing security for a woman who wasn't the Crown Princess, facilitating a situation that brought shame on the very house he was sworn to protect.

The Sword of the Morning, they called him. He was supposed to be better than this.

But what else could he do? Abandon Rhaegar? Break his oath? Leave his prince without protection in hostile territory?

The Kingsguard did not flee. Did not abandon their charges. Did not choose which members of the royal family deserved protection based on personal morality.

So he stayed. Did his duty. Kept his mouth shut and his sword sharp and tried not to think too hard about what serving honorably in a dishonorable situation made him.

Complicit. That was the word.

He was complicit, and no amount of oath-keeping would change that.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

An hour had passed since the conversation around the fire had settled into comfortable silence. The wine skins made their rounds. Arthur sat cleaning Dawn's blade with an oiled cloth—not because it needed it, but because the rhythm was soothing. Oswell had stretched out on the ground, hands behind his head, apparently dozing but likely listening to everything. Richard was examining a nick in his sword's edge with a critical eye.

The camp had grown quieter. Most of the fires had burned down to embers. Sentries walked their circuits with the steady patience of men who'd done this a thousand times. The stars wheeled overhead in patterns strange to northern eyes but familiar to those who'd spent months in Dornish territory.

It was peaceful.

Then came the sound of approaching horses.

Not urgent—no thunder of hooves suggesting danger—but steady. Multiple riders moving at an easy canter.

Arthur was on his feet before conscious thought, hand going to Dawn's hilt. Around the camp, other men stirred, alerted by the noise. Sentries challenged from the perimeter.

A familiar voice boomed back through the darkness: "Put down the spears, boys! It's only your favorite Dornishman returning from his grand adventure!"

Oswell cracked one eye open. "Lewyn."

"Finally," Richard muttered, rising and brushing dust from his breeches.

By the time Arthur reached the horse lines, Ser Lewyn Martell was already dismounting with the fluid grace of a man half his age. Even in moonlight his grin was visible—wide and unrepentant, the expression of someone who'd had a thoroughly enjoyable journey despite the serious nature of his mission.

Ser Lewyn Martell was forty-one, though he wore his years lightly. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with the dark bronze skin and black eyes of Dorne, his hair was still thick despite the grey creeping in at the temples. He moved with undiminished vigor, laughing at something one of his companions had said and clapping the man on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger.

Behind him, three other riders dismounted: household knights who'd accompanied him to Sunspear as escort. And beside Lewyn's destrier, a smaller horse carried a cloaked figure who pulled back her hood to reveal dark hair and familiar features.

Ashara Dayne smiled at her brother. "Miss me?"

"You're late," Arthur said, though he couldn't keep the relief from his voice.

"We're exactly on time," Lewyn countered, already pulling his saddlebags free and tossing them to a waiting groom. "Arthur, you sound more like a disapproving septon every day. 'Ser Lewyn, you're late. Ser Lewyn, put down the wine. Ser Lewyn, that's the castellan's daughter—'"

"It was the septon's daughter," Arthur corrected dryly.

"Was it? Well, that explains the lecture." Lewyn's grin widened as he crossed to Arthur and embraced him with the casual affection of men who'd fought together for years. He smelled of horse and road dust and, faintly, of wine. "Gods, it's good to be back. I've been surrounded by politics and careful words for days. I need honest soldiers and honest drink."

"The drink we can provide. How was Sunspear?"

Lewyn's expression shifted—still cheerful, but with an undercurrent of something more serious. "Ah. Yes. Business." He patted his saddlebag. "I have Prince Doran's response, sealed and dramatic. But first—wine. Food. Possibly a woman if any are still awake, though I suspect they're all sensible enough to be sleeping."

"They are," Ashara confirmed, coming to stand beside them. She'd dismounted with her usual grace and was brushing dust from her riding cloak. "And you're not going to wake them, Ser Lewyn."

"Wouldn't dream of it, my lady. I'm a gentleman."

"You're many things. Gentleman is not high on the list."

Lewyn clutched his chest in mock offense. "Arthur, your sister wounds me."

"My sister knows you too well."

By now, others had gathered. Oswell emerged from the shadows, Richard following. Myles and Jonothor approached from their fire, curious. Even a few servants appeared, drawn by the commotion.

Lewyn took in the assembled group and made a sweeping bow. "My lords! I have returned from the glittering court of Sunspear bearing messages, tales of political intrigue, and severe thirst. Who's going to pour me wine?"

Richard was already retrieving a cup. "How bad was it?"

"Bad?" Lewyn accepted the cup, drank deeply, and sighed with contentment. "It was delightful. Also terrible. Also complicated. Mostly it was awkward in that uniquely Dornish way where everyone's being perfectly courteous while thinking about how much they'd like to stab you."

"Sit," Arthur commanded, gesturing to the fire. "Tell us properly."

They settled around the flames—Lewyn taking the camp stool with the authority of a man who'd earned the right to the best seat, Ashara gracefully arranging herself on a folded blanket, the others finding spots on the ground. A servant materialized with a plate of cold meat, bread, and cheese, which Lewyn attacked with enthusiasm.

"So," Oswell said after giving Lewyn a moment to eat. "Sunspear. How did Prince Doran receive you?"

Lewyn chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and took another drink before answering. "With perfect courtesy and barely concealed displeasure. Which, for Doran Martell, is practically a warm embrace. He received me in the Water Gardens—beautiful place, by the way, you should all visit sometime when we're not at war—surrounded by advisors and looking like a man with gout who's just been told he needs to walk ten miles."

"Did he read the prince's letter immediately?"

"Oh yes. Right there, in front of everyone. Took his time too, reading it twice while I stood there trying not to sweat visibly." Lewyn tore off a piece of bread. "When he finished, he looked at me with those very calm, very calculating eyes and said, 'Tell me, Ser Lewyn, does Prince Rhaegar truly believe Dorne will commit its full strength to this war?'"

"What did you say?" Richard asked.

"I said that Prince Rhaegar understands the... delicate nature of the current situation, and that he has the utmost respect for Prince Doran's judgment in military matters." Lewyn grinned. "Which is diplomat-speak for 'yes, he wants your army, but he knows better than to demand it.'"

Arthur leaned forward. "And Doran's response?"

"He drafted it right there. Very formal, very careful. The gist: Dorne honors its oaths to House Targaryen. He'll make public announcement of Rhaegar's presence and allow volunteers to join our march. But the main host stays under Dornish command until Doran deems them ready to deploy."

Silence.

"So... a compromise," Richard said finally.

"A very Doran Martell compromise," Lewyn agreed. "He gives us just enough to claim Dornish support without actually committing his full strength. We'll get volunteers—probably a couple thousand knights and men-at-arms looking for glory or plunder. The rest of Dorne's army will show up when and how Doran decides, not when Rhaegar asks."

"The prince won't like that," Oswell observed.

"The prince will accept it because he doesn't have much choice." Lewyn's tone was matter-of-fact. "Doran holds all the cards here. Rhaegar's in Dornish territory, asking for Dornish help, while Doran's sister sits in King's Landing married to the man who..." He trailed off, glancing at Ashara.

"Who's sleeping with a northern girl thirty yards from here," Ashara finished calmly. "We all know the situation, Ser Lewyn. You don't need to dance around it."

"Fair enough." Lewyn took another drink. "The point is, Doran's being as cooperative as we can reasonably expect given the circumstances. He's pragmatic enough to support the cause, but he's not going to throw Dorne's full strength behind Rhaegar without reservations."

"How is Princess Elia?" The question came from Myles Mooton, quiet and hesitant. "Any word from King's Landing?"

Lewyn's easy smile faltered.

For just a moment something crossed his face—pain, guilt, something raw—before the jovial mask snapped back into place. But the moment was long enough. Arthur saw it. Oswell saw it. Richard's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Doran mentioned..." Lewyn started, then stopped. His hand tightened on his wine cup. "She sent a letter. She and the children are well. Safe."

"Safe." Oswell's voice was carefully neutral.

"Yes. Well." Lewyn took a long drink, longer than necessary. "That's what matters. That they're safe."

The silence stretched uncomfortable and heavy.

Lewyn was Elia's uncle. Had known her since she was a child. Had probably taught her to ride, been at her wedding when she'd married Rhaegar with hope and dignity.

And now he rode errands for the man who'd set her aside, helped hide the evidence of that betrayal, and called it duty.

"More wine," Lewyn said abruptly, his voice too bright. "We definitely need more wine."

Nobody disagreed.

"And Oberyn?" Arthur's voice was quiet. "You mentioned him in passing when we spoke at Starfall. How did he react?"

Lewyn's grin faded entirely.

He set down his cup and leaned back, suddenly looking every one of his forty-one years. "Ah. Yes. The Red Viper."

The mood around the fire shifted. Everyone knew Oberyn Martell's reputation—brilliant, deadly, passionate, and utterly devoted to his sister Elia. If anyone in Dorne would take Rhaegar's actions as personal insult worthy of violence, it would be Oberyn.

"He was there?" Richard asked.

"Oh, he was there. Doran didn't invite him to the initial audience, but Oberyn showed up anyway. Walked right into the Water Gardens like he owned the place—which, technically, he sort of does—and demanded to know what message I was bringing from 'his dear brother-by-marriage.'" Lewyn's voice took on a sardonic edge. "That's what he called Rhaegar. 'My dear brother-by-marriage.' Except he said it the way you'd say 'the man who murdered my dog.'"

"What happened?" Arthur's hand had drifted toward Dawn's pommel unconsciously.

"Doran tried to send him away. Politely, of course—'Brother, this is official business, perhaps we should discuss this privately later.' But Oberyn wasn't having it. He planted himself right there in front of everyone and started asking questions."

Lewyn counted them off on his fingers: "'Where is Prince Rhaegar now? What business brings him to Dorne? Why didn't he return to King's Landing to his wife and children? Does he send any message for Princess Elia? Does he even remember he has a wife?'"

"Gods," Richard muttered.

"It got worse. I tried to deflect—said I was merely a messenger, didn't know the prince's strategic plans, wasn't privy to his personal affairs. Which is all technically true." Lewyn's expression was grim. "Oberyn looked at me like he was deciding which organ to stab first and said, 'You're Kingsguard. You're sworn to protect the royal family. And yet you ride errands for a man who abandons his wife and children while the realm burns. Tell me, Ser Lewyn, how do you reconcile your vows with your service?'"

Silence fell heavy around the fire.

"What did you say?" Oswell asked quietly.

"I said that I serve the Crown Prince, that my vows to protect the royal family extend to all members of that family, and that Prince Rhaegar's military decisions are above my station to question." Lewyn met Arthur's eyes. "Then I shut my mouth and waited for Doran to handle it."

"And did he?"

"Eventually. He ordered Oberyn to leave—actually ordered him, in front of everyone, which you know Doran hates doing. Said they'd discuss this privately and that Oberyn was embarrassing himself and House Martell with his outburst."

"How did Oberyn take that?"

Lewyn's laugh was humorless. "He left. But not before looking at me one more time and saying, 'Tell Prince Rhaegar that his family in Sunspear sends their regards. And tell him that some debts cannot be ignored forever, no matter how far one runs.'"

No one spoke.

The fire crackled. Somewhere across camp, a horse whickered softly.

Finally, Arthur asked, "Do you think he'll come here? To confront Rhaegar personally?"

"I don't know." Lewyn shook his head. "Doran ordered him to remain in Sunspear, and Oberyn usually respects Doran's authority. Usually. But Arthur..." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "I've known Oberyn since we were boys. I've seen him angry before—seen him kill men in duels, seen him plot revenge that took years to unfold. But I've never seen him like this. He's..." Lewyn searched for words. "He's a man who feels his sister has been betrayed and dishonored, and he's not the type to let that stand unanswered."

"Wonderful," Oswell said dryly. "So we might have the Red Viper showing up with his personal guard, ready to challenge the prince to single combat over family honor."

"It's possible."

"And if he does?"

"Then things get very complicated very quickly." Lewyn picked up his cup again, realized it was empty, and held it out for more wine. "Oberyn commands about three hundred of Dorne's finest warriors—men who've trained with him for years, who worship him, who'd follow him into the Seven Hells if he asked. If he rides here looking for confrontation and we refuse him entry or try to turn him away..."

"Civil war within the loyalist cause," Richard finished. "Dornishmen fighting each other while Robert Baratheon laughs."

"Exactly."

Arthur stood abruptly, crossed to where Lewyn's saddlebags lay, and retrieved the sealed letter bearing Doran's sun-and-spear. The wax was intact, the parchment crisp.

"The prince needs to see this tonight," he said.

"Is it that urgent?" Ashara asked. "It's well past midnight. They're sleeping."

"They need to know. Especially about Oberyn." Arthur turned toward the purple tent in the camp's center. "If there's even a chance the Red Viper is riding here, Rhaegar needs time to prepare."

Lewyn stood as well, brushing crumbs from his lap. "Want me to come? I can give him the full details of the conversation."

"No. You've ridden all day. Eat, rest. I'll brief the prince and he'll send for you if he wants more information." Arthur paused. "Though I suspect he'll want to speak with you first thing in the morning."

"I'll be ready. Well, I'll be awake, anyway. 'Ready' might be too strong a word if I keep drinking."

Despite the tension, several men chuckled.

Arthur made his way across the camp, letter in hand. The purple tent was dark—the lamps extinguished, the entrance sealed. From within, silence. They were asleep.

He hesitated.

It was past midnight. Rhaegar and Lyanna had both been exhausted. Waking them now, for news that wasn't an immediate crisis...

But Oberyn Martell was not a problem that could wait until morning.

"My prince," Arthur called softly, stopping outside the tent entrance. "Forgive the intrusion. Ser Lewyn has returned from Sunspear with Prince Doran's response."

A pause. Then movement—rustling fabric, a murmured voice, footsteps.

The tent flap opened. Rhaegar stood there in a loose linen shirt and breeches, silver hair disheveled from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded but already sharpening with alertness. Behind him, barely visible in the darkness, Lyanna shifted beneath blankets but didn't rise.

"Arthur." Rhaegar's voice was quiet, pitched not to carry. "What news?"

Arthur handed over the sealed letter. "From Prince Doran. Ser Lewyn delivered it personally. He reports... mixed reception."

Rhaegar broke the seal without ceremony and stepped outside, moving toward the nearest fire for light. Arthur followed.

In the dying embers' glow, Rhaegar read. His face remained composed, but Arthur knew him well enough to see the minute reactions: the slight tightening around his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the parchment just a fraction harder.

When he finished, Rhaegar lowered the letter and stared into the fire.

"A compromise," he said finally. "Doran will announce my presence and allow volunteers to join. But the main host remains under his command."

"Yes, my prince."

"Two thousand men, perhaps. Maybe three if we're fortunate." Rhaegar's voice was analytical, calculating. "Combined with what we can gather from the Reach... not ideal. Not what I hoped for. But workable."

"There's more," Arthur said quietly. "Ser Lewyn reports that Prince Oberyn was present at Sunspear. He's... displeased."

"I imagine he is."

"My prince, it's more than displeasure. Lewyn says Oberyn was furious. Made veiled threats. Doran ordered him to remain in Sunspear, but there's concern he might ignore that order and ride here to confront you directly."

Rhaegar looked up, violet eyes catching the firelight. "Oberyn Martell is passionate and quick to anger. But he's not stupid. He won't risk open conflict with the Crown Prince while his sister and her children are in King's Landing."

"Are you certain?"

The question hung between them.

Finally, Rhaegar said, "No. I'm not certain of anything anymore." He folded the letter carefully. "But I won't be threatened in my own camp by justified anger that I can't undo. If Oberyn comes, I'll face him. What else can I do?"

"We could move faster. Gather the volunteers and march north before he has time to act."

"Running from Oberyn won't solve the problem. It will only make me look weak." Rhaegar's jaw set. "No. We proceed as planned. We gather who we can, we coordinate with the Reach, we prepare for the Trident. If Oberyn wants to confront me, let him come. I'll answer his grievances as honestly as I can."

"And if he challenges you to combat?"

"Then I'll accept." Rhaegar's voice was flat. "I dishonored his sister. If he demands satisfaction, I can hardly refuse."

"My prince—"

"I know, Arthur. I know it's politically disastrous, militarily foolish, personally dangerous. I know." Rhaegar passed a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted. "But some debts must be paid. If Oberyn comes, we'll deal with it then. For now..." He glanced back at the purple tent. "For now, I'm going back to bed. Tomorrow we'll begin gathering volunteers and preparing to march. Tell Ser Lewyn I'll speak with him at first light for a full report."

"As you command."

Rhaegar started back toward the tent, then paused. "Arthur... thank you. For staying. For serving despite everything. I don't say it enough, but—thank you."

"I follow my prince," Arthur said simply. "Always."

Rhaegar smiled faintly—barely visible in the darkness—and disappeared into the tent.

Arthur stood alone by the dying fire, holding Doran's letter, and listened to the camp sleeping around him.

Back at the main fire, Lewyn was entertaining the group with increasingly embellished stories of his journey, gesturing wildly with a wine cup in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.

"—and then the septon's daughter says, 'But Ser Lewyn, I thought Kingsguard took vows of celibacy,' and I said, 'My dear, those vows were reformed years ago, and even if they weren't, I'm very good at keeping secrets—'"

"Lewyn," Ashara interrupted, laughing despite herself, "that absolutely did not happen."

"It did! Well, something like it happened. The details are flexible."

"The details are entirely fictional."

"Fiction is just truth with better storytelling."

Oswell was chuckling into his ale. Richard had given up pretending to be scandalized and was openly grinning. Even the usually serious Jonothor was smiling.

Arthur returned to the group and settled back onto his stool. Lewyn looked up, question in his eyes.

"Tomorrow morning," Arthur said. "The prince wants a full report then."

"Understood." Lewyn raised his cup. "To tomorrow, then. May it bring fewer awkward political conversations and more straightforward violence."

"Here's hoping," Oswell agreed.

They drank.

The night deepened. Stars wheeled overhead. The fires burned lower. One by one, men drifted toward their tents or bedrolls, until only a handful remained awake: the sentries walking their eternal circuits, and a few men too restless for sleep.

In the purple tent, Rhaegar lay beside Lyanna, staring at the canvas ceiling, thinking about Oberyn Martell and honor and debts that could never be fully repaid.

Lyanna slept, one hand on her swollen belly, dreaming of wolves and snow.

And far to the south, in Sunspear, Oberyn Martell sat in his chambers, staring at a letter from his sister Elia, and made his decision.

He would ride north.

He would face the man who had dishonored House Martell.

And he would have answers.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

The night air in Sunspear carried the scent of orange blossoms and salt from the Summer Sea. Prince Oberyn Martell's chambers overlooked the Water Gardens, close enough to hear the distant splash of fountains even at this late hour. The room was austere by Dornish standards—simply furnished, functional, the quarters of a man who spent more time training or traveling than lounging in comfort.

Oberyn sat at a writing desk, lean and coiled as a whip, his dark hair falling to his shoulders in the fashion of Westerosi knights. At twenty-five, he moved with the controlled violence of a viper—economy in every gesture, power held in check but never truly at rest. His face was handsome in the sharp-featured Martell way: prominent nose, high cheekbones, eyes so dark they appeared black in lamplight.

Those eyes were fixed on the letter before him.

It was the third draft. The first two lay crumpled in the corner, discarded as too emotional, too revealing. This one was better—still passionate, but controlled. The words a brother might write to a beloved sister trapped in a viper's nest.

Dearest Elia,

Doran sends you careful words and diplomatic assurances. I send you truth.

Your husband is in Dorne. He gathers armies on our soil, calls upon our bannermen, and prepares to ride north to war—while you sit in King's Landing with a mad king and our sister's children. The insult to our House compounds daily.

I ride at dawn to see him. To look him in the eye and demand answers you deserve but will never receive. Not because he lacks the words, but because he lacks the shame.

Doran counsels patience. Doran always counsels patience. But patience is what weak men call cowardice dressed in wisdom.

I will not harm him—not while you and the children remain in Aerys's reach. I am not so foolish as to give that mad king reason to look your way. But I will make certain your husband understands that Dorne remembers. That we do not forgive easily. That some debts cannot be erased with pretty words and strategic marriages.

I love you, sister. Everything I do, I do for you.

Stay safe. We will bring you home when this madness ends.

Oberyn

He read it twice more, then set down his quill and reached for the sealing wax.

The knock came before he could light it.

Not a servant's knock—too forceful. Too urgent.

Oberyn's hand went instinctively to the dagger at his belt as he crossed to the door and opened it.

A Martell guardsman stood in the corridor, wearing the sun-and-spear livery, slightly out of breath. "Prince Oberyn. Prince Doran requests your immediate presence in his solar. He says it cannot wait until morning."

Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "Did he say why?"

"No, my prince. Only that it was urgent and concerned... family matters."

Family matters.

Oberyn glanced back at the unfinished letter on his desk, then at his traveling cloak already laid out on the bed. His sword belt. His riding boots.

He'd planned to leave at dawn. Ride hard with his personal guard—thirty of his best men, warriors who'd trained with him since they were boys. Reach wherever Rhaegar was hiding within three days, four at most. Confront the man who'd dishonored his sister and demand explanations that would never satisfy.

But Doran summoning him this late, with this urgency...

His brother knew. Somehow, Doran knew.

"Tell Prince Doran I will attend him immediately."

The guardsman bowed and departed.

Oberyn stood motionless for a moment, jaw tight, then moved with sudden decision. He pulled on his boots—good leather, Dornish-made, suitable for riding or fighting. Buckled his sword belt. Threw on a light cloak against the night's chill.

He left the letter unsealed on the desk and strode into the corridor.

Prince Doran Martell's solar was located in the Old Palace, in a tower that caught the sea breeze even in high summer. The chamber was comfortable but not ostentatious: thick carpets from Myr, dark wood furniture, shelves lined with books and maps. A low table held a wine service and two cups.

Doran himself sat in his favorite chair—not the wheeled chair he'd been using more frequently in recent months when the pain in his joints flared, but a cushioned seat that allowed him to sit with dignity. Tonight he appeared composed, his round face calm, his hands folded in his lap.

He looked up as Oberyn entered, and his expression softened slightly. "Brother. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"You summoned me at midnight. 'Quickly' seemed appropriate." Oberyn closed the door behind him and crossed to the chair opposite Doran. He didn't sit. "What's happened? Is it Elia? The children?"

"Sit, Oberyn."

"I'd rather stand."

"Sit." Doran's voice held the authority of a man who'd ruled Dorne for fifteen years. Not harsh, but final.

Oberyn sat.

For a long moment, the brothers regarded each other across the low table. They shared the Martell features—the dark eyes, the prominent nose, the strong bones—but where Doran's face was soft with the weight he'd gained over years of administration, Oberyn's was all lean planes and sharp angles.

Finally, Doran said, "You're planning to ride north. To find Prince Rhaegar."

Not a question.

Oberyn didn't insult his brother's intelligence by denying it. "Yes."

"With how many men?"

"Thirty. My personal guard."

"Armed for war?"

"Armed for conversation." Oberyn's smile was thin and humorless. "Though conversation with Rhaegar Targaryen may require swords to ensure his attention."

"You planned to leave at dawn."

"I did."

Doran reached for the wine service and poured two cups with steady hands. He pushed one across the table to Oberyn. "Drink. You're going to need it."

"I don't want wine. I want answers." But Oberyn took the cup anyway, more from habit than desire. "How did you know?"

"Your captain of guards came to me three hours ago. Said you'd ordered horses prepared, supplies packed, men readied for hard riding. He was concerned. So am I."

Oberyn took a drink, more to buy time than from thirst. The wine was excellent—Dornish red, from their own vineyards. "You can't stop me, Doran."

"I can't. But I'm going to try to convince you not to go—or at least, not to go the way you're planning." Doran leaned back in his chair, his face settling into the expression Oberyn knew well: the Prince of Dorne, calculating and careful. "You want to confront Rhaegar. I understand. I want to confront him myself. But there are things you need to know first. Things that will change how you approach this."

"Nothing will change how I approach this. He dishonored our sister. He parades the Stark girl across Westeros while Elia sits in King's Landing with a mad king and two small children. Every day he doesn't return to her is another insult. Another—"

"Oberyn." Doran's voice cut through the rising anger like a blade. "I know. I know what he's done. I know what it means. But if you ride to him in rage, if you challenge him or threaten him or even just make it clear that Dorne considers him an enemy... what happens to Elia?"

The question hung in the air.

Oberyn's hand tightened on his cup. "I wouldn't—I won't do anything that puts her at risk."

"Won't you?" Doran leaned forward, his eyes intent. "Oberyn, you're passionate. It's what makes you formidable. But passion can be... imprecise. If you confront Rhaegar and he takes offense—if he sees Dorne turning against him—what do you think he tells his father? What do you think Aerys does when he hears that Dorne is no longer reliable?"

"Aerys is mad. He doesn't need reasons—"

"He needs excuses. And we will not give him one." Doran's voice was steel beneath the softness. "Elia and the children are hostages in all but name. Aerys keeps them close to ensure our loyalty. If he suspects that loyalty is wavering—if Rhaegar even hints that Dorne might be a problem—Aerys will act. And when Aerys acts, people burn."

Silence.

Oberyn stared into his wine, jaw working. His brother was right. He hated it, but Doran was right.

Finally, he said, "So we do nothing? We just... accept the insult and smile and pretend everything is fine while Elia suffers?"

"No. We act. But we act strategically." Doran reached into a drawer beside his chair and withdrew a letter. Not sealed—already opened and read. "This arrived four days ago. From Elia."

Oberyn's head snapped up. "She wrote to you? What does she say?"

"Read it yourself."

Doran handed over the letter.

Oberyn unfolded it with hands that were not quite steady and began to read.

The handwriting was Elia's—small, precise, elegant. The words were careful, chosen with the awareness that any letter from King's Landing might be read by eyes other than its intended recipient.

Dearest Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well and that the heat of Sunspear is more bearable than the heat of King's Landing, which grows more oppressive by the day.

The children are well. Rhaenys asks after you constantly—she remembers the stories you told her of the sand snakes and the vipers in the gardens. Aegon is walking now, though unsteadily. He has his father's eyes. Everyone remarks on it.

Court is... difficult. His Grace's health continues to decline. He sees enemies in every shadow and trusts fewer people each day. I do my best to keep the children away from him when his moods are dark. Princess Rhaella is kind to me, though she carries her own burdens.

I think often of home. Of the Water Gardens and the smell of orange blossoms. Of sitting with you and Oberyn in the courtyard, laughing at nothing. Those days seem very far away now.

I know there are rumors. About Rhaegar. About... other matters. I ask that you judge carefully before you act on rumors. The truth is often more complicated than what reaches Dorne.

I miss my husband. I worry for him. Whatever else has happened, he is still the father of my children, and I pray daily for his safety. I know others may not understand, but my heart is my own, and it has not changed.

Please do not let anger guide you, brother. Anger is a fire that burns the one who carries it as much as the one it is aimed at. I need you clear-headed. I need you strong. Most of all, I need you to keep Dorne stable so that when this war ends, my children have a kingdom to return to.

I am well cared for. I am not in immediate danger. But I am alone, and I am frightened, and I need my family to be wise.

With all my love,
Elia

Oberyn read it twice.

Then he set it down very carefully on the table and closed his eyes.

"She still loves him," he said finally, voice hoarse. "After everything. She still loves him."

"Yes."

"How? How can she—" Oberyn opened his eyes, and they were bright with unshed tears he would never allow to fall. "He abandoned her, Doran. He humiliated her in front of the entire realm. He—"

"He gave her two children she adores. He treated her with kindness and respect for years before... whatever this is. And Elia is not you, Oberyn. She doesn't burn with rage. She endures. She forgives. She loves." Doran's voice was gentle. "It's her greatest strength and her greatest vulnerability."

"It's going to destroy her."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps she'll survive this and be stronger for it. But that's not the point." Doran retrieved the letter and folded it carefully. "The point is that anything you do to Rhaegar, you do to her. If you challenge him and he dies, she becomes the widow of a traitor—or worse, the widow of a man killed by her own brother. If you threaten him and he takes offense, he may stop protecting her interests at court. And if you provoke him into open conflict, Aerys will see it as Dorne turning against the crown."

Oberyn stood abruptly, crossing to the window. Outside, the Water Gardens gleamed silver in moonlight. Somewhere down there, children slept peacefully—his brother's wards, safe and happy.

Unlike Elia's children, who slept in King's Landing surrounded by madness.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked without turning around.

"I want you to go north with the Dornish forces."

That made Oberyn turn. "What?"

Doran smiled faintly. "You wanted to confront Rhaegar. I'm giving you permission. More than that—I'm giving you command."

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Oberyn returned to his chair slowly, eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"Rhaegar sent a letter requesting that Dorne commit forces to his command," Doran said, pouring more wine for both of them with a steady hand. "He wants to gather what strength he can and march north to face Robert Baratheon. I am granting his request—in part. I will not send the whole of Dorne's strength to be commanded by a man whose judgment is... questionable at present. But I will send a significant contingent. Ten thousand spears."

Oberyn stared. That was nearly half of Dorne's full levy. "You would give him that many?"

"I would give Dorne that many," Doran corrected gently. "These men will march under a Martell banner. They will need a Dornish commander. Someone to coordinate with Rhaegar while ensuring Dornish interests are protected. Someone who can report back to me on his plans and his... state of mind."

The implication was clear. Oberyn's sharp mind pieced it together instantly.

"You want me to lead them."

"I do. Officially, you will be the commander of the Dornish auxiliary force, marching in support of the Crown Prince. Unofficially..." Doran gestured with his cup. "You will be in a position to watch him. To ensure he doesn't make decisions that endanger Elia. To apply pressure where needed. And—most importantly—to be in place to extract her and the children if the situation in King's Landing deteriorates."

Oberyn sat very still, the initial shock giving way to cold calculation. It was a brilliant move. Doran was leashing him, yes—but he was leashing him with a sword in his hand and an army at his back. He would have what he wanted: proximity to Rhaegar, the ability to confront him, leverage over the man who'd wronged their sister. But it would be wrapped in duty and legitimacy. He wouldn't be a rogue prince riding to pick a fight. He'd be the Marshal of the Dornish Host.

"And Rhaegar will accept this?" Oberyn asked, testing the idea. "Having me—Elia's brother, who he must know despises him—at his side?"

"He won't have a choice," Doran said simply. "It's my price for ten thousand spears. He can accept your command of the Dornish contingent, or he can march north with a handful of volunteers and face Robert Baratheon alone. He is a pragmatist, if nothing else. He will accept."

The distinction was crucial. Rhaegar would be the overall commander of the campaign, a prince of the blood leading the loyalist army. But Oberyn would command the Dornishmen within that army. A delicate, dangerous balance of power.

"What are the conditions?" Oberyn finished the thought, already knowing there would be strings attached. Doran never gave anything without extracting precise terms.

"Several." Doran counted them off on his fingers. "First: you do not challenge Rhaegar to single combat unless he gives you cause that I agree is sufficient. Wounded pride is not sufficient cause. An actual, direct threat to Elia is."

"Agreed," Oberyn said, his voice tight.

"Second: you maintain regular communication. Ravens. Riders. I want reports on Rhaegar's plans, the morale of the men, the movements of the rebels. I cannot make decisions in Sunspear without information from the field."

"Agreed."

"Third: you obey Rhaegar's strategic commands in battle. He is the Crown Prince and the overall commander. You have tactical autonomy over your own men, but when he gives an order for the army as a whole, you follow it. We cannot afford a fractured command when facing Robert's host."

That one stung. The idea of taking orders from Rhaegar was galling. But Doran was right. A divided army was a dead army. "Agreed."

"Fourth—and this is the most important, Oberyn—you do nothing that puts Elia at greater risk without consulting me first. No matter how justified your anger, no matter how much you wish for immediate satisfaction, you will not act rashly. You will be my brother, not a hothead seeking vengeance. Promise me."

Oberyn's jaw tightened. "And if there is no time? If a threat is imminent?"

"Then you use your best judgment," Doran said, his gaze intense. "But Oberyn... your judgment, not your anger. Promise me that."

For a long, tense moment, Oberyn stared at his brother. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I promise. For Elia. My actions will be guided by her safety above all else."

"Good." Doran relaxed slightly, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Finally, when this war ends—if we win—you will help me secure Elia's position. Rhaegar will owe us a great debt. We will collect it, for her and for her children."

"And if we lose?" Oberyn asked, the question hanging cold in the warm air.

"If we lose, you get Elia and the children out of King's Landing before Robert Baratheon's army reaches the gates. By any means necessary. I don't care if you have to burn a path through the city. You bring them home to Dorne."

Oberyn smiled for the first time that night—a sharp, dangerous expression that was all teeth. "That is a condition I will enjoy fulfilling."

"Let us pray it does not come to that." Doran drank, then set down his cup with finality. "One last matter. The Stark girl."

Oberyn's smile vanished. "What of her?"

"We do not know where she is. We do not know if she went with him willingly or if she is his captive, as Robert Baratheon claims. If you discover her whereabouts..."

"What do I do?" Oberyn's voice was dangerously quiet.

Doran was silent for a long moment, his expression troubled. "You report it to me immediately. You do not act. You do not confront Rhaegar about her. You do not approach her. You simply... tell me. We will decide how to proceed together."

"And if she is here?" Oberyn pressed. "If he has hidden his... companion somewhere in Dorne, on our very land, while my sister withers in King's Landing?"

"Then we will have leverage," Doran said, his voice cold as stone. "Leverage to ensure Elia's safety. But Oberyn—listen to me. If you find the girl and do something rash, if you harm her or threaten her, Rhaegar will never forgive it. And that will put Elia in even greater danger." He paused, his gaze locking with his brother's. "Think, Oberyn. The girl is betrothed to Robert Baratheon. Officially, she is an abducted maiden. If she were to be found and returned to the rebels... it could be a path to ending this war before it truly begins. But it is a path fraught with peril. We will not walk it without careful thought."

Oberyn's hands clenched into fists on his knees. The thought of the northern girl being the key to anything other than Rhaegar's dishonor was infuriating. But the cold logic of Doran's point was inescapable.

"I understand," he said through gritted teeth. "I will not touch her. Not while Elia remains a hostage."

"Good."

They sat in silence, the weight of their precarious plan settling over them.

Finally, Oberyn asked, "Where is Rhaegar mustering his forces? Do we know?"

"Ser Lewyn reported that Rhaegar plans to establish a command post at Yronwood. It's centrally located, defensible, and Lord Yronwood is reliably loyal—or at least, ambitious enough to want royal favor." Doran pulled a map from a side table and unrolled it. "The Dornish host will begin to assemble there. You will ride to meet them."

"Yronwood." Oberyn studied the map. "Three days' ride from here. Maybe four."

"You'll leave the day after tomorrow. It gives you time to prepare, select your commanders, and gives me time to send word ahead that you are coming as Dorne's appointed Marshal."

"And Rhaegar? Does he know I am coming?"

"Not yet. But he will." Doran’s smile was thin. "I am sure he will be delighted."

Despite everything, Oberyn laughed—a short, bitter sound devoid of humor. "Yes. I am sure we will get along famously."

The tactical discussion complete, the silence that fell was different. Less formal. More personal.

Doran poured more wine—slowly, his movements careful in the way they became when his joints ached. Oberyn noticed but said nothing. His brother's pride was a fragile thing these days.

"Tell me honestly," Doran said quietly. "Can you do this? Can you work with this man without letting your anger destroy everything?"

Oberyn considered the question with a gravity he rarely showed. He stared into his cup, watching the dark wine swirl. "I want to hurt him, Doran. Every time I think of Elia's face when she learned what he had done, when she understood that the entire realm knew he had set her aside... " His voice dropped, raw with an emotion he rarely let surface. "I want to make him feel a fraction of that shame. I want him to understand the cost."

"I know." Doran’s voice was heavy with shared pain.

"But," Oberyn continued, and his gaze lifted to meet his brother’s, clear and resolute, "I love Elia more than I hate him. And if keeping her safe means marching at his side, taking his orders, and pretending to be a loyal ally while I am a viper in his midst... " He took a deep breath. "I will do it. I will hate every single moment. But I will do it."

"That is all I ask."

Doran reached across the table and gripped Oberyn's forearm. The gesture was brief but firm—a rare moment of physical connection between two brothers who expressed their bond through action more than touch.

"You are a good brother," Doran said, his voice quiet. "To both of us. Elia is fortunate to have you."

"Elia deserved better than this," Oberyn said, his voice rough. "Better than Rhaegar. Better than... any of it. She deserved to be cherished."

"Perhaps she was, once." Doran released his arm and sat back. "Love is complicated, Oberyn. It is not a song. It is not consistent. It is possible Rhaegar cared for Elia and still chose... this path. Both things can be true."

"That does not make it acceptable."

"No," Doran agreed, his expression sad. "It does not make it acceptable," Doran agreed quietly. "But understanding why people act as they do is not the same as forgiving them. You will need to understand Rhaegar if you are to command effectively at his side. You do not need to forgive him."

Oberyn drained his cup and stood, the decision made, the bitterness of it settling deep in his bones. "I must make preparations. Choose my commanders."

"Take the time you need," Doran said, standing as well, grimacing slightly as his knee protested. "Choose men who can keep their heads around Rhaegar’s people. Men who will not be easily provoked."

"Most of my men enjoy a good fight."

"Then choose the ones who love Elia more than they love fighting."

Oberyn gave a curt nod. "I have a list. Ser Daemon Sand, certainly. Ulwyck Uller. Nymeros Vaith—he's steady."

"Good choices."

As Oberyn moved toward the door, he paused. "Doran... the letter. Elia's letter. May I keep it?"

"Of course." Doran retrieved it from the desk and handed it over. "But Oberyn—remember her words. Don't let anger guide you. She needs us clear-headed."

"I know." Oberyn folded the letter carefully and tucked it inside his tunic, the parchment a weight against his chest. "I will try."

"That is all any of us can do."

As Oberyn reached the door, Doran called after him: "And Oberyn? One last thing."

"Yes?"

"Rhaegar is still the Crown Prince. He outranks you. Formally, you owe him deference." Doran's voice was measured. "I am not saying you have to like him. I am not even saying you have to respect him. But in public, in front of the men, you will observe proper protocol. Is that understood?"

Oberyn's smile was sharp as broken glass. "I will give Prince Rhaegar exactly the deference he has earned."

"Oberyn—"

"I will be polite, Doran. I promise. But I will not pretend to worship him the way his Kingsguard does. I am not Arthur Dayne."

"Just... try not to start a civil war before the real war begins."

"I will do my best," Oberyn said.

And with that dubious assurance, he left.

Oberyn returned to his chambers. The letter he had written to Elia still sat on his desk, unsealed and unfinished.

He read it one last time, then slowly, deliberately, crumpled it and threw it into the dying embers of his hearth.

What he had written was truth, but it was a truth born of fire and instinct. The path forward required ice and calculation. He would write a new letter to Elia—a careful, coded message of reassurance, letting her know he was coming north, that he would be near, that he would protect her.

But not tonight. Tonight, his mind was a whirlwind of strategy and suppressed rage.

He stripped off his sword belt and boots, falling onto his bed without bothering to undress further. He lay staring at the ceiling, the wine doing nothing to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts.

He was trapped. For all his skill with a spear, for all his reputation, for all the fear he inspired in his enemies, he was utterly powerless. He could not challenge Rhaegar, for that would endanger Elia. He could not refuse to help, for that would abandon her. He was being forced to serve the man he most despised in the world in order to protect the person he loved most.

The bitter irony was a poison in his veins.

This was not the glorious charge he had envisioned, riding to defend his sister's honor. This was a slow, humiliating march into servitude. He would have to smile, and bow, and call Rhaegar 'Your Grace'. He would have to stand by while the man who broke his sister's heart gave him orders.

A cold, deep fury began to build in his chest, far more dangerous than the hot flash of his usual temper. This was a rage that would not burn out. This was a rage that would wait.

I will follow you north, Rhaegar Targaryen, he thought, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. I will march in your army and I will smile and I will pretend we are allies.

But I will not forget. And I will not forgive.

And the moment Elia is safe, the moment my leash is cut... I will end you. Not for pride. Not for anger. But for her.

This I swear.

In two days, Prince Oberyn Martell would ride for Yronwood.

And the fragile loyalist coalition would gain its most dangerous ally.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

Rhaegar dreamed of Myr.

Not the Myr of merchants and trade delegations, not the formal receptions he'd attended as Crown Prince with Elia on his arm, smiling for magisters who calculated the value of royal favor in gemstones and silk. This was the other Myr—the one he'd discovered with Lyanna when they were simply beautiful strangers with Essosi gold and no names that mattered.

The dream had the hyperreal quality of memory preserved in amber: he could smell the garden where they'd eaten—jasmine and night-blooming roses, the salt tang of the Narrow Sea carried on evening wind. Could taste the wine, some ancient vintage the innkeeper had produced with trembling hands when Rhaegar casually paid what a master craftsman earned in a year.

Lyanna sat across from him at a small table, wearing Myrish lace that clung to her body in ways northern wool never had. Her hair was loose, falling past her shoulders in dark waves, and when she laughed at something—he couldn't remember what, the dream didn't care about words—the sound was pure joy, uncomplicated by guilt or fear or dead fathers.

"We should buy a manse here," she said, though he knew she'd never said this, not in Myr. "Disappear. Fuck Robert, fuck your father, fuck all of it. Let them burn Westeros to ash. What do we care?"

In the dream, he considered it seriously. In the dream, they hadn't yet learned she was pregnant—they still had time, still had choices, still had the luxury of pretending tomorrow didn't exist.

The scene shifted.

Now they were in a Myrish bathhouse, one of the legendary establishments where water flowed hot from underground springs and attendants understood that discretion was worth more than gossip. Lyanna floated on her back in steaming water, eyes closed, completely relaxed. He watched her from the pool's edge, drinking wine that cost more than a warhorse, thinking that if he could freeze time he'd choose this moment.

"You're staring," she said without opening her eyes.

"I'm appreciating."

"Appreciating what? I'm just floating."

"That's what I'm appreciating. You. Happy. Not running from anything."

She'd opened her eyes then, those grey northern eyes that saw through every beautiful lie he told himself, and said quietly: "We're always running, love. We just haven't admitted it yet."

The dream darkened.

Myr dissolved into smoke, replaced by a smaller room—still expensive but different. Cheaper. Lyanna pale and sick, holding a basin while her body rejected the child growing inside her. Morning sickness that lasted all day, vicious and unrelenting.

He'd held her hair back, brought water, felt completely useless. A prince who could command armies and quote High Valyrian poetry but couldn't stop the woman he loved from vomiting until she dry-heaved bile.

"We need to go back," she'd said when it passed, her voice hoarse. "Can't keep running. Not with a baby coming. We need..." She'd looked at him with desperate honesty. "You need to win. So our child doesn't grow up hunted."

And he'd known she was right.

The dream shifted one last time, faster now, images blurring: the voyage back to Westeros, the careful landing at a secluded Dornish port, the first time they'd had to hide instead of simply being free. The moment he'd looked at Lyanna—four months pregnant, exhausted from seasickness, terrified of what waited ahead—and realized what he'd actually done.

He'd destroyed kingdoms for six months of happiness.

Worth it, something whispered. Whatever the cost.

Then the dream released him.

Rhaegar woke to pre-dawn grey filtering through purple silk. The tent was warm—Dorne didn't believe in cool mornings even this early—and beside him Lyanna slept deeply, one hand curled over her swollen belly, her breathing slow and even.

He lay still for a moment, letting the dream fade, returning to reality. His body ached in the familiar ways of a man who'd slept in a camp bed: stiff neck, sore back, the persistent discomfort of sleeping in clothes because removing them meant being naked if the camp was attacked in the night.

Outside, voices. Quiet murmurs—servants beginning their work, grooms approaching the horse lines, the low challenge-and-response of sentries changing watch. The sounds of a military camp transitioning from night to morning.

Carefully, so as not to wake Lyanna, Rhaegar rose. He dressed in the dim light: dark breeches, loose linen shirt, boots. No armor yet. That ritual would come later, the lengthy process of transforming from man to symbol, prince to commander.

He stepped outside into air that was merely warm instead of punishing. The eastern horizon showed the first hint of sunrise—grey giving way to gold, stars fading as light reclaimed the sky.

The camp was stirring but not yet fully awake. A few early risers moved between tents: servants hauling water, knights beginning their morning routines, guards completing the last hour of night watch before relief arrived.

Rhaegar walked slowly through the camp, hands clasped behind his back, letting his presence be noted without demanding acknowledgment. This was a habit he'd developed over years of command—make yourself visible, let the men see you're awake and attentive, but don't be so formal it stifles the camp's natural rhythm.

Near the horse lines, he found one of the younger household knights—Ser Jonothor Darry, barely twenty-five and still eager in the way men were before war taught them better—already checking his destrier's hooves with meticulous care.

Jonothor looked up, saw the prince, and immediately started to rise.

"At ease," Rhaegar said quietly. "How's the leg?"

Jonothor blinked, then realized Rhaegar meant the horse. "Healing well, Your Grace. The heat's actually helping—keeps the muscle loose. He'll be ready to ride today."

"Good." Rhaegar reached out to stroke the destrier's neck. The animal snorted, tolerating the attention. "We'll need every mount sound when we reach Yronwood. Can't gather volunteers if we arrive looking like beggars on lame horses."

A ghost of a smile crossed Jonothor's young face. "No, Your Grace. We'll arrive properly. Ser Arthur's been inspecting every animal daily—he'd have my head if I let this one go lame from negligence."

"Arthur's thorough."

"Arthur's terrifying, Your Grace. But in a good way."

Despite everything—the weight of command, the impossible situation, the war waiting to the north—Rhaegar almost smiled. Jonothor had the earnest honesty of youth not yet corrupted by politics. It was refreshing.

"Carry on," he said, and moved deeper into the camp.

By the cookfires, servants were already working. An older woman whose name Rhaegar thought was Marta was grinding grain for porridge while a younger girl—her daughter, perhaps—tended a griddle where flatbread was beginning to brown.

They saw him approach and both immediately dropped into nervous curtsies.

"Your Grace—we didn't expect—the bread isn't ready yet, but we can—"

"Peace," Rhaegar said gently. "I'm not here to inspect breakfast. Just wanted to see if there was any of yesterday's bread left. I'm hungry and not particular."

The older woman pointed mutely to a covered basket. Rhaegar took a piece—still soft, surprisingly good—and tore off a bite.

"Excellent," he said around the bread. "Whoever made this has my compliments."

The woman flushed with pleasure and managed another shaky curtsy. Rhaegar moved on, chewing, continuing his circuit.

The sky was lightening steadily now. More men were emerging from tents, moving through the practiced choreography of morning routine: pissing behind designated areas, splashing face and hands with water from communal barrels, checking weapons and armor out of habit.

Near what passed for the camp's administrative center—really just a slightly larger tent where maps and supply records were kept—Rhaegar found Ser Richard Lonmouth emerging, looking rumpled and half-awake.

Richard saw him, blinked, and managed his characteristic lopsided grin. "Your Grace. You're up early. Trouble sleeping, or just couldn't wait to start another glorious day of marching through this fucking desert?"

"Both." Rhaegar offered the bread. Richard tore off a piece without ceremony.

"So," Richard said around a mouthful, "I heard Lewyn's campfire version last night. Volunteers, angry Oberyn, Doran hedging his bets. Now I want to know what you're actually going to do about it."

Rhaegar glanced at his friend. Richard had served him for twelve years—long enough to skip the pleasantries when it mattered. "Accept what we can get. One to two thousand volunteers if we're fortunate. March to Yronwood and make the best of it."

"Against Robert's thirty thousand." Richard's tone was flat.

"Give or take."

"Well." Richard swallowed his bread and brushed crumbs from his hands. "Fuck."

"Eloquent."

"I'm not awake enough for eloquence. That comes after wine." Richard paused, his expression shifting. "And Oberyn? Lewyn told a good story last night, but he was three cups deep and performing for the lads. How bad is it really?"

"Bad enough that Doran felt the need to order him to stay in Sunspear. In front of witnesses." Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "Whether Oberyn obeys that order..."

"The Red Viper doesn't have a strong history of doing what he's told," Richard finished. "So we might have him showing up with three hundred of his best killers, demanding satisfaction, just when we're trying to convince other Dornishmen to follow us into probable death."

"Yes."

"Your tactical brilliance continues to astound."

"Sarcasm noted."

"Just saying—if you wanted to make this campaign maximally difficult, you're succeeding beautifully."

Despite himself, Rhaegar felt the corner of his mouth twitch. This was what he valued about Richard: the man spoke truth without wrapping it in courtly flattery. It was exhausting sometimes, but honest.

"Gather everyone after we break camp," Rhaegar said. "Arthur, Oswell, Lewyn, you, Myles, Jonothor. Anyone who needs to know what we're actually facing. I want everyone working from facts instead of campfire rumors."

"Your Grace." Richard sketched a bow—casual, almost mocking, but genuine respect underneath.

Rhaegar continued his walk, finishing the bread, watching his small army wake.

In the section of camp where the ladies' wagon was drawn up, morning came more quietly.

Ashara Dayne woke to birdsong—some Dornish species she didn't recognize, trilling from scrub brush nearby. For a moment she lay still in the wagon's dim interior, feeling the ache of yesterday's long ride settle into her muscles. She'd left the main camp at midday, ridden hard to reach the Tower of Joy, spent several hours helping Ser Gerold organize the arriving supplies, then ridden back through the night with Lewyn when he'd arrived from Sunspear.

Her body was reminding her she wasn't twenty anymore.

But I'm also not forty, she thought, so I'll survive.

Carefully, so as not to wake the other women sharing the wagon—Merry and Jayne, both still sleeping soundly—Ashara rose and began her morning routine. The space was cramped, designed for travel rather than comfort, but she'd managed to carve out a small area with her belongings: a chest with changes of clothes, a compact mirror (cracked slightly from the journey but still serviceable), combs and pins for her hair.

She dressed efficiently in the dim pre-dawn light: a practical traveling dress in dark purple Dornish silk, soft boots, her hair braided in the elaborate style of Starfall's nobility. Even in a military camp, there were standards.

When she was presentable, she stepped out of the wagon into morning air that was merely warm instead of brutal.

The camp around her was waking slowly. Men moving between tents, horses being led to water, the smell of cookfires beginning as someone started breakfast. Familiar rhythms.

Movement near the horse lines caught her eye—her brother, already up and armored despite the early hour. Of course. Arthur probably hadn't slept more than four hours. The man ran on duty and nervous energy.

She walked toward him, stepping carefully around guy-ropes and scattered equipment.

"Brother," she called softly. "You're up early."

Arthur turned, saw her, and his expression softened fractionally. "Ashara. How was the ride back? You must be exhausted."

"I've been more exhausted. The roads were clear—no patrols, no complications. Ser Myles kept his word about that, at least." She reached him and studied his face. Even in the growing light, she could see the tension around his eyes. "How did the prince take Lewyn's news?"

"Better than I expected. Worse than I'd hoped." Arthur's violet eyes—so similar to her own—swept the camp. "He read Doran's letter, absorbed the reality of what we're getting versus what we need, and immediately started calculating how to make it work. Then I told him about Oberyn."

"How did he react to that?"

"Said if Oberyn wants satisfaction, he'll give it. That some debts must be paid." Arthur's voice was carefully neutral, but something beneath suggested he disagreed with this assessment.

"That's noble and completely idiotic," Ashara observed. "If Oberyn kills him in a duel, the entire campaign collapses."

"I'm aware. So is Rhaegar. He's choosing honor over pragmatism."

"Or he's choosing guilt over survival." Ashara touched her brother's arm. "Arthur, you look like you haven't slept. When was the last time you actually rested?"

"I'll rest when we reach the Tower and Lyanna's secure."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

They stood together in companionable silence, watching the camp organize itself. Servants moving with purpose, knights checking equipment, the whole machinery of a military column preparing to move.

"The Tower's ready," Ashara said eventually. "Ser Gerold's work has been thorough—more than thorough, actually. He's turned that half-ruin into something genuinely defensible. There's space for everyone, provisions for months, water from a good well. When we arrive, everything will be prepared."

"Good. That's—" Arthur paused. "Wait. You said Gerold was there? You saw him?"

"Of course I saw him. How else would I know the Tower's ready?" Ashara frowned. "He was there when I arrived yesterday afternoon. He'd been working since..." She calculated. "Since whenever the prince sent him ahead. Day before yesterday? He didn't say exactly, but he'd clearly been there long enough to organize fifty men and start repairs."

Something in Arthur's expression shifted. "The prince sent him ahead after we met Ser Myles Sand in the Pass. That was yesterday morning."

"Then he's been there about a day. Why?"

"Just confirming the timeline." But Arthur looked relieved—some tension she hadn't consciously noticed bleeding out of his posture. "I was half-worried something had delayed him."

"Nothing delays the White Bull. He probably rode ahead of his own escort just to get there faster." Ashara smiled slightly. "He asked after everyone. "

"He's Lord Commander."

"He asked about Elia. How she's faring. Whether there's been any word."

Arthur's expression closed. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth—that I haven't been at court in months, same as him. That all we know is what letters report, which is very little." Ashara's voice dropped. "He looked... sad. Not like Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Like an old man worried about a woman he's supposed to protect but can't."

"We all feel that way."

"Yes. But most of us hide it better."

Before Arthur could respond, a familiar booming voice cut through the morning quiet.

"Sword of the Morning! Lady Ashara! Are we having a private family council, or can anyone join?"

They turned to find Ser Lewyn Martell approaching, looking remarkably fresh for a man who'd ridden from Sunspear, stayed up drinking until past midnight, and probably slept on the ground. He moved with easy confidence, his white cloak catching early sunlight.

"Lewyn," Arthur acknowledged. "You're awake. I'm impressed."

"I'm Dornish. We don't sleep, we just close our eyes and think about wine." Lewyn grinned at Ashara. "My lady, thank you for enduring my company last night. I know I talk too much when I've been drinking."

"You talk too much when you haven't been drinking," Ashara observed. "But you're entertaining, so we tolerate it."

"High praise from a Dayne. I'll treasure it always." Lewyn's expression became more serious. "The prince wants everyone gathered for a proper briefing once we've broken camp. You both should be there—Arthur for obvious reasons, Ashara because you've just come from the Tower and can speak to its readiness."

"I'll be there," Before Arthur confirmed, movement near the main tent caught their attention.

The flap had opened, and Ser Richard Lonmouth emerged, carrying what looked like a map case. He saw the group and altered course toward them.

"Morning, all," Richard called. "Lewyn, the prince wants you available for questions during the briefing. Apparently, your charming personality last night only whetted everyone's appetite for more stories about Dornish politics."

"My charming personality is available for all purposes at all times," Lewyn said grandly. "What does he specifically want me to address?"

"Oberyn. Everyone's heard bits and pieces—now they want the full story. How angry is the Red Viper, how likely is he to show up here, and what happens if he does."

"Ah. The fun questions." Lewyn's grin was sharp-edged. "I can answer those. Whether anyone will like the answers is a different matter."

The camp was fully awake now. The sun had cleared the horizon, turning the sky from gold to brutal blue, and Dorne remembered how to be merciless. Within the hour, the heat would be punishing. Better to move while morning still offered relative comfort.

"I should check on Lady Lyanna," Ashara said. "She'll be waking soon, and mornings are difficult for her."

"We'll see you at the briefing," Arthur said.

Ashara walked back toward the ladies' wagon, where the other women would be waking. Behind her, she heard the knights continuing their discussion, voices low and serious.

Two more days to the Tower, she thought. Then Lyanna would be secured, the baggage train settled, and the real work begins.

Assuming Oberyn doesn't arrive first and turn everything into a bloodbath.

She pushed the thought away and focused on immediate tasks. One crisis at a time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

The cookfires were the heart of the camp's morning rhythm.

By the time the sun had fully cleared the horizon—brutal and immediate, Dorne didn't believe in gentle dawns—perhaps thirty fires burned across the encampment. Men clustered around them in informal groups: knights with knights, servants with servants, the natural hierarchy of a military camp sorting itself without conscious thought.

Near the largest fire, Ser Richard Lonmouth was holding court with a piece of flatbread in one hand and a cup of ale in the other. He'd exhausted the topic of Dornish politics—everyone had heard Lewyn's version last night—and moved on to telling a story that had Ser Myles Mooton trying very hard not to laugh and Ser Jonothor Darry looking scandalized.

"—so I said to the tavern keeper, 'My good man, I assure you the goat was there when we arrived,' and he says—" Richard paused for effect, grinning. "—'Ser, that goat has been dead for three days, and you're not paying me enough to not ask questions.'"

Myles lost the fight and barked a laugh. Jonothor's expression suggested he was calculating whether this story reflected poorly on the prince's household.

"That didn't happen," Myles managed.

"It absolutely happened. Highgarden, two years ago, during that godawful tourney Lord Tyrell threw. Ask Ser Oswell, he was there."

"I'm not asking Oswell anything," Myles said. "The man will just tell me another story that makes me question every life choice that led me to this camp."

"That's Oswell's gift," Richard agreed cheerfully. "The man's a walking argument against optimism."

Near another fire, the aforementioned Ser Oswell Whent sat with a bowl of porridge, methodically eating while ignoring the conversation around him. At forty-three, he'd learned that mornings were for fuel, not entertainment. The younger knights could waste energy on jokes. He needed calories.

A servant approached nervously—boy of maybe fifteen, carrying a wine skin. "Ser? More ale?"

Oswell glanced up, took in the boy's anxious expression, and gentled his voice. "Ale's fine, lad. But bring water too. Going to be hot today, and I'm too old to get drunk before we march."

"Yes, ser. Right away, ser."

The boy scurried off, visibly relieved not to have been yelled at. Oswell returned to his porridge, ignoring the way Ser Jonothor was watching him with something like hero worship.

Kids, he thought. They all think Kingsguard means glory. Wait until your knees hurt every morning and you've buried enough friends that you forget their names.

But he didn't say it aloud. Let the boy keep his illusions a little longer.

At a fire slightly removed from the main clusters, Ashara Dayne sat with the other ladies-in-waiting, eating sparingly and listening to the younger women chatter.

Merry was talking—she was always talking—about something she'd seen in the camp yesterday. "—and the armor was so beautiful, all black with rubies, like something from a song, and when he took his helm off I swear I forgot how to breathe for a moment—"

"You're talking about the prince," Jayne interrupted, amused. "Again."

"I can't help it! Have you seen him? It's not fair for one person to be that beautiful. It's distracting."

"It's intentional," Vella said dryly. The northern woman was older, practical, with the blunt honesty of someone who'd run out of patience for romantic nonsense decades ago. "Princes don't just happen to be beautiful. They're bred for it, trained for it, dressed for it. It's a tool, same as a sword."

Merry looked crestfallen. "You're saying it's not real?"

"I'm saying beauty's real, but the way it's used is calculated. You think he doesn't know exactly what he looks like when he takes off that helm? That he doesn't understand how people react?" Vella tore off a piece of bread with more force than necessary. "He's a prince. Everything's a performance."

Ashara, who'd been listening with half her attention while watching the camp organize itself, spoke quietly. "Beauty can be both real and calculated. They're not mutually exclusive."

All three younger women turned to look at her.

"My brother's beautiful too," Ashara continued. "The Sword of the Morning, with those violet eyes and that perfect face. People see him and think 'legend.' They don't see the hours of training, the discipline, the way he uses that beauty to disarm people before he kills them. It's real—he genuinely looks like that. But Arthur knows exactly what he's doing when he smiles at an opponent before a duel."

"That's..." Merry struggled for words. "...sad?"

"That's pragmatic." Ashara took a sip of watered wine. "We're all performing, girls. The difference is some of us admit it."

Vella made a sound that might have been agreement or disgust, it was hard to tell. Jayne looked thoughtful. Merry just seemed confused, which was her natural state.

"Speaking of performances," Jayne said carefully, "is Lady Lyanna well this morning? I heard her moving around very early."

Ashara's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted. "She's well enough. The baby's active, which makes sleep difficult. But she'll be ready to travel when we move."

"I still can't believe we're taking her all the way to some tower in the mountains," Merry said. "Wouldn't it be safer in an actual castle? With maesters and—"

"The Tower is secure," Ashara cut her off, voice pleasant but final. "Ser Gerold has seen to that. Lady Lyanna will be perfectly safe."

The younger women subsided, recognizing the tone that meant this topic is closed.

Ashara looked away, watching the camp. Somewhere across the fires, her brother was conferring with Ser Lewyn about something, both men looking serious. Near the command tent, she could see Prince Rhaegar speaking with Ser Richard, the prince still in simple clothes, no armor yet.

Two more days to the Tower. Then Lyanna would be settled, the baggage train secured, and the real campaign would begin.

Assuming Oberyn doesn't arrive first and burn everything down, she thought. But that was a problem for people who made strategy. Ashara's job was simpler: keep Lyanna alive, keep the younger ladies-in-waiting functional, and try not to think too hard about the fact that she was helping hide the mistress of her former mistress's husband.

She took another sip of wine and decided that was enough introspection for one morning.

Near the command tent, Rhaegar had been joined by Arthur and Lewyn. Ser Richard had tactfully withdrawn—whatever they were discussing required privacy.

"—and Doran made it very clear," Lewyn was saying, his usual jovial tone subdued, "that he's not committing the full host until he sees which way the wind blows. One to two thousand volunteers, Your Grace. That's what we can expect at Yronwood."

Rhaegar's expression was unreadable. He stood with arms crossed, looking at nothing in particular, processing. "And Oberyn?"

"Furious. Controlled, but furious. Doran ordered him to stay in Sunspear, but..." Lewyn shrugged. "The Red Viper's not known for following orders when his blood is up."

"If he comes here," Arthur said quietly, "we need to be able to defend the Tower without starting a civil war within our own coalition. Fifty men aren't enough."

"No," Rhaegar agreed. "They're not." He looked at Arthur directly. "How many men can you pull from Starfall without leaving it undermanned?"

Arthur blinked, understanding immediately where this was going. "A hundred. Maybe one-twenty if I strip it down to a skeleton garrison. But that's three days' ride south, and then three days back to the Tower—"

"Six days total," Rhaegar finished. "We'll be at the Tower in two days. You'd miss our arrival by four days, but that's acceptable. The extra security is worth the delay." He paused. "Take Ser Lewyn with you. He knows the roads, and having a Martell present will smooth any concerns about Daynes marching through Dornish territory with armed men."

Lewyn's expression flickered—something too fast to read. "Your Grace, are you certain you want me away from the main column? If Oberyn—"

"If Oberyn arrives, I'll deal with him." Rhaegar's voice was flat. "What I can't deal with is the Tower being vulnerable because I was too cautious to reinforce it properly." His eyes moved between Arthur and Lewyn. "Both of you, leave this afternoon. Ride hard. Gather who you can from Starfall and bring them to the Tower. Is that clear?"

"Your Grace," Arthur said. Formal acknowledgment, but his mind was clearly already calculating logistics.

"Crystal," Lewyn agreed, though something in his tone suggested he understood there were layers to this order beyond the stated tactical necessity.

"I'll be there," Arthur confirmed.

Before he could say more, movement near the main tent caught their attention.

The tent flap had opened, and one of Lyanna's ladies emerged—the northern woman, Vella, looking characteristically stern. She saw the prince, altered course, and approached with the careful neutrality of a servant who'd learned not to presume.

"Your Grace. Lady Lyanna is awake and asks if you'll join her for breakfast. She says—" Vella's mouth tightened fractionally, "—that she's tired of eating alone and would appreciate company before we spend another day with her stuck in that wagon."

Despite everything—the weight of command, the impossible situation, Oberyn's fury waiting somewhere to the south—Rhaegar almost smiled. That was pure Lyanna: turning a polite request into a declaration of frustration.

"Tell her I'll be there shortly," he said. "I need to finish here first."

Vella curtsied, sharp and efficient, and withdrew.

Lewyn was grinning. "The lady has spirit."

"The lady," Rhaegar said mildly, "has been trapped in a wagon for weeks while eight months pregnant in Dornish summer. Spirit is the minimum requirement for not going completely mad."

"Fair point."

Rhaegar looked between his two knights one last time. "Starfall. This afternoon. Don't delay."

Arthur's violet eyes met his prince's, understanding passing between them without words.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

The morning light through purple silk turned everything inside the tent to shades of amethyst and gold.

Someone—Ashara, certainly, no one else had such standards—had arranged breakfast as though it were a formal meal in a palace rather than a military camp. The low table was spread with Myrish silk the color of cream, and on it: warm flatbread dusted with sesame seeds, still steaming from the griddle. Soft white cheese mixed with crushed mint and olive oil, the scent sharp and clean. Oranges sliced to reveal jewel-bright flesh, arranged in a spiral pattern. Cold roasted quail, the skin golden and crisp, meat tender beneath. Dates stuffed with crushed almonds and drizzled with honey that caught the light like amber. Pomegranate seeds scattered across everything like garnets.

Two pitchers—one of pale Dornish wine cut with cold water and lemon, one of just water with floating citrus slices. Two silver cups that must have cost a month's wages for a common soldier. Two plates of fine ceramic, white with a delicate border of trailing vines. Two sets of eating knives with carved bone handles.

And flowers. Someone had found desert flowers—tiny white blossoms that grew in rocky places—and arranged them in a small clay pot at the table's center.

Lyanna sat on cushions of deep purple silk, and she was beautiful.

Rhaegar stopped in the tent's entrance just to look at her, to memorize this: the way morning light turned her dark hair to near-black silk where it fell over one shoulder in a loose braid threaded with a thin silver cord. She wore Dornish fashion this morning—a dress of fine linen the color of pale grey smoke, so light it was almost translucent, embroidered at the neck and sleeves with silver thread in patterns of running wolves. The fabric draped over her swollen belly with surprising grace, designed to accommodate rather than hide.

Her feet were bare—her ankles too swollen for shoes—and even that was beautiful somehow, intimate. She'd painted her toenails, he noticed, with some Myrish lacquer Ashara must have provided. Deep red, almost black.

She looked up when he entered, and smiled. Not the political smile she'd learned to use in Essos when they pretended to be wealthy merchants, but the real one. The wolf's smile that had made him fall in love at Harrenhal.

"You came," she said. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me in favor of military councils and princely duties."

"Never." He settled across from her, reaching immediately for the quail. "Though Ashara's trying to make me feel guilty about eating camp rations. This is..."

"Excessive?" Lyanna selected a piece of bread, used it to scoop cheese. "I told her we didn't need a feast. She said if these are our last mornings together before you leave, we're damn well going to eat properly. Her words, not mine. Though I agree with the sentiment."

She said it lightly, but he heard the weight beneath. Last mornings. Two more days until the Tower, then he'd ride for Yronwood and she'd wait, alone, for news that might never come.

He pushed the thought away. Not yet. They still had two days.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, watching her face.

"Badly. The baby decided three in the morning was an excellent time for acrobatics." Her hand went to her belly automatically, that unconscious gesture he'd seen a thousand times now.

He'd seen it before with another woman. Elia, carrying Rhaenys—her hand resting protectively over her womb, the same instinctive gesture every mother made. He'd placed his palm over hers then, felt the baby kick, watched her smile despite the maesters' warnings about her fragility.

The memory surfaced and he crushed it instantly. Not now. Not when Lyanna was here, present, real. This child. This woman. This moment.

Not then. Now. He forced his attention back to her, to the present conversation.

"But I've managed worse. Remember Lys? That villa near the Perfumed Garden where the previous tenant had left three cats that somehow got into our bedchamber?"

Despite everything, he laughed. "Gods, yes. You spent half the night trying to catch them while I convinced the landlord to remove them immediately. You were furious—kept saying you'd paid for a villa, not a menagerie."

"We were paying absurd amounts of gold for that place. The least they could do was ensure it was habitable." She selected a piece of bread. "Though I did keep one of the cats for a week before you made me give it back."

"Because it kept climbing the curtains and destroying furniture that cost more than most people earn in a year."

"It was a very energetic cat." Her smile was fond. "I miss that sometimes. Having problems that were just... normal. Misbehaving cats. Which market to visit. Whether to stay another week because the weather was too pleasant to leave."

"Mint and olive oil. Dornish preparation. They do interesting things with simple ingredients." He poured wine for both of them, the ritual familiar and comforting. "In Volantis, remember that place near the Long Bridge? They served something similar, but with crushed garlic."

"The place with the fountains in every room." Lyanna's expression went distant, remembering. "Where we stayed for a week because you decided you needed to research Valyrian history in their archives and I spent every day in the garden reading terrible Essosi romances."

"They weren't terrible. They were... educational."

"They were pornography pretending to be literature." She grinned. "I learned at least six new positions I didn't know existed. Very educational."

He felt himself smile properly for the first time that morning. This was better—this was them, the ease they'd found in Essos when they'd been simply Rhaegar and Lyanna instead of Crown Prince and Political Catastrophe.

"I miss it sometimes," he admitted, reaching for pomegranate seeds. The taste burst tart and sweet on his tongue. "The freedom. Being able to walk through a market without guards, eat at taverns without worrying about poison, stay in bed until noon because we felt like it."

"The anonymity," Lyanna agreed. "I miss being no one important. Just a wealthy merchant's wife with too much time and a husband who was absurdly generous with money." She selected a date, bit into it delicately. "Remember Myr? The garden with the night-blooming roses?"

"Where we stayed up until dawn talking and you told me about Winterfell. About the godswood in winter, about your brothers, about riding through snow."

"You'd never seen real snow. You thought I was exaggerating when I said it could pile higher than a man's head."

"I thought you were telling northern tall tales to impress the southern prince." He poured more wine. "Then you described the hot springs and I stopped caring about snow, I just wanted to see Winterfell's springs."

"Still want to?" Her voice was carefully neutral, but her eyes held hope.

"When this is over," he said. "When the war's won and we can stop hiding. I'll take you home. Show your brothers I'm not the monster Robert's painted me as, let your mother meet her grandchild. We'll stay a month, and you can show me everything you talked about in that Myrish garden."

Lyanna was quiet for a moment, eating. Then she said: "You really believe that? That we'll survive this? That there's an 'after'?"

"I have to." He met her eyes directly. "Not because I'm certain—gods know I'm not certain of anything except that I love you. But because if I don't believe there's a future where we're together, where our daughter knows both her parents, where we can stop running and just... live... then what's the point of any of this?"

"The prophecy?"

"Fuck the prophecy." He said it with vehemence that surprised them both. "I mean, yes, I believe it. Yes, I think our child matters for reasons beyond just being ours. But Lyanna—even if I'm completely wrong, even if there's no great darkness coming and no prince that was promised and I've started a war for romantic delusion—I'd still choose you. Still choose this."

She studied his face, searching for something. "You say that now. But when you're facing whatever army Robert's gathered, when the costs start mounting and the bodies pile up—"

"I'll still choose you." He reached across the table, took her hand. Her fingers were warm, slightly sticky from the date honey. "I chose you at Harrenhal when I should have crowned Elia. Chose you in Essos when we could have come back and I kept finding reasons to stay one more week, one more month. Chose you every single day since. That doesn't change just because the consequences are harder than we expected."

"The consequences," Lyanna said quietly, "are my father and brother dead. Your wife humiliated. Thousands dead in a war that's barely started. That's not 'harder than expected,' Rhaegar. That's catastrophic."

"I know." He didn't look away. "And if I could go back and somehow prevent their deaths while still having you, I would. But I can't. All I can do is try to win this war fast enough that fewer people die than would die under more years of my father's madness."

She was quiet, fingers moving in his. Then: "Tell me about the prophecy. The real version. Not hints or vague references, but what you actually believe and why."

He considered how to explain something he barely understood himself. Then decided—two days left, no more time for partial truths.

"My father has books," he began. "Valyrian texts from before the Doom. Most are fragmentary, but there's one—the Prophecy of Azor Ahai Reborn, called the Prince That Was Promised—that's remarkably intact. It speaks of a darkness coming from the far north. A winter that lasts a generation, bringing creatures out of legend. And it says that when this darkness comes, a prince born of Targaryen blood will stand against it, wielding a song of ice and fire."

"Ice and fire," Lyanna repeated. "Stark and Targaryen."

"Exactly. Neither purely one nor the other, but both. A child who carries northern and southern blood, who can unite the realm against the threat." He squeezed her hand. "I thought for years I was that prince. Born during a storm, showing signs. But when I studied deeper, I realized—I'm not the prince. I'm the father of the prince. Or princess."

"So our daughter is supposed to save the world from ice demons." Lyanna's voice was dry. "No pressure."

"When you say it like that, it sounds insane."

"That's because it is insane." But she said it without heat. "You've started a war, upended your life, risked everything on ancient texts that might be complete fiction."

"I've had dreams," he said quietly. "Visions. I know how that sounds—my father has visions too, and he's mad. But mine are different. Clearer. I see winter coming, Lyanna. See the Wall falling, see things in the darkness that shouldn't exist. See the realm unprepared because no one believes the threat is real."

"Or you see fever dreams and convince yourself they're prophecy." No accusation, just observation.

"That's possible," he admitted. "I can't prove I'm right. Can't show you the visions or make you feel the certainty I feel. All I can do is tell you: I believe this matters. Believe our child is necessary, not just to me personally but to the realm's survival. And even if I'm wrong—" He pulled her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. "—even if it's all delusion, I regret nothing. Because I have you."

Lyanna's expression softened. "You're very certain for someone who might be completely mad."

"Madness and certainty often look the same from the outside." He released her hand, reached for more bread. "But tell me honestly—do you regret it? If you could go back to that night at Harrenhal, knowing everything that would happen, would you still leave with me?"

She didn't answer immediately. Reached for her wine, drank, set it down carefully.

"Yes," she said finally. "I'd choose you again. Even knowing the cost. Even knowing my father would die and Brandon would die and thousands would die in the war. Because the alternative was marrying Robert, and I'd rather die than live that life." Her voice was fierce. "I chose freedom. Chose passion. Chose six months in Essos where I could be myself instead of some northern lord's broodmare. And yes, the cost is horrific. But I'm not sorry for choosing my own life."

"Even now? Eight months pregnant, about to be left in a tower while I ride to probable death?"

"Even now." She touched her belly. "I have our daughter. Have memories of Volantis and Myr and Lys that no one can take away. Have six months where I was happier than I'd ever been. That's worth something, Rhaegar. Worth a lot, actually."

He felt something unclench in his chest. "I needed to hear that."

"Good. Because I'm tired of apologizing for choosing you. To myself, to the world, to whatever gods are listening." She selected another date, bit into it with satisfaction. "We chose each other. People died because of it. Both things are true, and I'm done pretending I should regret the first one just because of the second."

They ate in silence for a moment, the weight between them lighter now. Outside, the camp sounds were building—men calling to each other, horses being prepared, the familiar morning rhythms.

"What was your favorite place?" Lyanna asked eventually. "In Essos. If you could go back to one city, one moment—where would it be?"

He thought about it. "Volantis. The terrace overlooking the Rhoyne at sunset. You wearing that Volantene dress—the one that was basically just silk wrapped around you in strategically important places."

"I remember that dress. Ashara would have a fit if she saw it—completely inappropriate for a lady." Lyanna grinned. "Which is why I loved it."

"We ate on that terrace for hours. Some kind of fish I'd never had before, rice with saffron, wine that cost a fortune. And you talked about your childhood, about growing up wild in Winterfell while your septa despaired."

"You laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair when I told you about the time I cut my hair short and pretended to be a boy so I could train with Brandon's squires."

"Because the image of Lyanna Stark in boy's clothes with a wooden sword, beating the shit out of boys twice her size—" He couldn't help smiling. "—was so perfectly you that I fell in love all over again."

"You were already in love. That night just confirmed you'd made a terrible decision in choosing me." But her voice was warm.

"Best terrible decision I ever made."

They finished the meal slowly, savoring it. The pomegranate seeds, the last of the oranges, the bread sopped in olive oil and honey. When the plates were empty and the wine pitcher nearly so, they sat in comfortable silence.

Finally, Lyanna said: "Tonight. After your briefings and military councils and whatever else princes do. Come back to me. I want one more night before the Tower. Before you leave. Just us."

"I will." He reached across to touch her face, tracing the line of her jaw. "I promised you last night, remember?"

"Promises made at night sometimes disappear with daylight."

"Not mine." He leaned forward despite the awkwardness of the table, kissed her. She tasted of pomegranate and honey and something uniquely Lyanna. "Tonight. I swear it."

When they parted, her eyes were bright but not with tears. With determination.

"Go be the prince they need," she said. "I'll be here, eating the rest of these dates and remembering Volantis."

"Save some for me."

"No promises."

He rose, reluctant but necessary. Servants waited outside with his armor, transformation from man to symbol. But for this moment he was still just Rhaegar, with honey on his fingers and the taste of pomegranate in his mouth and the woman he loved smiling at him like she had in Essos when the world had been simple.

Two more days.

He'd make them count.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

The war came to King's Landing in fragments.

Lord Cafferen broken at Summerhall—three thousand loyalists dead, the Stormlands rising for Robert's stag like they'd been waiting for permission. Then Ashford: reports said Robert had won, then contradicting reports said Lord Randyll Tarly had shattered the rebel vanguard and sent them fleeing north. Now the latest ravens said Robert Baratheon was in the Riverlands, moving to unite with Stark and Arryn and Tully.

Four great houses combining strength while the loyalists scrambled with divided forces and commanders who'd never fought together.

The Small Council met twice daily. Sometimes three times when Aerys's paranoia spiked and he demanded immediate reports on traitors both real and imagined.

King's Landing—five hundred thousand souls crammed into streets that had grown organically over three centuries—felt the tension. Markets still functioned, ships still unloaded cargo, the Street of Steel rang with hammers forging weapons day and night. But certain goods vanished from stalls, prices climbed, merchants converted wealth into portable forms and watched the harbor with calculating eyes.

The Targaryen banners still flew from every tower—three-headed dragon, red on black. In the throne room, the Iron Throne still dominated: one thousand melted swords, sharp enough to cut careless kings, ancient enough that sitting it was a statement of continuity reaching back three hundred years.

But the men who should have been defending that throne were elsewhere.

Of seven Kingsguard, only two remained.

Ser Barristan Selmy—Barristan the Bold, finest knight in the realm—stood watch over the royal family with the grim awareness he was guarding an untenable position with insufficient forces.

And Ser Jaime Lannister. Seventeen. Youngest Kingsguard ever. The only Lannister publicly committed while his father sat in Casterly Rock waiting to see who won.

The other five were gone.

Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had sent a raven two months ago: Departing with Prince Rhaegar to secure Dorne's loyalty. Will return with forces to crush the rebellion.

That was all anyone knew. The prince had vanished nearly a year ago—left King's Landing on "urgent business" and never returned. Then silence for months. Then suddenly word came: the prince was gathering forces in Dorne, taking most of the Kingsguard with him.

Where had he been for eight months before that?

No one knew. The prince had disappeared and sent no word. Not to the Small Council. Not to his father. Not to his wife.

And now he was in Dorne with five Kingsguard and gods knew how many household knights and servants, gathering an army while Robert Baratheon won battles and the realm burned.

Princess Elia Martell woke alone in a bed built for two.

Morning light filtered through Myrish silk curtains the color of Dornish sand. The light was grey. Colorless. Rain coming.

She lay still in that space between sleep and consciousness. The bed was soft. Warm. For one heartbeat she could pretend.

Then memory returned.

The bed was too large for one person. Heavy oak posts carved with dragons. Goose-down mattress. Silk sheets. Blankets embroidered with suns and spears—wedding gift from Doran.

And she was alone. Had been alone so long she'd stopped counting nights.

The pillow beside her was smooth. Untouched. Exactly as the servants had left it.

Rhaegar had slept there once. Early in their marriage, before Rhaenys. They'd talked in darkness about books and music. He'd been kind. Courteous. Their marriage was political but he'd been considerate.

She'd thought it was enough. Had hoped affection might grow.

Then Harrenhal. Then the Stark girl. Then he'd vanished—just vanished, no explanation, no goodbye—and left her alone with two children and a mad king getting worse by the day.

Nearly a year. Gone nearly a year.

For eight months no one had known where he was. Then two months ago word came: he was in Dorne, gathering forces, taking the Kingsguard with him.

He hadn't written to explain. Hadn't sent word to his wife. Just... took five Kingsguard and disappeared into Dorne like King's Landing and his family didn't exist.

Stop, Elia told herself. Don't start the day like this.

She closed her eyes. Breathed. Slowly. In through nose, out through mouth. The way maesters taught when breathing became work.

Elia pushed the thought away. Pushed away the memory of sitting in the stands, heavily pregnant with Aegon, watching her husband place a crown of winter roses in another woman's lap while fifty thousand people held their breath in scandalized silence.

Pushed away the memory of returning to her chambers that night and crying until she vomited.

Don't think about where he is.

Don't think about who he might be with.

Don't think about whether he thinks of you at all.

Just breathe.

Morning sounds filtered through the door. Servants. Guards changing watch. From her window overlooking Blackwater Bay: gulls, ship bells from the harbor far below.

The air was clean up here. Maegor's Holdfast caught wind off the bay—salt and sea. The city's stench never reached this high.

Small mercy.

A knock. Soft.

"Your Grace? Are you awake?"

"Come."

Lady Mellario entered with a tray—tea, cup, figs. Senior lady-in-waiting, Norvoshi, practical. Dark hair in elaborate braids.

"Good morning, Your Grace. The maester's tea."

"Thank you." Elia accepted the cup. Hot. Bitter-sweet. Herbal. "The children?"

"Princess Rhaenys is awake. Prince Aegon still sleeping—fussy last night but settled at dawn." Mellario moved to windows, drawing curtains. Grey light flooded in. "Shall I have them brought after you've dressed?"

"Please. I'll breakfast with them." Pause. "In the nursery."

"Of course." Mellario hesitated. "Your Grace... the king has called council. This morning. The whole Small Council plus military commanders. You're... invited to attend."

Invited. Meaning: Aerys wants the Dornish princess visible so people remember Dorne is sworn to the Crown.

"What time?"

"Mid-morning."

Elia's stomach tightened. She hated those councils. Hated watching Aerys rave while grown men pretended he made sense. Hated being displayed like proof of Dornish loyalty while her brothers sat in Sunspear doing gods-knew-what.

But refusing would be worse.

"I'll attend. Help me dress. The orange silk with sun embroidery."

Mellario understood. Martell colors. Let them see Dorne.

"Yes, Your Grace."

An hour later Elia stood before her mirror, armored in silk.

The gown was Dornish orange that caught light like flame, embroidered at hem and sleeves with golden suns. High-necked, long-sleeved, tailored to show she was still slender despite two pregnancies. Her hair was pinned in Dornish fashion, held with gold sunburst pins. Jewelry minimal but expensive: gold earrings, amber pendant.

She looked like a Martell princess. Foreign. Exotic. A reminder she'd brought alliance with Dorne—second-richest kingdom, twenty thousand spears, political weight that kept the Crown from collapsing entirely.

It was calculated. Every choice designed to project strength she didn't feel.

Mellario studied her critically. "Beautiful, Your Grace."

"I look like I'm trying very hard." Elia examined herself. Pale skin—always pale for a Dornishwoman. Dark eyes with shadows beneath that cosmetics couldn't hide. Mouth set in a line meant to look composed but mostly looked tired.

She looked like exactly what she was: a woman holding herself together through pure will.

"The council will see a Martell princess supporting the Crown," Mellario said quietly. "That's what matters."

Elia turned from the mirror. "Let's go see my children first. I need... I need something real before I sit through Aerys screaming about traitors."

The royal nursery was three rooms in Maegor's Holdfast: playroom, sleeping chamber, and smaller room for septa and servants. Expensive but restrained—carved toys, thick carpets, child-sized furniture built to last generations.

Rhaenys sat on the carpet surrounded by wooden toys arranged in patterns only she understood. Dragons in one group. Horses in another. Carved knights scattered between.

She looked up. "Mother!"

Elia's heart clenched. Rhaenys was four—nearly five—with her father's violet eyes and her mother's Dornish coloring. Beautiful. Sharp. Already showing the intelligence that ran in both bloodlines.

"Good morning, sweetling." Elia knelt—the silk gown wasn't designed for floors but she managed. "What are you playing?"

"War." Rhaenys moved a dragon forward. "The dragons are fighting the stags. The stags want the castle but the dragons are protecting it."

Elia's throat tightened. "Who's winning?"

"The dragons. Obviously." Absolute certainty. "Dragons always win."

"And the stags?"

"They're losing because they're not as strong." Rhaenys crashed toys together. "But they keep fighting anyway because stags are stubborn."

Four years old and already understanding the war in the only terms that made sense to a child: toys, simple narratives, her family winning because families were supposed to win.

If only it were that simple.

They played for a while. Elia moving knights where Rhaenys directed, listening to running commentary on the imaginary battle. Dragons winning. Always winning.

In the sleeping chamber beyond, Prince Aegon stirred and began to cry—the particular wail of a one-year-old who'd woken hungry and alone. The wet nurse appeared immediately, scooping him up, murmuring soothing sounds.

"Can I see Aegon?" Rhaenys asked.

"After my meeting. I promise." Elia kissed her daughter's forehead. "Be good for Septa Eglantine."

"I'm always good."

"You're sometimes good."

"That's the same thing."

Despite everything, Elia smiled. "It's really not, sweetling."

The Small Council chamber was on the second floor of the Red Keep's main tower—a large room with a heavy oak table, high windows overlooking the city, and walls hung with maps showing the realm in better times when borders were clear and loyalty was certain.

Now the maps were covered with markers: red for rebel movements, black for loyalist positions, white for uncertain. The Riverlands were a chaos of colors. The Stormlands were almost entirely red. The North showed one massive black arrow pointing south—Eddard Stark's host, marching to avenge his father and brother.

Elia entered with Mellario two steps behind. Every eye in the room turned.

The Small Council was already assembled around the table. Grand Maester Pycelle at the far end, ancient and stooped, his chain of office heavy across his chest—two dozen metals representing two dozen fields of study, though Elia privately doubted he was still competent in half of them. Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Hand of the King, a nervous man in his fifties who'd inherited the position when the previous Hand had resigned in protest over something Aerys had done. Chelsted wore fine grey wool and looked like he regretted every decision that had led him to this chair.

Varys the Spider sat to Chelsted's left—the Master of Whisperers, eunuch, bald as an egg, wearing soft slippers and robes of purple silk. His hands were folded on the table, rings glittering, his expression pleasantly neutral in the way that meant he was cataloging everything and revealing nothing.

Across from Varys: Lord Rossart, the new Grand Alchemist, younger than Pycelle, wearing the robes of the Alchemists' Guild—dark green worked with golden flames. He'd been elevated recently to some position Elia didn't fully understand but which seemed to involve him whispering in Aerys's ear about wildfire and "contingencies."

And at the head of the table, in a chair that was almost a throne: King Aerys II Targaryen.

Elia had to consciously stop herself from flinching.

Aerys had been handsome once. She'd seen portraits. The young king with silver-gold hair and purple eyes and the Targaryen beauty that made smallfolk believe in divine right.

That man was gone.

The creature sitting at the table was fifty-three but looked seventy. His hair—unwashed for weeks, maybe months—hung in greasy tangles past his shoulders, silver gone yellowish-grey. His face was gaunt, skin stretched tight over bones, eyes sunken but burning with fevered intensity. His nails had grown long—he refused to let anyone cut them, paranoid about blades near his person—curled and yellow and caked with filth.

He wore robes that might once have been fine but were now stained and rumpled. No crown. He'd stopped wearing the crown months ago, claimed it was too heavy, that enemies had cursed it to give him headaches.

And he smelled. Even from across the room, Elia caught it—unwashed flesh, old sweat, something rancid beneath.

Aerys looked up as she entered. His eyes fixed on her with sudden intensity.

"Elia." His voice was hoarse, cracked. "Good. Dorne should be represented. Let them see the Martells stand with the Crown."

"Your Grace." Elia curtsied—deep, formal, the acknowledgment a subject gave a king. "I am honored to attend."

"Sit. There." He gestured vaguely toward a chair near the table's middle. "Next to Chelsted. I want you visible."

Elia moved to the indicated chair. A servant pulled it out. She sat, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Mellario took position standing behind her chair—proper placement for a lady-in-waiting attending her mistress at council.

Around the room's perimeter stood guards. Not Gold Cloaks—Aerys didn't trust the City Watch anymore—but household guards in Targaryen livery. Twenty of them, full armor, swords and spears. Their presence was meant to be reassuring but mostly felt oppressive.

And in the corner, standing in white cloaks: Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister.

Two Kingsguard. That was all.

Once there had been seven. The king's protection, the finest knights in the realm, legends in white cloaks who stood ready to die for the royal family.

Now there were two.

Barristan looked like he hadn't slept in days. His face was drawn, eyes shadowed, mouth set in a grim line. He stood at attention but there was a weight to his posture—the exhaustion of a man carrying impossible responsibility with insufficient resources.

Beside him, Jaime looked young. Too young. Seventeen, beautiful in that Lannister way—golden hair, green eyes, features that would make him a tournament favorite for decades. But there was something in his expression that hadn't been there a year ago. A hardness. He'd seen things. Heard things. Been forced to stand guard while his king did... whatever Aerys did in the hours when the court wasn't watching.

Elia met Barristan's eyes briefly. Something passed between them—understanding, shared exhaustion, the silent acknowledgment of people trapped in the same nightmare.

Then Aerys slammed his hand on the table and everyone's attention snapped to him.

"Let us BEGIN." His voice cracked on the last word. "I have read the reports. I have SEEN what the traitors do. And I am DISPLEASED."

Silence.

Lord Chelsted cleared his throat carefully. "Your Grace, the military situation is... complex. Lord Tarly achieved a significant victory at Ashford—"

"ONE victory!" Aerys lurched forward. "One minor skirmish while Robert Baratheon burns his way through MY REALM! While the Starks march south! While traitors in the Riverlands declare for the USURPER!"

"Your Grace, the Baratheon is not yet—"

"HE KILLED MY LORDS!" Spittle flew from Aerys's mouth. "Cafferen! Dead! Grandison! Felldid! Loyal men MURDERED by that Baratheon beast and what do my commanders do? They write me letters! They ask for MORE MEN! MORE TIME! As though I have not given them EVERYTHING!"

Pycelle spoke, voice quavering. "Your Grace, the lords commanders have requested—"

"I know what they REQUEST!" Aerys's hands clenched, long nails digging into his palms. "They request six months to gather forces. They request permission to wait, to prepare, to DAWDLE while my enemies unite! Well I say NO!"

He stood abruptly. The guards around the room tensed. Barristan's hand drifted toward his sword hilt—not threatening, just ready.

Aerys began to pace. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, like a puppet with half its strings cut.

"Send word to Lord Connington," he said, voice dropping to something that might have been calm but was somehow worse than shouting. "He is to take every man he can gather and march IMMEDIATELY. Not next month. Not next week. NOW. Today. Meet the traitors at the Trident and CRUSH THEM."

"Your Grace—" Chelsted's voice was very careful. "Lord Connington has perhaps eight thousand men currently assembled. The rebels are estimated at over thirty thousand once they unite. If we send him now, before proper reinforcements—"

"THEN SEND REINFORCEMENTS!" Aerys whirled. "Send EVERYONE! Strip the garrisons! Empty the castles! I want every sword in the realm marching NORTH to kill Robert Baratheon and his traitor dogs!"

Varys's soft voice cut through. "Your Grace, if we strip the garrisons, we leave the southern territories undefended. The Reach—"

"The Reach has Mace Tyrell sitting on his fat arse besieging Storm's End with sixty thousand men!" Aerys's laugh was high, brittle. "Let him keep sitting! Let him starve out the Baratheons' precious castle while we SLAUGHTER Robert in the field!"

"But Your Grace," Pycelle tried, "if we send untrained levies against a seasoned host—"

"UNTRAINED?!" Aerys turned on the Grand Maester. "Are you saying my subjects are COWARDS? Too WEAK to fight for their king?!"

"No, Your Grace, I merely meant—"

"You meant NOTHING because you KNOW nothing!" Aerys pointed a yellowed nail at Pycelle. "You sit here growing fat on my wine while traitors burn my kingdom! Perhaps YOU are the traitor! Perhaps I should—"

"Your Grace." Barristan's voice. Quiet. Firm. "Grand Maester Pycelle speaks only from concern for the realm's security. As do all your loyal councilors."

Aerys stopped. Stared at Barristan. For a moment something crossed his face—confusion, maybe, like he'd forgotten who Barristan was.

Then it passed.

"Loyal," he muttered. "Yes. Loyal. You're loyal, Ser Barristan. You saved me at Duskendale. Cut through my enemies like wheat. THAT is loyalty. Not—" he gestured at the council, "—not THIS. Letters and excuses and careful words. I want ACTION!"

He slammed both hands on the table. The sound cracked through the room.

"Send the orders. Every garrison, every lord, every man who can hold a sword—MARCH. North. Now. I want Robert Baratheon's head on a spike before the moon turns. I want the Starks DEAD. I want their castles BURNED and their lands SALTED and their names ERASED from history!"

His voice had risen to a shriek.

"And if my commanders will not act—if they continue to send me whining letters about 'proper preparation' and 'strategic positioning'—then I will BURN them! Burn the cowards! Burn the traitors! Burn EVERYONE who defies their king!"

Silence.

Everyone at the table had gone very still. The guards stood frozen. Even Varys's pleasant expression had fractionally tightened.

Elia forced herself to breathe steadily. Forced her hands to stay folded in her lap. Forced her face to remain calm.

This was Aerys now. Not every day—sometimes he had moments of lucidity where he almost seemed like the king he'd been. But those moments were rarer. And when the madness took him, when the paranoia and rage overwhelmed whatever remained of his reason...

This was what they all lived with. Every day. Every council. Never knowing if the king would be merely difficult or completely unhinged.

Lord Chelsted tried again, voice shaking slightly. "Your Grace, I will send the orders as you command. But I must counsel—"

"I did not ask for COUNSEL!" Aerys's eyes were wild. "I gave an ORDER! You will OBEY or you will join the traitors in BURNING!"

Chelsted went white. "Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Immediately."

"Good." Aerys's breathing was ragged. He looked around the table, gaze landing on each face in turn. When he reached Elia, he stopped.

"Elia." He stepped closer. "Your husband. The prince. Where is he?"

Elia's heart hammered. "In Dorne, Your Grace. Gathering forces to support the Crown."

"Dorne. Yes. DORNE." Aerys's laugh was bitter. "He takes my Kingsguard—MY protection—and vanishes to Dorne for MONTHS. What is he doing there? Why has he not RETURNED?"

"I... I do not know, Your Grace."

"You don't KNOW?" Aerys leaned forward. "You're his WIFE. He tells you NOTHING?"

She could smell him now—rank, sour, the smell of sickness and unwashed flesh. She forced herself not to recoil.

"The prince has not written to me, Your Grace."

"Has not WRITTEN." Aerys's eyes narrowed. "Why not? What does he HIDE? Is he—" His voice dropped to a hiss. "—is he plotting? Planning to take my throne? Is that why he takes the Kingsguard? To turn them against me?"

"No!" Elia said it more sharply than intended. "Your Grace, Prince Rhaegar is loyal. He gathers forces to defend the realm. To protect your throne. He would never—"

"NEVER?" Aerys straightened abruptly. "Everyone says NEVER. Rickard Stark said NEVER. Brandon Stark said NEVER. And where are they now? DEAD. Burned and strangled because they were TRAITORS who said NEVER!"

His hands were shaking. His whole body trembled with rage or fear or some toxic combination.

"Perhaps Rhaegar is like them. Perhaps he PLANS betrayal. Perhaps I should—" He looked toward Elia with sudden terrible focus. "Perhaps I should keep better watch over his FAMILY. Make certain they do not JOIN his plots."

Ice flooded Elia's veins.

Barristan moved. Just half a step forward. His voice was very calm. "Your Grace, Princess Elia and her children are loyal. They have given you no cause for suspicion."

"No cause." Aerys turned to stare at Barristan. "You defend her. Why? Are YOU in league with my son? Are you ALL traitors?!"

"No, Your Grace." Barristan's voice didn't waver. "We are your sworn shields. Your loyal servants. We will die before allowing harm to come to you or your house."

Aerys studied him. The king's expression cycled through emotions too fast to track—suspicion, confusion, something that might have been desperate need to believe in someone.

Finally he waved a hand dismissively. "Go. All of you. LEAVE. Send my orders and LEAVE."

Lord Chelsted rose so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. "Yes, Your Grace. Immediately."

The council scattered. Elia stood, curtsied, and walked toward the door with Mellario beside her. She kept her pace measured, her expression composed, but inside she was screaming.

Make certain they do not join his plots.

A threat. Barely veiled. Aerys suggesting that Elia and her children might need to be... watched. Controlled. Kept under guard to ensure Dorne's loyalty.

Or worse.

She made it into the corridor before her knees started shaking.

Elia made it to her chambers before the shaking became uncontrollable.

Mellario closed the door behind them and immediately moved to pour wine—not asking, just doing, the instinct of a woman who'd served long enough to know when her lady needed something stronger than tea.

"Sit, Your Grace. Please."

Elia sat. Not gracefully—her legs simply stopped supporting her and she dropped into the chair like a puppet with cut strings. Her hands were trembling. She pressed them together in her lap, squeezed hard, but couldn't make them stop.

Make certain they do not join his plots.

Aerys's words kept echoing. The way he'd looked at her. Like she was a thing to be watched. Controlled. Kept under guard or worse.

"Your Grace." Mellario pressed a cup into her hands. "Drink."

Elia drank. The wine was Dornish red, strong and sweet. It burned going down. She drank again, deeper, felt the warmth spread through her chest.

"He threatened me," she said quietly. "Threatened the children."

"He's mad." Mellario's voice was hard. "Everyone knows it. His words mean nothing."

"His words are law. He's the king." Elia set down the cup before she could drop it. "If he decides we're threats—if he decides Dorne is plotting against him—"

She couldn't finish. Couldn't say aloud what Aerys did to people he decided were traitors.

Rickard Stark had burned in his armor while his son strangled himself trying to save him. That was the king's justice now. Fire and blood and screaming.

"Ser Barristan won't let him hurt you," Mellario said. "Neither will Ser Jaime. They're Kingsguard. Sworn to protect the royal family."

"I'm not sure that matters anymore." Elia's laugh was brittle. "Sworn to protect the royal family—but which royal family? The king? Or the prince who took five Kingsguard and vanished for months? Where does their loyalty actually lie?"

Mellario didn't answer. Couldn't, really. The question was impossible.

They sat in silence. Outside the windows, grey morning had given way to rain—she could hear it drumming against glass, see it streaking down in silver trails. The bay beyond was invisible, lost in mist and weather.

Appropriate, somehow. The world disappearing into grey nothing.

"I want to see the children," Elia said finally. "Bring them here. I need..." She struggled for words. "I need to see them. Hold them. Remember why I have to keep functioning."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Mellario left. Elia sat alone in the too-large room and tried to remember how to breathe.

Rhaenys arrived first, running ahead of the septa, purple skirts flying. "Mother! It's raining! Can we go watch the ships in the harbor?"

Elia caught her daughter, pulled her close. "Not today, sweetling. The rain's too heavy."

"But I like the rain. And you said we could go see the harbor when the ships come in from Dorne."

"We will. Just... not today."

Rhaenys pulled back, studying her mother's face with those too-perceptive violet eyes. "Are you sad again?"

"Just tired."

"You're always tired." Not accusing. Just observing. "Septa says you have a delicate constitution. What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not as strong as I should be."

"Oh." Rhaenys thought about this. "Is that why you can't have more babies? I heard Septa talking to Mellario. She said the maesters said you can't have more babies because your constitution is too delicate."

Elia closed her eyes. Of course Rhaenys had heard. Four years old and already learning court politics through overheard conversations.

"Yes," she said quietly. "That's why."

"That's okay. Aegon and I are enough babies." Rhaenys settled onto her mother's lap—careful, like she understood somehow that Elia was fragile and needed gentleness. "We're good babies. Well, Aegon cries a lot. But I'm good."

Despite everything, Elia smiled. "You're very good."

They sat like that while the rain fell and the world outside disappeared into mist. Rhaenys chattered about her toys, about the dragons winning imaginary battles, about wanting to see real dragon skulls someday when father came home.

When father comes home.

Such simple faith. Such certainty that the world worked the way it should, that fathers came home and mothers stayed strong and families stayed together.

Elia held her daughter and said nothing.

The afternoon crawled past. Rain continued. Elia played with Rhaenys in the nursery, held Aegon while he fussed through teething pain, pretended everything was normal while inside she was screaming.

Mellario brought reports throughout the day—small updates, careful news.

Lord Chelsted had sent orders to every garrison and lord: gather your men and march north immediately. No time for proper organization. No time for training or supply lines. Just march, because the king commanded it.

The commanders were terrified. Some sent back questions—How are we to supply this many men on short notice? Where do we concentrate forces?—but Aerys refused to see reason. March now or burn for cowardice.

In the courtyard below, soldiers drilled. The sound of steel on steel, sergeants shouting commands, the clash and rhythm of men preparing for war.

How many of them would die because Aerys was mad and nobody could stop him?

The thought sat like lead in Elia's stomach.

Evening came. Grey afternoon fading to grey dusk, the rain never stopping. Servants lit lamps. Elia had dinner brought to her chambers—she couldn't face the great hall, couldn't sit at high table with Aerys watching her with those fever-bright eyes, calculating whether she was loyal or needed to be burned.

She ate mechanically. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. Everything tasted like ash.

Mellario tried to make conversation. Tried to distract her with court gossip, harmless things that would normally have been at least mildly interesting.

Elia heard none of it. Her mind was elsewhere.

Where was Rhaegar?

The question gnawed at her. For months—nearly a year—no word. Then suddenly: he's in Dorne with five Kingsguard, gathering forces.

Doing what, exactly? Planning what? Did he know his father was descending further into madness? Did he know his wife and children were effectively hostages? Did he care?

Or was he so consumed with whatever had made him vanish—the Stark girl, prophecy, some grand plan he'd shared with no one—that his actual family had simply stopped mattering?

I miss my husband, she'd written to Doran months ago. Whatever else has happened, he is still the father of my children.

She'd meant it then. Still meant it, gods help her.

But sitting here in the rain-grey evening, alone in a room built for two, children sleeping in the next chamber while their father gathered armies elsewhere with no word, no explanation, no acknowledgment that she existed...

Elia felt something crack inside her. Something she'd been holding together through pure stubbornness.

She stood abruptly. "I need to rest. Alone. Please."

Mellario studied her face. "Your Grace—"

"Alone." Sharper than intended. "I'm sorry. I just... I need to be alone."

"Of course." Mellario curtsied, withdrew. The door closed with a soft click.

Elia stood in the middle of her chambers, surrounded by luxury—silk and silver, carved furniture, thick carpets, all the trappings of a princess—and felt like she was drowning.

She moved to the bed. Sat on its edge. Stared at the empty space beside her.

How many nights now? How many nights alone in this bed, wondering where he was, who he was with, whether he thought of her at all?

Her throat tightened. She would not cry. Would not give in to the grief and rage and helplessness churning in her chest. She was Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne, mother of the heir to the Iron Throne. She did not fall apart.

But gods, she was so tired.

Tired of being strong. Tired of holding her head high. Tired of pretending everything was fine when her husband had abandoned her, her king was mad, her children were in danger, and she was completely, utterly powerless to change any of it.

The rain drummed against the windows. Outside, the city was invisible—half a million people lost in mist and darkness.

Elia lay down on the bed, still fully dressed, and stared at the canopy above.

Somewhere in Dorne, Rhaegar was... what? Gathering armies. Making plans. Living some other life where she and the children were footnotes to whatever grand destiny he'd convinced himself he was fulfilling.

And here she was. Alone. Afraid. Watching her children play and wondering how long before Aerys's madness turned on them completely.

This wasn't supposed to be my life, she thought. I was supposed to be a princess. A mother. Maybe not loved, but at least... protected. Safe.

Instead she was a hostage in gilded chains, watching her world burn while the man who'd vowed to honor her did nothing.

The tears came then, finally. Silent. Just wetness tracking down her temples into her hair.

She let them fall.

There was no one to see. No one to maintain dignity for. Just Elia, alone in the dark, crying for a marriage that had never been real and a husband who'd stopped pretending months ago that she mattered.

Outside, the rain continued.

Inside the Red Keep, guards walked their patrols. Servants prepared for tomorrow. Aerys raved in his chambers about traitors and fire.

And in Maegor's Holdfast, in the royal chambers, Princess Elia Martell lay alone in a bed built for two and tried to remember what hope felt like.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

The screaming started at dusk.

Ser Jaime Lannister stood at his post outside the king's chambers and listened to a man burn alive three floors below in the Red Keep's courtyard. The sound carried through stone and distance—high-pitched, animal, the particular quality of agony that transcended language and became pure noise.

It would stop soon. Burning didn't take long if the fires were hot enough.

Jaime's hand rested on his sword pommel—white leather grip, fine steel, a blade he'd named Honor back when he'd thought the word meant something. His fingers were steady. His face was composed. His white cloak hung perfectly from his shoulders, pristine despite King's Landing's perpetual grime.

To anyone passing in the corridor, he looked like what he was: a Kingsguard on duty, seventeen years old and beautiful enough that servants still stared despite having seen him daily for months. Golden hair that caught lamplight. Green eyes. Features that would make him a tourney favorite for decades. The youngest knight ever to wear the white cloak, appointed personally by the king.

An honor, everyone said.

Inside, Jaime wanted to vomit.

The screaming cut off abruptly. Silence rushed in to fill the void. Worse than the noise, somehow. The silence meant it was done, and soon the king would return, and Jaime knew exactly what would happen next.

He'd been Kingsguard for eight months. Long enough to learn the pattern.

Aerys burned people—criminals, traitors, men who'd looked at him wrong—and the act excited him. Watching flesh char and hearing screams did something to the king that Jaime didn't have words for and didn't want to examine too closely. And when Aerys returned from his burnings, eyes bright and hands shaking, he went to the queen.

Jaime's post was outside the royal chambers. The king's orders: Stay at the door. Let no one enter. No one.

Which meant Jaime heard everything.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Heavy. Uneven. The king's walk—Aerys had stopped moving like a healthy man months ago, his gait jerky and uncoordinated, like something was wrong with his legs or his mind wasn't fully controlling his body.

Jaime straightened, hand leaving his sword, coming to attention. Spine perfect. Expression neutral. The mask he'd learned to wear.

Aerys rounded the corner accompanied by two household guards in Targaryen livery. The king looked worse than he had this morning—if that was possible. His hair hung in greasy tangles. His robes were stained. His eyes were fever-bright, pupils dilated wide despite the lamplight.

And he was smiling.

"Ser Jaime." Aerys's voice was hoarse, cracked. "Still at your post. Good. GOOD. Loyal. Unlike—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—unlike TRAITORS who burn so beautifully when justice finds them."

"Your Grace." Jaime bowed. Shallow. Formal. "I stand ready to serve."

"Of course you do. Tywin's son. Tywin's GOLDEN son." Aerys's smile widened, showing yellowed teeth. "He thought to keep you. Thought to make you his heir. But I TOOK you. Put you in white. Now you're MINE."

Jaime said nothing. There was nothing to say. This was another pattern—Aerys using Jaime's appointment as a way to hurt Tywin Lannister, reminding Jaime constantly that he'd been stolen from his father's plans.

Eight months of this. Eight months of standing post while Aerys raved. Eight months of being used as a living insult to the most powerful lord in Westeros.

And eight months of what came next.

"I require the queen," Aerys said, moving toward the chamber door. "Attend me inside."

Jaime's stomach dropped. "Your Grace, I am to guard the door—"

"INSIDE." Not shouting. Somehow worse. "I command it. You will ATTEND."

Meaning: you will stand there and watch and do nothing while I do what I do.

Jaime's training took over. "Yes, Your Grace."

He followed Aerys into the royal chambers.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen sat in a chair by the window, embroidery in her lap, lamplight turning her silver-gold hair to something almost ethereal despite the way it hung limp past her shoulders. Pure Valyrian coloring that would never grey the way common hair did—silver-gold from birth to death was the Targaryen inheritance—but where it had once shone like spun moonlight, now it merely existed, dulled by exhaustion and neglect.

She looked up as the door opened. Saw Aerys. Saw Jaime behind him.

Something in her expression died.

She was thirty-eight years old. She looked older. Suffering did that—aged you in ways that had nothing to do with years, etched itself into your body until the difference between your actual age and how old you appeared became a measure of trauma endured.

Had been beautiful once—Jaime had seen portraits.

The young queen with Valyrian features and grace that made men write songs. That woman was gone. What remained was too thin, too pale, with shadows beneath purple eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile.

She wore a robe of deep purple—modest, high-necked, long-sleeved. Her hands were folded in her lap over the embroidery: a seven-pointed star half-finished in gold thread.

"Husband." Her voice was steady. Calm. The voice of a woman who'd had decades to practice hiding fear. "You've returned."

"The traitor BURNED." Aerys crossed to her, movements jerky. "Screamed like a GIRL. Begged for mercy. There IS no mercy for traitors! Only FIRE! Beautiful fire! Hot and bright and CLEANSING!"

His hands were shaking. Not from age or illness—from excitement. From whatever twisted pleasure he derived from watching men die in agony.

Rhaella set aside her embroidery carefully. Stood. Her movements were controlled, graceful despite everything.

"I am pleased justice was served, husband."

"Justice! YES!" Aerys grabbed her wrist. Not gently. Hard enough that Jaime saw her flinch. "You understand. You ALWAYS understand. Not like—not like the others. The traitors. The LIARS."

His other hand went to her throat. Not squeezing—yet—just resting there. Possessive.

Rhaella's eyes went to Jaime. Just for a moment. He saw the plea there—please, look away, don't see this, spare yourself—and the resignation beneath it because she knew he couldn't look away, couldn't leave, had been ordered to attend.

"Ser Jaime," Aerys said without turning. "Stand by the door. Watch. Learn what loyalty means. What a wife OWES her king."

Jaime's hand went to his sword hilt unconsciously. "Your Grace, I should return to my post—"

"You should OBEY." Aerys's voice dropped to something cold and terrible. "Unless you're a traitor too? Should I burn you? Would you scream like the others?"

"No, Your Grace." Jaime's throat was tight. "I will... attend."

He moved to the door. Turned. Kept his eyes on the far wall above Rhaella's head.

It didn't help. He could still hear everything.

Aerys's breathing had gone ragged. His hands were moving—Jaime heard fabric tearing, Rhaella's sharp intake of breath. The king was murmuring something, words too low to make out but the tone was wrong, sick, the voice of a man whose pleasure had become indistinguishable from cruelty.

"Husband, please—" Rhaella's voice. Still steady. Still trying. "Perhaps we should—"

"QUIET." A slap. Not hard enough to knock her down but hard enough to silence her. "You don't SPEAK. You don't QUESTION. You OBEY. Like the vows said. Obedient. Dutiful. MINE."

More sounds. Fabric. Movement. Rhaella's breathing had gone sharp and shallow.

Jaime stared at the wall and felt something inside him crack.

This was what he'd been made Kingsguard for. Not to protect the king. Not to serve with honor. But to stand here and bear witness to this—to be Tywin Lannister's golden son reduced to audience for a mad king's depravity.

I could stop this, he thought. Not for the first time. I could draw my sword right now and put it through his back and this would END.

But he didn't. Couldn't. The oaths he'd sworn—I shall wear no crowns and win no glory, I shall live and die at my post—were chains stronger than steel. Break them and he was nothing. Just another oathbreaker. Just another knight who'd failed the only test that mattered.

So he stood. And listened. And died inside by inches while maintaining perfect posture.

It took perhaps a quarter-hour. Felt like years.

When it was done, Aerys stood, straightening his robes, breathing hard like he'd run a race. Behind him, Rhaella lay on the bed, purple robe torn, face turned toward the wall.

"Loyalty," Aerys said to Jaime, his voice almost conversational now, the fever-brightness fading to something duller. "That's what separates the GOOD from the traitors. The queen understands. She's LOYAL. Not like—" He waved a hand. "—not like my SON. The prince. Where IS he?"

"Dorne, Your Grace." Jaime's voice came out steady somehow. "Gathering forces."

"Gathering forces. Or gathering PLOTS." Aerys's paranoia was reasserting itself, the post-violence clarity already fading. "Maybe he plans to REPLACE me. Take my throne. Put me in chains like—like Duskendale. They chained me in Duskendale. Did I tell you? For MONTHS. Dark and chains and—"

He trailed off, eyes unfocusing.

Then, abruptly: "Leave. Both of you. I require—I must—LEAVE."

Jaime didn't wait for a second command. He turned, exited, pulled the door closed behind him with hands that wanted to shake but didn't because he wouldn't allow it.

He resumed his post. Back to the door. Hand on sword. Face composed.

Behind him, inside the chambers, he heard movement. Water being poured. Rhaella cleaning herself. No crying. She never cried where anyone could hear.

Jaime stood at attention and felt the weight of his white cloak like a millstone.

This is what honor means, he thought bitterly. Standing outside a door while monsters do monstrous things. Doing nothing. Being complicit. Calling it duty.

Footsteps approached down the corridor. Jaime tensed—if it was Aerys returning for another round, if he had to go through this again tonight—

But it was Ser Barristan Selmy who rounded the corner, his own white cloak pristine, his weathered face creased with concern.

"Jaime." Barristan's voice was quiet. "You're relieved. I'll take this watch."

"I was ordered to—"

"I'm relieving you." Barristan's tone left no room for argument. "Go. Get air. Train. Do something that isn't this."

Jaime wanted to argue. Wanted to say he could handle his post, that he was fine, that Kingsguard didn't abandon their duties just because things got difficult.

But he couldn't make the words come. Couldn't pretend anymore that he was fine.

"Thank you," he managed, and walked away before Barristan could see his face crack.

The training yard was empty at this hour—most men had eaten dinner and retired to barracks or taverns. Jaime was grateful for the solitude.

He'd stripped off his armor in his quarters—small room in the White Sword Tower, barely furnished, a bed and a weapons rack and nothing else. Kingsguard didn't need personal possessions. Didn't need comfort.

Now he wore loose training leathers and nothing else, standing in the yard with a practice sword—blunted steel, heavier than his real blade—moving through forms he'd learned at age four when his master-at-arms had first put a weapon in his hands.

Footwork first. The foundation. Feet shoulder-width, weight balanced, knees slightly bent. Step, turn, pivot. The body's geometry translating into force and motion. Most swordsmen thought fighting was about the arms. Idiots. Fighting was legs and core and back—the arms just guided the weapon. All the power came from the body's center, transferred through perfect mechanics into the blade's edge.

Jaime moved faster. High guard to low, transitioning through middle. Parry, riposte, step back, lunge. The sword was an extension of his body, moving where his mind directed without conscious thought. Muscle memory built over thirteen years of constant training.

He was good. Better than good. At seventeen, he could already defeat most knights twice his age. Give him another five years and he'd be the best in the realm.

What good was that when his real duty was standing outside doors listening to horrors?

He attacked the practice dummy with sudden violence. The straw-and-wood figure absorbed the blows without complaint. Jaime struck it again. Again. Putting force behind it now, not the controlled precision of forms but raw aggression.

The dummy's head flew off, struck hard enough to shear through the mounting.

Jaime stood panting, sword lowered, staring at the decapitated training equipment.

That should have been Aerys, he thought. That could be Aerys. One swing. Problem solved.

But it wouldn't be solved. Killing the king would make Jaime a traitor, an oathbreaker, the Kingsguard who murdered the man he'd sworn to protect. Everything he was—everything the white cloak meant—would become ash and dishonor.

So he did nothing. Day after day, night after night, he stood at his post and did nothing while the king burned men and raped his own wife and descended further into madness.

"Jaime."

He spun, sword coming up on instinct.

Barristan stood at the yard's edge, hands empty, expression carefully neutral.

"I'm fine," Jaime said immediately.

"You're not. But you will be." Barristan moved into the yard slowly, non-threatening. "Put down the sword. You're going to hurt yourself training angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You just decapitated a dummy that cost the Red Keep three silvers to replace. You're angry."

Jaime looked at the destroyed training equipment. Then at Barristan. Then he set down the practice sword with careful control and sat on a bench nearby, suddenly exhausted.

Barristan sat beside him. For a long moment, neither spoke.

"How long were you outside the door?" Jaime asked finally.

"Long enough to know what you heard."

"And you're fine with that? Just... accepting it?"

Barristan was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. "No. I'm not fine with it. I haven't been fine with it for years. But there are things the Kingsguard can do and things we cannot. We protect the king. Even from himself, when possible. But we don't—" He stopped. "We don't make decisions about who wears the crown. That's not our place."

"Even when the king is mad?"

"Even then."

Jaime's hands clenched into fists. "That's not honor. That's cowardice dressed up in white silk."

"Maybe." Barristan's voice didn't change. "Or maybe it's the only thing preventing complete chaos. If every Kingsguard broke his oath when he disagreed with his king, what stops us from becoming kingmakers? Choosing who rules based on our personal preference? We'd be no different from lords plotting in shadows."

"So we do nothing."

"We serve. It's not the same as nothing."

"Feels the same." Jaime's voice was bitter. "Standing there while he—" He couldn't finish.

"I know." Barristan's hand came to rest on Jaime's shoulder, brief and solid. "I know what it costs. And I know you're strong enough to bear it. But Jaime—listen to me. You cannot let this destroy you. The king is mad. That's not your fault. What he does—" Barristan's jaw tightened. "—what he does is not your responsibility. Your responsibility is to protect the royal family from external threats. Not to fix the king's mind or stop him from... acting within his rights as husband."

"His rights." Jaime's laugh was jagged. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"I'm calling it what the law calls it. A king and his queen. Legally, he can do what he wishes. Morally..." Barristan trailed off. "Morality doesn't change our oaths."

They sat in silence while night deepened around them. From somewhere in the city below, a bell tolled the hour. Nine. Late enough that most of King's Landing was asleep or drunk or both.

"Prince Rhaegar will return soon," Barristan said quietly. "With forces from Dorne. When he does, things may change."

"May. Or may not."

"Have faith."

"In what?" Jaime's voice was flat. "In a prince who abandoned his wife and children to run off with the Stark girl? Who left his mother and little brother here with the mad king while he gathered armies in Dorne? What's he going to change, exactly?"

Barristan's expression flickered—something that might have been agreement or regret or both. "I don't know. But I know he has a plan. And I know he hasn't forgotten them."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because he told me." Barristan met Jaime's eyes. "Months ago. Before he left for Dorne. He gathered those of us he trusted and explained. Not everything—but enough."

Jaime straightened. "What did he say?"

"That's—" Barristan stopped. "That's not for me to share. Not yet. But I'm telling you this so you'll have something to hold onto, Jaime. The prince hasn't abandoned his family. He's working to save them. When he returns, he'll take regency from Aerys and this nightmare will end."

"And you believe that?"

"I have to believe something," Barristan said quietly. "Or I'd have fallen on my sword months ago."

In the royal chambers, Queen Rhaella cleaned herself with water from a basin and tried not to think.

The water was cold. She'd sent the servants away—couldn't bear having them see her like this, couldn't endure their careful not-seeing, the way they'd be professional and kind and pretend her torn robe and bruised wrists were invisible.

Her body hurt in familiar ways. Bruises forming where Aerys had gripped too hard. Ache between her legs. Her ribs sore where he'd pressed down, all his weight bearing her into the mattress.

She cleaned mechanically. Water and cloth. Removing evidence. Making herself presentable again.

When she was done, she dressed in a clean nightgown—modest grey linen, throat to ankles—and sat in her chair by the window.

The city below was a constellation of lights. Torches, lanterns, cookfires. Half a million people out there, most sleeping, none knowing what happened in the Red Keep's highest chambers.

She sat very still and made herself breathe.

A knock at the connecting door to her private solar. Careful. Hesitant.

"Your Grace?" Woman's voice. One of her ladies. "Prince Viserys is asking for you. He's... distressed. Shall I bring him?"

Rhaella's chest tightened. "Yes. Please."

Moments later the door opened. Viserys stood there in his nightshirt, flanked by two guards in Targaryen livery—his household guard, men assigned specifically to protect the king's youngest son. The boy was seven, small for his age, silver-blonde hair mussed from sleep or restless movement.

His purple eyes were red-rimmed. He'd been crying.

"Mother?" His voice was very small.

The guards withdrew, closing the door. Viserys ran to her, climbed into her lap despite being too old for it, buried his face in her shoulder.

He was shaking.

Rhaella held him, one hand stroking his hair. "I'm here, sweetling. I'm here."

"I heard—" His voice muffled against her shoulder. "In my rooms. I heard someone screaming. And then it stopped. And I thought—I thought—"

He couldn't finish. Didn't need to. In his chambers in another wing of Maegor's Holdfast, surrounded by guards and servants, he'd heard the execution in the courtyard. Heard a man burn alive. Heard it stop.

And known his father had done it. Again.

"It's over now," Rhaella said quietly. "You're safe."

"Is he gone? Father?"

"He's gone. It's safe."

Viserys pulled back slightly, looking at her face. His eyes were too old for seven. Too knowing.

"I hate him," he whispered. "I wish he'd die."

Rhaella's breath caught. "Viserys—"

"I do! He hurts you! He hurts everyone! He burned that man and I heard it and—" His voice cracked. "Rhaegar should be here! He should protect us! But he left! He's a coward and I hate him too!"

The words cut deeper than Rhaella expected.

"Your brother didn't—" She started, then stopped. What could she say? Rhaegar had left. Nearly a year ago. No word, no explanation, no acknowledgment that his mother and brother existed.

"He left us here with Father," Viserys said, tears streaming now. "He knows Father is bad. He knows Father hurts people. But he left anyway. Why? Why did he leave us?"

"I don't know, sweetling." Rhaella's own voice was shaking now. "I don't know."

"When I'm king," Viserys said with desperate intensity, "I'll be better. I'll protect you. I'll never hurt anyone. I'll be good and kind and—and I'll make Father stop. Somehow. I'll—"

He dissolved into sobs. Rhaella held him, rocking slightly, murmuring wordless comfort.

Seven years old and already breaking under the weight of what he'd seen. What he'd heard. The knowledge that his father was a monster and his brother had vanished and all that stood between him and complete terror was a mother who was barely holding herself together.

"You'll be a good king," Rhaella whispered. "When the time comes. You'll be better than all of us."

She didn't believe it. Viserys was sweet but not strong. Sensitive. The kind of boy who needed protection.

But she said it anyway. Because he needed to hear it. Needed something to hold onto.

They lay together in the large bed—Rhaella on top of the covers, Viserys beneath them, his small body curled against hers seeking warmth and safety she couldn't truly provide.

His breathing slowed. Evened out. Sleep claimed him despite his fear.

Rhaella lay awake in the darkness and thought about her oldest son. Rhaegar, who'd been gentle as a child, who'd read books and played harp and never hurt anyone. Who'd grown into someone she didn't recognize—a man who made choices she couldn't understand, who'd left without explanation, who was somewhere in Dorne making plans that didn't include his family.

Where are you? she thought. And do you know what you've left behind?

The rain continued. The city slept.

And in Maegor's Holdfast, two queens—one crowned, one not—lay awake in separate chambers and suffered in silence because that was what Targaryen women learned to do.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Morning came to King's Landing in shades of grey and gold.

Princess Elia Martell woke to pale sunlight filtering through silk curtains—the storm had passed in the night, leaving the air washed clean in that temporary way rain did. From her windows overlooking Blackwater Bay she could hear gulls crying and the distant sounds of the city waking: bells, carts, the eternal noise of half a million people beginning another day.

She lay still for a moment, hand resting on the empty pillow beside her, and made herself breathe.

Another day. Another performance. Another twenty-four hours of being Princess Elia Martell: gracious, dignified, the perfect Dornish bride who'd brought alliance and legitimacy to a dynasty that needed both.

The lie was exhausting.

A knock at the door. Soft. Respectful.

"Your Grace?" Mellario's voice. "May I enter?"

"Yes."

Mellario came in carrying the morning tray—tea, fruit, the light breakfast Elia could usually manage even when her appetite had fled. The Norvoshi woman moved with quiet efficiency, setting the tray on the bedside table, pouring tea into a cup painted with Martell suns.

"Good morning, Your Grace. How did you sleep?"

"Well enough." The lie came easily. Elia had barely slept—had lain awake until near dawn thinking about empty beds and absent husbands and the particular loneliness that came from being surrounded by people while feeling completely alone.

Mellario's expression suggested she didn't believe the lie but was too professional to say so. Instead she moved to the windows, drawing the curtains fully back. Light flooded the room—real sunlight for the first time in days.

"There's a reception this afternoon," Mellario said, beginning the daily briefing. "The king is hosting lords who've sent reinforcements to the Crown. Lord Chelsted specifically requested your presence. He says—" She paused delicately. "—it would be beneficial for Dorne's commitment to be visibly represented."

Translation: We need you there in Martell colors so everyone remembers Dorne is still sworn to the Targaryens.

Elia reached for her tea. The cup was warm in her hands. The tea itself smelled of mint and something citrus—a Dornish blend Mellario had somehow acquired despite King's Landing's limited access to southern luxuries.

"What time?"

"Second hour after midday. Formal dress. The king wishes it to be..." Mellario searched for words. "Impressive."

"Impressive." Elia's mouth twitched without humor. "And how is His Grace this morning? Lucid or...?"

"Unknown. He hasn't emerged from his chambers. But the servants report he was... active last night."

The careful phrasing said everything. Active meant burning someone. Meant working himself into that particular state of excitement that preceded visits to the queen's chambers. Meant Rhaella had endured another night of what the king called marital rights and everyone else privately recognized as violence.

Elia set down her tea. "Send word to Queen Rhaella's chambers. Ask if she requires anything. Company, perhaps. Or..." She struggled for what to offer. "Ask if she would like to break fast with me."

Mellario's expression softened fractionally. "I will send word immediately, Your Grace."

An hour later, Elia sat at her dressing table while Mellario and two younger ladies-in-waiting—Jeyne Fowler and Myriah of House Vaith, both Dornish, both sent by their families to serve the Crown Princess—attended to the complex business of making a princess presentable.

The process was elaborate and strangely soothing in its routine.

First: bathing. A copper tub had been brought to her chambers and filled with water heated over braziers. Elia sank into it gratefully, letting heat unknot muscles that had been tense since waking. The water was scented with oils—orange blossom and myrrh, expensive, brought from Dorne. For a few moments she could close her eyes and pretend she was home in Sunspear, in the Water Gardens where the fountains ran cool even in summer and children played without fear.

The illusion shattered when Jeyne began washing her hair. The girl meant well but wasn't gentle—pulled too hard when working through tangles, made Elia's scalp ache. Not Jeyne's fault; she was young, still learning.

Elia bore it in silence. Small discomfort. Barely worth noting compared to everything else.

After bathing came drying, dressing in undergarments—fine linen shift, silk stockings held with ribbon garters. Then Mellario brought out the gown.

Crimson silk, imported from Myr. Cut in the Dornish style: flowing, less restrictive than northern fashion, with intricate embroidery at hem and sleeves. Golden suns worked in thread-of-gold climbed from the hem in spiraling patterns, meeting at the bodice in a sunburst that covered Elia's chest. The sleeves were long, fitted to the wrists, where they flared into points that nearly touched the floor. The neckline was high—modest by Dornish standards but exotic by northern ones, sitting just below her throat and fastened with a clasp of carved amber.

The fabric whispered as Mellario and Jeyne helped her into it. Silk against skin. The weight of it settling on her shoulders. The stays at the back being laced—not tight, she couldn't bear tight clothing these days, but snug enough to give the gown shape.

Jewelry came next.

Gold earrings shaped like miniature spears—Martell symbol, subtle but present. A necklace of amber beads interspersed with gold sun-medallions. Three rings: one on each hand featuring carved carnelian suns, and on her right hand, her wedding ring.

That one she always wore. White gold set with a single ruby. Rhaegar had placed it on her finger seven years ago in the Great Sept of Baelor while fifty thousand people watched and sang hymns. She remembered his face—solemn, beautiful, utterly unreadable. Remembered thinking: He's going through the motions. This means nothing to him.

She'd been right.

But she still wore the ring. Because taking it off would be admitting something she wasn't ready to admit.

Hair was the final step.

Elia's hair was long—falling nearly to her waist when unbound—and dark brown verging on black. Dornish hair, thick and straight, nothing like the silver-gold Valyrian curls that marked true Targaryens. When she'd first come to King's Landing, some of the more traditional courtiers had whispered that she looked foreign. Too Dornish. Not enough dragon-blood showing.

As if she could help her bloodline.

Mellario worked the hair into an elaborate style: braided coronet wrapped around Elia's head, the rest falling in a thick plait down her back, woven through with golden cord. Hair pins shaped like sunbursts held everything in place.

When it was done, Elia looked at herself in the mirror.

She looked like a Martell princess. Dornish. Exotic. Expensive. Every inch the political bride who'd brought alliance with the second-richest kingdom in Westeros.

She looked nothing like a woman slowly falling apart.

Perfect.

The message came back from Queen Rhaella's chambers while Elia was finishing dressing: Her Grace thanks Princess Elia for her kind offer but regrets she must decline. She is indisposed this morning.

Indisposed. Another careful word.

Elia dismissed her ladies, needing a moment alone. She stood at her window looking out at the bay while anger and sympathy warred in her chest.

Rhaella was three floors above her in Maegor's Holdfast, in chambers even larger and more luxurious than Elia's. The Queen's rooms. Where she endured her husband's attentions and raised their youngest son and maintained perfect dignity despite everything.

They should be allies. Should comfort each other. Two women trapped in the same nightmare, married to Targaryen men who brought them nothing but pain—one through madness, one through abandonment.

But they never spoke of it. Never acknowledged it. Moved past each other at court functions with polite smiles and careful distance.

Why?

Pride, maybe. Shame. The knowledge that speaking the truth aloud would make it real in ways neither could bear.

Or maybe simpler: Rhaella was ashamed of her son. Ashamed that Rhaegar had dishonored Elia so publicly. And Elia... Elia didn't know what she felt toward Rhaegar's mother. Sympathy for her suffering. Resentment that she'd raised a son capable of such cruelty. Guilt for resenting a woman who'd done nothing wrong.

It was complicated. Everything at this court was complicated.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Your Grace?" Mellario again. "Ser Barristan Selmy is here. He says the king requests your presence in the throne room. Early, before the reception. His Grace wishes to..." She consulted a note. "...'display the Crown's strength to gathering allies.'"

Elia closed her eyes. Of course. Aerys wanted to parade her in front of the newly arrived lords, show them that Dorne stood with the Targaryens, use her like a prop in his increasingly desperate performance of control.

"Tell Ser Barristan I will attend His Grace immediately."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Elia took one last look in the mirror, adjusted a hair pin that didn't need adjusting, and went to play her part.

The throne room was a monument to excess.

Forty feet high, perhaps sixty yards long, with arched windows along the eastern wall letting in shafts of dusty sunlight. The floor was black marble veined with red, polished to mirror brightness. Pillars carved with dragons rose to support the vaulted ceiling, which was painted with scenes from Aegon's Conquest: dragons burning Harrenhal, the Field of Fire, Aegon being crowned by the High Septon.

And at the far end, on a raised dais: the Iron Throne.

One thousand swords melted by dragonfire and twisted into a seat that was more weapon than furniture. Blades jutted at every angle—some blunted by centuries, some still sharp enough to cut the careless. The throne rose high, asymmetrical, deliberately uncomfortable. Kings who sat it had to climb steps, settle carefully, and even then risked being cut if they shifted wrong.

Aegon the Conqueror had designed it that way intentionally: A king should never sit easy.

Aerys II sat it now, and did not look easy at all.

The king wore robes of black velvet worked with red dragons in thread-of-gold—beautiful from a distance, but up close Elia could see the stains, the places where the fabric had been mended badly, the general air of neglect that clung to everything Aerys touched. His crown sat crooked on his head: the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, heavy gold set with rubies.

His hair—unwashed despite yesterday's supposed bathing—hung in tangled silver-grey clumps. His beard was patchy, uneven. His nails were long and yellowed, clicking against the armrests when he moved his hands.

But his eyes were bright. Alert. He was having a lucid morning.

Those were sometimes worse than the mad ones.

The throne room was already filling. Lords in fine woolens and silks, their household knights in polished armor, servants carrying trays of wine. Elia recognized several: Lord Rosby, fat and nervous, his pig-faced son trailing behind. Lord Stokeworth with his wife and daughters. Smaller houses—Bywater, Harte, Chelsted's relatives from the Crownlands. Men who'd sent troops or gold to support the king and now came to be acknowledged.

And standing at the throne's base in white cloaks: Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister.

Barristan looked as he always did—weathered, solid, the kind of man you'd want beside you in a battle or a disaster. His face was lined with decades of service but his eyes were clear. He stood at parade rest, white cloak hanging perfectly from his shoulders, hand resting on his sword pommel.

Beside him, Jaime looked like a different species of creature entirely.

Seventeen years old. Tall—he'd grown since his appointment, now stood perhaps six feet. Broad-shouldered but lean, a swordsman's build rather than a knight's bulk. His armor was white enameled steel chased with gold, fitted so perfectly it looked like it had grown on him rather than been made. His white cloak was pristine—Elia had heard he washed it himself, refusing to let servants touch it, some private ritual of maintaining standards when everything else was chaos.

And his face.

Gods, his face.

Jaime Lannister was beautiful in the way Rhaegar was beautiful—not handsome, not merely attractive, but beautiful. Sculptural. The kind of face that made people stare despite themselves. High cheekbones, strong jaw, a mouth that looked like it had been designed for smiling but hadn't done so in months. And his eyes: green as summer grass, bright against the white and gold of his uniform.

His hair was his signature—gold so bright it looked metallic in sunlight, falling in waves to his shoulders, tied back with a simple leather cord.

He looked like a prince from songs. Like something crafted by artists, not born of ordinary flesh.

And he looked exhausted.

Elia could see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. Ser Jaime was carrying weight no seventeen-year-old should have to bear. She knew why—everyone at court knew, though no one spoke of it. He stood guard outside the king's chambers. He heard things. Saw things. Was forced to witness horrors and call it duty.

It was destroying him by inches.

Their eyes met across the throne room. Just for a moment. His expression flickered—something that might have been recognition or sympathy or shared understanding of what it meant to be trapped in roles you hadn't chosen.

Then he looked away, gaze returning to professional blankness, and Elia felt an unexpected pang of... something. Sympathy, certainly. But underneath: awareness. The kind of awareness that came from being a woman who'd been alone too long noticing a beautiful man who looked like he needed saving.

Don't, she told herself firmly. He's seventeen. He's Kingsguard. He's sworn to celibacy and you're married to his prince.

But the awareness didn't fade.

"Lords and ladies of the realm!"

The herald's voice cut through the growing murmur. A tall man in Targaryen livery—black and red—stood at the throne's base with a staff of office. He struck the marble floor three times, the sound ringing through the hall like hammer blows.

"His Grace Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, grants audience to his loyal subjects!"

The assembled lords and knights dropped to one knee. A wave of obeisance rippling through the throne room—silks and velvets and wool pooling on black marble, heads bowing, the ritual submission that had been performed in this room for three centuries.

Elia, standing to the right of the throne on a lower step, curtsied deeply. The crimson silk whispered as she bent, one hand gathering her skirts, the other extended for balance. She held the position—back straight, head bowed, the picture of grace—until Aerys spoke.

"RISE. All of you. RISE and be recognized."

The king's voice was surprisingly strong this morning. Clear. Projected. Almost like the voice of a real king instead of a madman play-acting the role.

The court rose. Elia straightened, hands folded demurely at her waist, and assumed the expression she'd perfected over seven years: pleasant, attentive, empty of actual thought or emotion.

Aerys leaned forward, hands gripping the Iron Throne's twisted armrests. His fingers wrapped around blades that had been worn smooth by centuries of royal hands. One nail caught on a rough edge—Elia saw him flinch, saw blood well from a small cut—but he didn't pull away.

A king should never sit easy.

"Loyal lords," Aerys continued, his voice taking on that particular quality it got when he was performing sanity. "You have answered your king's call. Sent men, sent steel, sent your STRENGTH to defend the realm against TRAITORS and USURPERS. For this, we are PLEASED."

The royal plural. He used it inconsistently—sometimes I, sometimes we, depending on how firmly he was gripping reality at any given moment.

Lord Rosby stepped forward, his considerable belly straining against burgundy velvet. He moved with the careful precision of a fat man trying to look dignified. When he reached the appropriate distance—ten feet from the throne, marked by a change in the marble's pattern—he knelt again.

"Your Grace. House Rosby pledges two hundred men-at-arms, fully equipped and provisioned for six months' campaign. They await your command at our fortress."

"Two hundred." Aerys's eyes glittered. "ARMED men. Loyal men. Not TRAITORS like Baratheon and his ilk. Not OATH-BREAKERS like the Starks who died SCREAMING for their crimes—"

Lord Chelsted, standing to the throne's left, cleared his throat gently. "Your Grace, Lord Rosby's generosity honors the Crown. Perhaps we should—"

"YES. Yes. Generosity." Aerys seemed to shake himself, the paranoid tangent dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. "We accept your pledge, Lord Rosby. Your men will join the host assembling to CRUSH the rebellion. Go. Send them forth. Let them water the Trident with traitor blood."

Rosby rose, bowed, and backed away carefully—you didn't turn your back on the king, not when he was in this mood.

Next came Lord Stokeworth with his promise of one hundred men. Then Ser Bonifer Hasty offering his personal company of Holy Knights—fifty men sworn to the Faith and to the king, a useful combination of fanaticism and martial skill. Then others, smaller pledges: Lord Buckwell with seventy men, Lord Byrch with forty, minor houses from the Crownlands contributing what they could.

Elia stood through it all, silent and decorative, a living symbol of Dornish loyalty. She'd learned this role years ago: be present, be beautiful, be seen but not heard. Let her presence do the work of a thousand words.

Dorne stands with the Crown. See? The Dornish princess attends the king. Dorne has not wavered.

The lie was so smooth it barely registered anymore.

Between each pledge, servants circulated with wine. Elia accepted a cup—Arbor gold, good vintage, probably from the royal cellars. She sipped it carefully, letting it wet her throat without actually drinking enough to affect her judgment. Court was a place where you needed all your wits.

Around the throne room, other conversations were happening. Quiet murmurs beneath the formal proceedings. Court gossip, the lifeblood of King's Landing's nobility.

"—heard Robert Baratheon won another battle. Third one in a month—"

"—Lord Tarly turned him at Ashford, they say. Scattered his vanguard—"

"—doesn't matter if he keeps winning elsewhere—"

Elia's ears caught fragments as she stood. The court was nervous. The war news was bad more often than good, and everyone knew it.

A cluster of ladies near one of the pillars was discussing other matters. Their voices were pitched low but Elia was close enough to hear.

"—the prince, you mean? Gods know where he's actually—"

"—Dorne, they say. Raising an army—"

"—been gone nearly a year, though. What was he doing before Dorne?"

"—you know what he was doing. Or rather, who—"

Stifled giggles.

Elia's hand tightened on her wine cup.

"—the Stark girl. Lyanna. Robert's betrothed, can you imagine—"

"—ran off with her, didn't he? Right from under Robert's nose—"

"—some say she went willingly. Some say he kidnapped her. Either way, it's what started all this mess—"

"—Princess Elia must be mortified. Her husband running off with a northern wolf while she sits here like a dutiful wife—"

"—well, what else can she do? She's married. She has children. It's not as though she can just leave—"

One of them must have noticed Elia's proximity because the conversation cut off abruptly. When Elia glanced over, the ladies were suddenly very interested in their wine cups, faces flushed.

She looked away as though she'd heard nothing.

Inside, something twisted.

They pity you, the voice in her head said. They gossip about your humiliation at every court function. You're a joke. The princess whose husband preferred a sixteen-year-old girl to his lawful wife.

She took another sip of wine. Forced her expression to remain pleasant.

The formal pledges continued. More lords, more knights, more promises of men and steel and gold to fight Robert Baratheon and his allies. Aerys accepted them all with varying degrees of paranoid enthusiasm, occasionally going off on tangents about traitors and fire before Chelsted gently steered him back to the business at hand.

And then, perhaps twenty minutes into the reception, the throne room's side entrance opened.

Elia turned with everyone else to see who was arriving late.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen entered, and the court held its breath.

She was beautiful still.

That was Elia's first thought, seeing Rhaegar's mother move through the throne room with measured grace. Mother to three children, wife to a madman—and still beautiful in the way Valyrian features made people beautiful. High cheekbones, straight nose, violet eyes that caught the light like colored glass.

Her hair was her glory: silver-gold, the true Targaryen color, falling in elaborate braids down her back and wound around her head in a coronet. Pure Valyrian silver that would never grey—Targaryens kept their coloring until death, one of the many markers of their dragon blood. But where it had once shone with the luster of precious metal, now it looked merely pale, lifeless in the way only hair attached to a woman who'd stopped living could be.

She wore a gown of deep purple silk—royal color—with sleeves that fell to her wrists and a neckline high enough to be modest. The bodice was worked with seed pearls in patterns of dragon scales. Her jewelry was simple but expensive: a necklace of silver and amethyst, earrings that matched, a ring on each hand.

She looked like a queen. Dignified. Graceful. Perfectly composed.

But Elia saw what others might miss.

The way Rhaella moved—carefully, like someone whose body hurt and who had learned to hide it. The way she held herself upright with visible effort, spine rigid not from pride but from necessity. The cosmetics on her face were expertly applied, but Elia recognized the technique: powder layered to cover discoloration, color added to lips and cheeks to distract from pallor.

And her eyes. Gods, her eyes.

Rhaella's eyes were dead. Not physically—they tracked movement, acknowledged people, performed all the functions eyes should perform. But behind the violet there was nothing. Just emptiness and endurance.

Elia knew that look. She'd seen it in her own mirror often enough.

The queen processed through the throne room, four ladies-in-waiting trailing behind her. Guards in Targaryen livery flanked the small procession—not Kingsguard, just household guards, but their presence was a statement: the queen does not travel unescorted.

Beside Rhaella, holding her hand, walked Prince Viserys.

The boy was seven, small for his age, dressed in a child's version of courtly finery: black velvet tunic worked with red dragons, a tiny cloak that mimicked his mother's, soft boots that barely made sound on the marble. His silver-blonde hair was neatly combed, his face scrubbed clean.

He looked terrified.

His hand clutched his mother's tightly, and his eyes were huge as he took in the assembled court, the armed men, his father sitting the Iron Throne like a malevolent spider in its web.

When they reached the throne, Rhaella curtsied—deep, perfect, the obeisance of a queen to her king. Viserys attempted a bow, nearly lost his balance, caught himself.

"My lord husband," Rhaella said, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. "Forgive my late arrival. I was attending to the household accounts and lost track of time."

A lie. Obviously a lie. But delivered with such perfect composure that it became truth simply because no one would dare contradict her.

Aerys stared at his wife for a long moment. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not pleased, just... assessing. Like he was trying to remember who she was and what she meant to him.

Then he smiled. "My QUEEN. How good of you to join us. Come. Stand beside me. Let our lords see the STRENGTH of House Targaryen united."

Rhaella climbed the steps to the dais, Viserys still holding her hand. She took her position on the throne's left side, opposite Elia. The boy pressed close to her skirts, clearly wanting to hide behind them but too proud to actually do it.

From her new vantage point, Rhaella's eyes met Elia's across the space of the throne.

For just a moment, two women looked at each other and saw mirror images. Wives of Targaryen men. Mothers. Survivors of different but parallel torments.

Then Rhaella looked away, gaze returning to the neutral middle distance of court protocol.

The moment broke.

But Elia had seen. Seen the faint bruising at Rhaella's wrists where makeup hadn't quite covered it. Seen the way she stood with weight slightly shifted off her left hip. Seen the muscle tightness around her mouth that suggested she was in pain but would die before admitting it publicly.

Last night, Elia thought. It happened last night. The screaming I heard—someone being burned—and then he went to her.

The wine in her stomach turned sour.

The formal reception continued for another hour.

More pledges. More promises. Aerys accepted them all with increasing paranoia—by the end he was ranting about traitors in his own household, about poison in his wine, about conspiracies to replace him with his son. Lord Chelsted managed to end the audience before the king could do anything actively destructive, and the court was dismissed to the reception hall where refreshments waited.

The shift from throne room to reception hall was like exhaling after holding breath too long. The formality dropped several degrees. Wine flowed more freely. Conversations became actual conversations rather than performances for the king's benefit.

The reception hall was smaller than the throne room but still impressive: high ceilings painted with murals of Old Valyria, tall windows overlooking the bay, tables laden with food and drink. Servants in Targaryen livery circulated with trays. Musicians played in one corner—harp and lute and flute, something classical and Valyrian that no one really listened to but which provided pleasant background noise.

Elia moved through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting greetings, making small conversation, being Princess Elia. Lords wanted to pay their respects—or rather, wanted to be seen paying respects to the Dornish princess, ensuring their loyalty to Dorne was noted. She smiled and nodded and said gracious things that meant nothing.

Near the refreshment tables, she overheard more gossip.

"—Lord Connington's host is assembling near the Trident. Twenty thousand men, they say—"

"—not enough if Robert unites with Stark and Arryn—"

"—where's the prince? Why isn't he leading the army himself?—"

"—Dorne, supposedly. Gathering forces. Though what's taking so long—"

And from a cluster of younger lords, half-drunk already:

"—bet you five dragons the Stark girl's pregnant by now—"

"—be a pretty scandal, wouldn't it? Bastard half-Stark, half-Targaryen—"

"—Robert will go even madder. Imagine, your betrothed stolen and bred by the man you're fighting—"

Raucous laughter.

Elia's vision went white at the edges.

She turned away, hand trembling so badly she had to set down her wine cup before she dropped it. Breathe. Just breathe. They're drunk idiots. Their words mean nothing.

But the image wouldn't leave her mind: Rhaegar with the Stark girl. Rhaegar touching her the way he'd once touched Elia in the early days of their marriage when he'd still tried to be kind. Rhaegar making her laugh, making her happy, giving her the attention and affection he'd stopped giving his actual wife years ago.

And worst: the possibility it was true. That Lyanna Stark was pregnant. That Rhaegar would have another child, a bastard conceived in love, while his legitimate children sat in King's Landing with a mad grandfather who burned people alive for entertainment.

The mathematics of that hurt too much to examine.

Someone touched her elbow. Light touch, respectful.

"Your Grace? Are you well?"

Elia turned to find Ser Jaime Lannister standing at her side, green eyes concerned. He'd removed his helmet—it hung from his belt—and his golden hair caught the light streaming through the windows, making him look like something out of legend. Beautiful and young and worried.

"I'm fine," Elia managed. "Just warm. The hall is quite crowded."

"It is." He glanced around, then gestured toward one of the window alcoves. "Perhaps some air? The windows overlook the bay—there's usually a breeze."

It was improper for a married princess to withdraw to a semi-private space with a young knight, even a Kingsguard. People would talk.

Elia didn't care.

"Thank you, Ser Jaime. That's very kind."

He offered his arm. She took it—felt the solid warmth of him through the armor, the carefully controlled strength as he guided her through the crowd. People parted for the white cloak without question.

The window alcove was blessedly less crowded. Just a few other courtiers seeking escape from the press of bodies. Jaime positioned himself slightly between Elia and the room, creating a subtle barrier that gave her space to breathe.

The windows were open, tall arched openings with no glass—King's Landing rarely needed glass in summer. Air flowed in from Blackwater Bay, carrying salt and sea and the smell of fish from the docks below. It wasn't cool, but it was moving, and after the stifling heat of the reception hall it felt like relief.

Elia closed her eyes and just breathed.

"Better?" Jaime asked quietly.

"Much. Thank you."

"You looked like you were about to faint. Or murder someone. I wasn't sure which."

Despite everything, she almost smiled. "Both, possibly."

"Understandable. This court would drive anyone to violence." He paused. "Or at least, that's what I tell myself when I'm standing post outside His Grace's chambers."

The admission was startling. Kingsguard didn't usually speak so frankly about their service, especially not to people who could repeat it. But Jaime's face held no guile, just exhaustion and something that might have been desperate need to be honest with someone, anyone.

"I heard," Elia said carefully. "About your... duties. It must be difficult."

"Difficult." He tested the word like it was foreign. "That's diplomatic. I'd use stronger language, but you're a princess and I'm supposed to be chivalrous."

"Pretend I'm not a princess. Just for a moment." Elia turned to face him properly. "What word would you use?"

He studied her face, clearly trying to determine if she meant it. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him because his mouth quirked—not a smile, something more bitter.

"Nightmarish," he said quietly. "Soul-destroying. The sort of thing that makes you understand why some knights fall on their swords when they can't bear their oaths anymore."

Silence.

Elia should say something comforting. Something about honor and duty and how his service mattered. But the platitudes wouldn't come. She was too tired of lying.

"I'm sorry," she said instead. "You're seventeen. You should be at tourneys, winning glory, flirting with girls. Not... this."

"I'm Kingsguard. I chose this."

"Did you? Or did your father and the king choose for you?"

His jaw tightened. Direct hit. Everyone knew the story: Tywin Lannister had planned to make Jaime his heir, and Aerys had stolen that future by appointing the boy to the Kingsguard, binding him to celibacy and service for life. Political revenge dressed up as honor.

"It doesn't matter who chose," Jaime said finally. "I swore the oaths. They're mine now."

"Even when they require you to stand witness to atrocity?"

"Even then." But he said it like a man trying to convince himself.

They stood together in the alcove, watching the bay beyond the windows. Sails dotted the water—merchant ships, fishing boats, a war galley flying Targaryen colors heading out on patrol. The city sprawled to the west, seven levels of stone and wood climbing the hills, smoke rising from ten thousand cookfires.

Half a million people out there living their lives, completely unaware that the realm was tearing itself apart.

"Your Grace." Jaime's voice was careful now, like he was stepping onto uncertain ground. "May I speak frankly?"

"Haven't you been already?"

"More frankly. Dangerously frankly."

Elia looked at him. Saw genuine concern in those green eyes, saw the internal war between duty and something else—compassion, maybe, or simple human decency.

"Speak," she said. "I won't repeat it."

"You're... not well. Haven't been for months. Everyone at court can see it, though no one says it aloud." He kept his voice low, pitched for her ears only. "You're holding on by your fingernails, Your Grace. And I'm worried that one day you'll just... let go."

The accuracy of it hit like a fist to the stomach.

"Why do you care?" The question came out more vulnerable than Elia intended. "You barely know me."

"Because you're kind. Because you've never treated me like the king's pet insult to my father. Because you looked at me just now like you actually see me instead of the white cloak." He paused. "And because I know what it's like to feel trapped in a role you can't escape. To smile and perform and die inside while everyone assumes you're fine because you're good at pretending."

Gods. When had anyone last spoken to her with this much honesty?

"I don't know how much longer I can—" Elia started, then stopped. Admitting it aloud would make it real. Would make it something she'd have to act on instead of just endure.

"I know," Jaime said quietly. "Believe me, I know."

Footsteps approached. Both of them turned to find Ser Barristan entering the alcove, his weathered face creased with concern.

"Your Grace. Ser Jaime." He nodded to them both. "The queen is asking for you, Princess Elia. She's in the solar—requests a private word, if you're amenable."

Rhaella wanted to see her?

That was... unprecedented. In seven years of marriage to Rhaegar, Elia could count on one hand the number of private conversations she'd had with her mother-by-marriage.

"Of course," Elia said, smoothing her skirts. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. I'll attend her immediately."

Barristan nodded and withdrew.

Elia turned back to Jaime. "Thank you. For the air. For the honesty. For—" She gestured vaguely. "—caring, I suppose."

"Stay alive, Your Grace," Jaime said quietly. "That's all I ask. Don't let this place kill you."

Before she could respond, he bowed—formal, perfect—and strode away to resume his duties.

Elia stood alone in the alcove for a moment, hand pressed to her chest where her heart hammered against her ribs.

Then she gathered her skirts and went to meet the queen.

The queen's solar was on the fourth floor of Maegor's Holdfast, accessible through a series of corridors that wound through the Red Keep's interior like a maze. Elia followed Ser Barristan through passages lit by torches in iron sconces, past guards who straightened at attention as the princess passed.

The solar was smaller than Elia expected. Perhaps twenty feet across, circular, with windows on three sides overlooking different aspects of the city. Furnished comfortably but not lavishly: chairs upholstered in purple velvet, a small table, bookshelves, a desk where correspondence lay in neat stacks.

Rhaella stood at the eastern window, looking out toward the bay. She'd removed her jewelry—the necklace and earrings sat on the desk—and let down her hair slightly, the elaborate coronet loosened into something more comfortable.

She turned when Elia entered.

"Your Grace," Elia said, curtsying. "You wished to see me?"

"I did." Rhaella's voice was quiet, controlled. "Please, sit. Ser Barristan, guard the door. I wish to speak with Princess Elia privately."

"Your Grace." Barristan withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him.

They were alone.

Rhaella moved to one of the chairs and sat with visible care—that same slight favoring of her left side that Elia had noticed earlier. She gestured to the opposite chair.

Elia sat.

For a long moment, neither woman spoke.

Then Rhaella said, without preamble: "You know what he does to me."

Elia's breath caught. "Your Grace, I—"

"Don't." Rhaella held up one hand. "Don't lie. Don't be diplomatic. We've played that game for seven years. I'm tired of it." Her eyes—dead violet eyes that had seen too much—fixed on Elia. "You know. The whole court knows. They just pretend they don't because it's easier than acknowledging that the king rapes his wife and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

The brutal honesty was shocking.

"Yes," Elia managed. "I know."

"Last night was worse than usual. He'd burned a man—some poor thief accused of stealing royal property—and it excited him. It always does. The screaming, the smell of burning flesh. He came to my chambers..." She trailed off. "I won't burden you with details. But it was bad enough that I couldn't attend this morning's functions without substantial cosmetic assistance."

Elia felt sick. "Your Grace, I'm so sorry. If there's anything—"

"There's nothing. That's rather the point." Rhaella's smile was terrible. "I'm the queen. I have guards, servants, ladies-in-waiting. I live in a palace. And I'm as powerless as the lowest peasant girl because the man who hurts me is the king, and kings can do what they like with their wives."

"The Kingsguard—"

"Are sworn to protect the king, not from himself. Ser Barristan would die for me, I think. But he won't draw steel against Aerys. Neither will Ser Jaime, though it's destroying that poor boy by inches." Rhaella leaned back in her chair, exhaustion written in every line of her body. "Which brings me to why I asked you here."

Elia waited.

"You're suffering too," Rhaella said bluntly. "Different suffering. Your husband hasn't touched you in—how long? A year?"

"More." The word escaped before Elia could stop it. "Not since before Harrenhal."

"Harrenhal. When he crowned the Stark girl." Not a question. "And then he left. Vanished for months. Came back briefly, then vanished again. And now he's in Dorne supposedly gathering armies while you sit here like I do: performing, pretending, dying inside while maintaining perfect dignity."

It was everything Elia had thought but never said aloud. Hearing it from Rhaella made it real and terrible.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," Rhaella continued. "Perhaps because we're both trapped. Perhaps because I looked at you today during the reception and saw myself twenty years ago—still beautiful, still young enough to hope things might improve, still believing that duty and endurance mattered."

"They do matter," Elia said, but it came out uncertain.

"Do they?" Rhaella's laugh was hollow. "I've endured twenty-three years of marriage to a man who started as merely difficult and became monstrous. I was fifteen when we wed. Fifteen years old, barely older than you were when you married Rhaegar. I'm thirty-eight now. I feel seventy. I've birthed him three children—four if you count the ones who died in infancy. I've smiled and waved and been the perfect queen. And what has it gotten me? A husband who uses me as a receptacle for his twisted pleasure. A kingdom that whispers about my suffering but does nothing. And a son—my eldest, my precious boy—who abandoned me to chase some northern girl and a prophecy he won't explain."

Her voice broke on the last word.

Elia found herself moving without conscious decision. She left her chair, crossed to Rhaella, and knelt beside her. Took the queen's hand in both of hers.

"I'm sorry," Elia whispered. "I'm sorry my husband hurt you. I'm sorry my presence here is a constant reminder that your son doesn't value what he should. I'm sorry for all of it."

Rhaella's other hand came up to cover Elia's. "It's not your fault. You were a child when they married you to him. Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen."

"A child," Rhaella repeated firmly. "And probably terrified. I know I was, when I married Aerys. He was handsome then, did I ever tell you? Before the madness. He looked like Rhaegar does now: beautiful, intense, full of plans for how he'd be a great king." Her grip tightened. "They both broke their vows. Aerys with madness and cruelty. Rhaegar with abandonment and infidelity. And we—" She gestured between them. "—we pay the price for their failures."

They sat like that for a moment, two women holding hands in a solar while the sun set and shadows lengthened across the floor.

Then Rhaella said, very quietly: "I'm pregnant again."

Elia's head snapped up. "What?"

"Three months. I've been hiding it—not difficult, the gowns are forgiving. But I can't hide it much longer." Rhaella's face was expressionless. "Another child. At my age. After what happened to the last three pregnancies..."

Elia knew the history. Everyone at court knew. Three pregnancies in the years after Viserys, three stillbirths or early miscarriages. The maesters had said Rhaella shouldn't have more children, that her body couldn't take the strain.

"Does the king know?"

"Not yet. When he finds out..." Rhaella's hand moved to her stomach, protective despite the fear in her eyes. "He'll either be delighted at the prospect of another heir or paranoid that I've been unfaithful. With Aerys, it could go either way."

"The maesters—"

"Say I should terminate. For my health. But Aerys would call that treason—killing a royal child." Rhaella's voice was flat. "So I'll carry it. And either it will kill me or I'll somehow survive to birth another child into this nightmare."

Elia's throat closed. "Your Grace, there must be something—some way to—"

"There isn't." Rhaella's laugh was soft and terrible. "I've spent twenty years looking for ways out. There aren't any. Not for queens. We endure, Elia. That's what we do. We smile and we endure and we hope our children survive us."

She squeezed Elia's hand.

"I didn't tell you this to burden you. I told you because..." Rhaella paused, searching for words. "Because you're the only person in this godsforsaken place who might understand. We're both Targaryen wives. We're both paying prices we never agreed to for men who..." She stopped. Started again. "My husband went mad. Yours ran away. Neither of us chose this. But here we are."

Elia looked at the woman before her—queen, mother, survivor of horrors Elia could barely imagine—and saw herself in twenty years. Still beautiful. Still graceful. Still trapped.

Still alone.

"What do we do?" Elia whispered. "How do we... keep going?"

"We don't have a choice." Rhaella's voice was gentle but final. "We have children. That means we survive. For them. No matter what it costs us."

"Even if it kills you?"

"Even then. Because the alternative is abandoning Viserys to Aerys with no one to protect him. And I won't do that. Not while I'm breathing." Her grip tightened. "You understand. You have Rhaenys and Aegon. You'd do anything to keep them safe."

"Yes."

"Then you understand why I'm carrying this pregnancy even though it might kill me. Why I'll smile tomorrow at court even though last night—" Her voice cracked slightly. "—even though I can barely walk. Why I'll keep being queen until the day I can't anymore."

Silence fell between them. Outside the solar's windows, the sun was setting—the sky going gold and red and purple, beautiful and indifferent.

"Stay," Rhaella said suddenly. "Just for a few minutes more. I don't want to be alone yet."

"Of course."

They sat together as the light faded. Two women, two queens, two wives of Targaryen men. United by nothing except survival and the impossible weight of enduring what couldn't be endured.

After a while, Rhaella spoke again. Quieter now. Almost to herself.

"When Rhaegar was a child, he was gentle. Did I ever tell you that? He read books. Played harp. Never hurt anyone. I used to watch him in the gardens and think: this one will be different. This one will be kind."

Elia said nothing.

"I don't know what happened," Rhaella continued. "Somewhere between the boy I raised and the man who left—" She stopped. "I lost him. Or he lost himself. I'm not sure which."

"Your Grace—"

"Don't defend him." Rhaella's voice was sharp. Then, softer: "Please. Don't make excuses for what he's done to you. You deserve better than that."

Elia's eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

"He was kind to me once," she heard herself say. "Early in our marriage. Not love, but... consideration. I thought it might grow into something real."

"Perhaps it did. And then he found something realer with someone else." Rhaella's smile was sad. "That's the cruelty of it, isn't it? We can't even hate them cleanly. They're not monsters. They're just men who chose something else."

"I wish I could hate him," Elia whispered. "It would be easier."

"I know."

They sat as darkness claimed the solar completely. A servant entered to light lamps but Rhaella waved her away. Better to sit in darkness. It matched the mood.

Finally, Elia rose. Her body protested—she'd been sitting too long in one position and her joints ached. But she forced grace into the movement, stood smoothly despite the pain.

"Thank you," she said. "For telling me. For..." She gestured helplessly. "For seeing me."

"Thank you for staying." Rhaella remained seated, her face barely visible in the gloom. "Elia—if anything happens. If the war goes badly, if the king—" She stopped. "Take the children and run. Dorne will protect you. Don't stay here out of duty. Promise me."

"Your Grace, I can't just—"

"Promise me." Steel in her voice. "Someone should survive this. Let it be you and the children."

Elia's throat tightened. "I promise."

"Good."

She curtsied—formal, proper, the princess acknowledging her queen. Rhaella didn't rise. Just watched her from the chair, a pale figure in purple silk, already retreating back into the armor of queenship.

At the door, Elia paused.

"Your Grace? If you need me. Ever. For any reason. Please. Don't hesitate."

"I won't."

They both knew it was a lie. Queens didn't ask for help. They endured alone.

Elia left the solar. Ser Barristan waited outside, his weathered face kind as he fell into step beside her.

"Your Grace? Are you well?"

"No," Elia said honestly. "But I will be. Eventually."

She hoped it was true.

Behind her, in the solar, Rhaella sat alone in the dark and placed both hands on her belly where a child grew who might kill her.

"We endure," she whispered to the empty room. "Because we don't have a choice."

The city lights below began to appear—ten thousand candles, ten thousand cookfires, half a million people living their lives.

And in Maegor's Holdfast, two queens sat in separate chambers and tried to remember what hope felt like.